Waking Nightmares (22 page)

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Authors: Christopher Golden

BOOK: Waking Nightmares
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As she stepped back into the hallway, a shudder went through her. The skin on her right arm prickled with gooseflesh and a damp heat that seemed to come from nowhere. She turned in that direction and her heart clenched in her chest.
In the gap of the partly opened door to her parents’ bedroom stood a familiar, skeletal black figure, all stick limbs and night-dark tatters of fabric or smoke. The curved blades in its hands glinted in the blue light flickering from her parents’ television set inside the room.
A Reaper. Amber couldn’t breathe. This must be a vision. Of course it had to be. These things existed only when she closed her eyes.
But she knew it was not a vision. Cold fear burned in her, panic surging. She took two steps back, staring at the impossible and shaking her head. She bumped into the frame of the bathroom door and the Reaper whipped around to stare at her, pinpricks of ice blue leaking mist from the dark pits of its eyes.
“Out,” she said, surprising herself with the firmness of her voice.
She shot out a hand, felt around for the switch outside the bathroom that would turn on the hall lights. Her palm brushed against the switch.
“Get out!” she screamed as she flipped it, bathing the hallway in yellow light.
The thing glared at her defiantly for a moment, and then a gust of wind struck the house with such force that Amber could feel the wall trembling against her back. The Reaper cocked its head as though listening to some distant call, then darted down the corridor and struck the window at the bottom of the attic stairs, passing right through the glass with a noise like a tremulous sigh.
“Oh my God,” Amber said. Her hand shook as she raised it up to cover her mouth.
Not just my hand.
She realized her whole body was shaking.
The thing had looked exactly like the ones in her visions. The Reaper had been a wraith in the darkness, but when she had turned on the light she had seen it very clearly. It might be an insubstantial thing, almost like a ghost, but there was no denying that it was real.
“Mom,” she said, realization striking her as she rushed toward their bedroom door. “Dad.”
The door had been half open, and now she pushed it the rest of the way. It banged off the doorstop screwed into the baseboard, and Amber stood staring at her parents as they slept in the flickering light from the television. Or were they sleeping? Her heart fluttered inside the cage of her chest as she stared.
Her father stirred. He seemed to sense her standing there and rolled over.
“Amber?” he asked. “What was that noise? Something wrong?”
Not just something,
she wanted to say.
Everything!
But how was she supposed to explain what she had seen in the hall? If she told him it came from her dreams, or visions, he would think it had been part of a dream. And could she really be so certain that it hadn’t been some echo from a nightmare? She’d had a seizure this morning and been taken to the emergency room. Her brain had gone on the fritz for a while. How could she be sure this wasn’t a by-product of that?
It wasn’t. It was real.
Part of her felt so certain, so insistent. But if she had doubts, and she had seen the thing, what would her parents say? What else
could
they say, but that monsters—under the bed or in the hallway—weren’t real?
“Sorry. I banged the door,” she said, trying to hide the whimper of relief that came out with the words, now that she’d seen her parents were all right. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“What’s wrong? Gran okay?”
Amber stared at the two figures in the bed. Her mother—always a notoriously deep sleeper—groaned and turned in the bed, putting her back to them, shutting out the disturbance.
“Yeah. She’s in bed,” Amber said. “I just had a bad dream, I guess. The storm’s got me freaked out.”
At last, her father turned his tired eyes upon her. His smile made him seem younger than his fifty-one years. The light from the TV made the generous patches of gray stand out against the darker bristle of his hair, but still he looked more tired than old.
“Just a dream, honey,” he said. “And just a storm. Both’ll pass.”
“Thanks, Dad. Sorry. Go back to sleep.”
“Not sleeping that well, actually,” Frank Morrissey replied.
Amber looked at her father, a little alarm bell going off in her head. “You having bad dreams, too?”
“Nah. Just stiff,” he said, then illustrated the point by groaning as he stretched. She could hear his joints popping from across the room. He scratched at his right arm. “And itchy as hell. Hope I don’t have the shingles again.”
Amber nodded. “You’ll be all right. All you need is a good night’s rest, without your daughter waking you up’cause she’s afraid of a thunderstorm.”
“I’ll tell you a secret,” her father said. “Nights like this, I’m a little afraid, too.”
She smiled. “Night, Dad.”
“Good night, sweetheart.”
Amber turned to leave the room. As she went out into the hall, she heard her father moving around, trying to get comfortable again. He moaned softly, obviously in more discomfort than he had let on. Frank Morrissey often joked with his wife and daughter that once he’d hit fifty years old, the warranty had run out and he had started to fall apart. Her father, it seemed, was getting rusty. Amber wished he would exercise more. She vowed to herself that she would not surrender so willingly to the aging process.
With a nervous glance around the hall, she went to her room and climbed under the covers, but she had no intention of sleeping. She had left her bedroom door open and now she clicked on her reading lamp and picked up the Jodi Picoult book she’d been reading. Amber didn’t want any more visions, no more bad dreams. And just in case they were more than dreams, she wanted to make sure her family was safe. If the Reaper returned, she would be awake and on guard, and she could at least shout a warning.
When the sun rose, she would sleep. She would miss most of her Thursday classes, but that seemed a small price to pay to make certain that the darkness in her visions did not infiltrate her real world, her real life.
Amber glanced out into the hall, then at the rain pattering her darkened window.
It wasn’t my imagination,
she thought.
I only wish it were.
But she didn’t want to wake her parents again. Tonight, she would read. And tomorrow, when she woke, she would tell them about the things she had seen, both in her mind and in their house, and about the things she feared.
In daylight, she would tell them. It would feel safer.
Frowning, she glanced out the window again, thinking of the storm, wondering if there would even be daylight tomorrow.
Please, let me have some sunshine,
she thought, sending the prayer up to a God she had never spent much time thinking about until tonight.
Forcing herself to look at the pages of her book, she tried to read.
Please.
 
DR.
Jenny O’Neil stood at the nurses’ station just outside the secure area of Hawthorne Union Hospital’s psych unit and tried to persuade herself that there was a rational explanation for what had happened tonight. She held an ice pack to the side of her face, waiting for the OD of ibuprofen she’d taken to kick in, and stared at the door to the secure area, which stood propped open. She had never seen it propped open before, and it seemed strange and counterintuitive. The whole ward had gone apeshit. Half a dozen patients and one of the orderlies had experienced simultaneous episodes of psychotic aggression. Logic suggested that maybe leaving the door wide open wasn’t the smartest thing in the world. The view down the corridor should have comforted her. There were eight or nine cops, half a dozen security guards, and at least that many orderlies, not to mention several doctors and a platoon of nurses. It looked like half the hospital had been detached from their normal posts to come and help clean up the mess.
“You sure you don’t want something stronger than ibuprofen ?”
Jenny glanced over to find a nurse named Lauren watching her. The woman had been on the job for a quarter century and had confided to Jenny that she had thought she’d seen it all, until tonight. Lauren looked spooked, and Jenny didn’t blame her at all.
“You think I should prescribe myself some Vicodin?” Jenny said. “I think that’d be counterproductive.”
Lauren made a valiant attempt at a smile. “Oh, I don’t know. I think we could all use a little Vicodin right about now.”
Jenny sighed and took the ice pack off her face. One of the patients had thrown her into a wall, but she was fortunate that had been her only injury. Elissa was up in surgery right now having her cheek repaired. It would take several rounds of plastic surgery to get her face looking even close to normal again. The image of that crazy bastard tearing at her with his teeth was stuck in Jenny’s mind, and she knew it would haunt her when she tried to go to sleep. Maybe Vicodin wasn’t a bad idea after all.
“I’ll tell you this much,” Jenny said, “someone better cover my shift tomorrow night, because I need to blow the cobwebs of this place out of my brain and the only thing that’s going to do that is a little time away.”
Lauren nodded. “Somehow I doubt that’s going to be a problem,” she said, then nodded toward the secure area. “Looks like you’re wanted.”
The police lieutenant who was heading up the investigation strode toward the nurses’ station accompanied by a nurse named Franco, the only male among the psych unit’s usual coterie. Sexist as it might be, Franco was often called on when there were unruly patients, a by-product of his being larger and more powerful than most of the orderlies. Tiny as she was, Jenny had never gravitated toward men like Franco, but she’d seen other women on staff swoon over him. The police lieutenant, on the other hand, was exactly her type—gruff and cynical, but also lean and handsome.
“Dr. O’Neil,” the lieutenant said. “How are you feeling?”
“I’ll survive,” she said, wishing she could remember his name and wondering if her poor memory suggested a concussion. She ought to have one of the other docs have a look at her. “I don’t suppose you have any idea what happened here?”
“An act of God?” the lieutenant suggested.
She knew he meant the death of the murderer, Pinsky, who’d been flash-fried by lightning that had broken through the wall of the building.
“Maybe it was,” she said. “But I’m not just talking about that. Freak lightning storms aren’t unheard of. I’m talking about the people who went . . .”
“You don’t want to say
crazy
,” the lieutenant observed.
“Let’s say
rabid
.”
The lieutenant looked troubled. “
Rabid
sounds right. As for what happened, I have no more idea than you do. I wish you could tell me that all of the patients who became violent were on the same medication. We’d at least have a starting point.”
“I already told you, Lieutenant—”
“I know, I know,” he said, holding up a hand. “I said, ‘I wish.’ ”
Franco gave her a meaningful look. “I overheard one of the officers saying there was a similar incident at a club downtown.”
“Really?” Jenny asked, surprised. “Tonight?”
The lieutenant seemed irritated at Franco—or maybe at whichever officer had let it slip—but he nodded. “It could be. There was a fire at the club and a lot of people were injured, but reports on the scene say there was an outbreak of violence before the fire. It might be nothing but too much alcohol, but . . .”
“But what?”
Lauren came out from the nurses’ station and pulled Franco aside, giving him quiet instructions that sent him off toward the room of Sierra Langan, the fifteen-year-old girl who enjoyed cutting herself far too much.
The lieutenant seemed to be rethinking having told Jenny anything to begin with, but he forged ahead.
“Apparently they kept fighting, even though the building was on fire.”
Jenny understood, then, why he had told her.
“Sorry, Lieutenant,” she said.

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