Dreams of Eschaton

by Josh Shiben

  Chapter 2

  Of Minds and Madness

  “Why do we dream, David?” The child said nothing, but continued to sob quietly into Michael’s chest. It was the third night in a row that his son had woken him by crawling into his bed and staining his pillow with tears. He held the boy’s little body, feeling it shudder with sobs and wished he could bear the nightmares for him. “We dream so we’re ready for the real world. We have happy dreams so when we see things that make us happy, we know it.”

  David’s little face turned up to his in the dark, awash with tears and snot. “But what about the scary ones?” the boy whimpered.

  “You have scary dreams so that when you see something bad in real life, you won’t be as scared. They make you brave.”

  “I don’t like the scary ones,” breathed the child.

  “I don’t think anybody does. But someday, when something scary happens in real life… You’ll know you can be brave, because you’ve already seen scarier things in your dreams. You’ll be ready for it.” Michael Burfict kissed his son’s forehead, and then gently held the boy as he drifted back to sleep.

  The station was quiet at this hour – too early for most people to get into much mischief, just too late for bar crawlers. For the moment, he had the serenity of the office to himself, and as he often found himself doing after his dreams, Burfict’s thoughts turned to his father, and the last time he’d seen the man. David’s mother had died in childbirth, so his father had raised him entirely on his own, and as such, the two had been extremely close. The fact that David was a spitting image of his father probably helped relationship – both were large, broad men with wide features and curly, almost wild dark hair.

  It had been a cold December evening, two years prior that his father had died. Cancer had eaten Michael Burfict away, leaving nothing but a husk of the man that David had grown up with. But it wasn’t his condition that David thought of now – it was his final words. David thought back to the last time he was sitting beside the ailing man, listening to the weak rasp of his breath. He remembered how his father’s head lolled slowly to look at him with eyes clouded and unfocussed from the pain killers - the dry tongue that kept trying to wet cracked lips.

  “David?” the dying man had wheezed.

  “I’m here Dad. It’s ok.” He’d held the man’s hand and tried to administer whatever comfort he could.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you have to be the Last Son. I didn’t know.” This was the first time anyone outside of David’s nightmares had called him the Last Son, and the shock of it had rendered David speechless. His father continued on. “If I knew then. I wouldn’t have. But I didn’t. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” David remembered the fat tears rolling down onto thin, nearly translucent skin.

  “It’s okay, Dad. Nothing’s wrong. You don’t have to be sorry for anything.”

  “But I do. She’s coming, David, and it’s all on you. It’s not fair. You’re the Last Son, and I’m so sorry. I wish…”

  “Dad, it’s fine. You did everything you could for me. You don’t have to-”

  “I’m sorry,” he’d murmured one last time before trailing off into a sleep from which he never awoke. It had been the last thing his father ever said to him.

  Last Son. To this day, David had no idea what that meant, or why in his final moments his father had used the phrase. How had his father known that the whisperers that haunted David’s dreams called him that? The unease gnawed at the back of Burfict’s mind, but try as he might, he could make no sense of it.

  David sighed, and tried to think about the matter at hand: the first nightmare always heralded two more. Without fail, there were three nightmares, always in the same pattern. The first night, he’d interview the person responsible for the crime. In the next, he would witness the crime – always ghastly; he only ever got his dreams for the messy ones. The last night was always the worst, though. David shuddered as he thought about the men in yellow. They always came on the third night, and would whisper to him from the darkness beneath those hooded robes. He called them the Bogeymen as a boy, and would live in dread of the third night, hopelessly fighting the inevitable sleep that brought them. He’d never seen their faces, and had no idea who they were – just that even in the dream their mere presence sent shudders up his spine.

  It was another hour before Ben Samuels showed up. “Morning Burfict. You’re in early today.” His gait was the easy and flowing walk of someone who had slept well the night before. Samuels was oftentimes grating – he was crude, blunt, and almost painfully playful, as if he were a good-natured bulldozer, happily burying everything in his path. Despite his volume, something about him was disarming as well. A shorter, heavier set man, with a stocky build, his demeanor belied a razor sharp intelligence and attention to detail. David sighed and looked up from his now-cold coffee, realizing he’d been thinking about his dream for the past hour.

  David felt his mind reach out and touch Samuels’ consciousness. It felt alert and vibrant, strong and full of vigor. “Morning, Samuels.” The man’s mind felt particularly sharp. Ready. None of the grogginess that Burfict felt clouding his own mind. He envied the man’s sleep.

  “Man, you look like shit. You know that?” Samuels laughed as he eased himself into his chair at the next desk. Burfict rubbed his chin and realized he had forgotten to shave.

  “I looked great till you walked in.” Samuels chuckled. A few minutes passed in relative silence, Samuels making a little small-talk about whatever TV drama he’d watched last night, Burfict nodding in all the right places. The one-sided discussion ended abruptly with a ring of Samuels’ phone. He answered and after a brief conversation, started jotting down notes. His round face scrunched into a thoughtful, although concerned expression and Burfict wondered if whoever was on the other side could picture the look through the phone. Samuels then repeated an address back into the receiver and hung up. Burfict braced himself – something terrible had happened, and this was the call. He knew it – could feel it in his gut. He tried to act surprised when Samuels delivered the news.

  “Apparently someone found a body in an old barn just outside of town. Leanne’s there now and wanted us to come help out.”

  “Just a single victim?”

  “Yeah, but apparently it’s kind of a messy scene. No climate control, dirt floor, animals potentially contaminating the evidence… I mean, it’s a barn.” Samuels looked up and shrugged. “She wanted some extra pairs of eyes to make sure she doesn’t miss anything.”

  From the journals of Dr. Alan Kaspars

  9/23

  I had my first conversation with John today. Anabelle saw that he was stirring first and alerted me. By the time I got to his room, John was fully awake and looking around, obviously terrified. He had managed to get the bandages off of his head despite his restraints. I guess it wasn’t on there all that securely, and that pale, scarred head was whipping around so fast that I was worried he might hurt himself. When he saw me though, he stopped flailing and just stared at me. But the funny thing was, he wasn’t staring at me, he was staring through me. It was unnerving, to say the least. I’ve seen the thousand-yards stare. I’ve seen soldiers returning home so scarred that they just completely dissociated – just those blank faces and bottomless eyes. John’s eyes were more vacant than anything I’d ever seen. It was like something had sucked him dry.

  I entered the room calmly and introduced myself. Before I could get very far into the traditional pleasantries he interrupted.

  “Have you seen her?” At least, I think that’s what he was asking. It was so quiet, I could barely hear him. Just his lips moved; the rest of his face was frozen on me.

  “Seen who?”

  “She’s there you know, always watching us. You haven’t seen her, but she’s there.” It was still a little more than a whisper.

  “Who’s always watching us, John?”

  “Every time I close my eyes I see her, because she’s always there and she�
�s outside of us and inside of us, and we are all hers.” His eyes still never left mine.

  “John, who are you talking about? Nobody can hurt you here - you’re safe.”

  “We aren’t safe anywhere because she’s everywhere.” He was starting to shake, trembling all over like a leaf. “We are hers and we are of her and we are from her and we are for her...” He was trailing off now, almost just whispering to himself. He was still speaking, but it was so quiet I couldn’t hear it. His eyes still hadn’t left me, though. It was like they were trying to burn right through me.

  “John, it’s ok. I’m here to help you. No one’s going to hurt you.” I couldn’t tell whether he was terrified or in awe of whatever it was he was talking about. Perhaps it was both – a terrified reverence.

  He whispered the last part. I had to lean close to him to hear. “We’re not safe anywhere. We’re all a part of her. Strings in the web of the Spider Queen.” And then he started making these sounds – guttural as though he was choking on something. It sounded sort of like words, but I couldn’t place it. Whatever it was, it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. It was as if a panic was coming over me – my breath was suddenly short, and I could barely think. It was all I could do to suppress a shudder. I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was just my nerves from being so close to his mutilated face.

  “Spider Queen? Who’s that, John?” He just kept making those noises. I’m sure they weren’t any language I‘d heard before, just a stream of syllables I didn’t even know a person could make. “John? John, can you hear me?” He just kept going with his noises, working his jaw into the bizarre pronunciations. They were like words without vowels. After a while, John trailed off into silence and I could get nothing else from him.