by Terra Vonnel
“What … um yeah … yeah I‘m fine,” he said, still trying to catch his breath.
“Well, for the record, you don’t look fine! You look like you ran a marathon. You’re a sweaty mess,” she said, and Sam could hear the aggravation in her voice.
He could only vaguely see Sarah’s face from where he sat in bed, but there was no confusing the look of someone wanting to pulverize you for simply being born.
“I’m FINE!” he said through gritted teeth, just wanting her to leave now. “You’re going to wake up Mom!”
Waking his mother was the last thing Sam needed. As it was, she rarely got any sleep working doubles at the diner. If she knew he was having recurring nightmares she would be worried. Actually, Sam was surprised Sarah had not told her already. But knowing Sarah there was probably some sinister master plan in the works.
Sarah slowly folded her arms in disgust and tapped her right foot loudly. “Well FINE. I know better than to argue with an idiot. Besides, you have way too much experience at being one!”
Sam sighed and ran his hands though his hair, trying to remain calm.
“Sarah, the last thing I want to do is hurt you. But it’s still on the list. So please just leave!”
After Sarah left, the room went dark and things were quiet again. The street lamp had stopped for the moment. Sam sat motionless on his bed. Slowly his heart returned to normal, but he was cold now from all the sweat on is body.
He pulled the covers tight and gently lay back into his warm bed. His eyes fixated on the wobbling fan that hung directly above him. He could barely see it now, but he could feel the slight breeze that it provided on his face.
Why? he thought. Why the same dream over and over again? Why was he in a forest? He had never been anywhere like that in his life. He grew up in the suburbs. The only forest he had seen had been on TV in one of those wildlife shows. Speaking of wildlife, what was up with that massive horse thing, and why was it chasing him? The dream had revisited him three nights in a row now, always ending in the same place. Was he going crazy? Would there be guys in white jackets and bad haircuts showing up soon to take him to a psycho ward?
Just the thought of being placed in a wheelchair and dressed in a white gown that opened from the back was bad enough. But being forced to take little red pills to keep him sane, well that was crazy.
Sam lay in bed for close to an hour, thinking about the dream. He could not believe how real it seemed, especially the beast. Those long, protruding fangs, the clawed feet, curling horns, and those eyes—those blood-red eyes. Frustrated, Sam finally climbed out of bed and walked over to the window. He pulled the thin curtains back and looked down at the street below. As usual, there was nothing remotely interesting happening there. There was the small, pitiful patch of grass his mother called a front lawn. It had become brown and crunchy from the lack of rain. There was the crooked street lamp two doors down. The city dump truck had hit it while patching a hole in the road. Since then the light flickered intermittently and kept Sam up most nights, but it looked like it finally had gone out now. At the foot of the lamp post lay Teddy Parkinson’s mangled red bike. Teddy was notorious for leaving his bike on the curb in front of people’s houses. His mother had already run over it twice, and it looked like a third time was in Teddy’s near future. Sam’s eyes wandered up to the night sky. It was clear. The moon was bright and the stars sparkled from above a million miles away. It was all so peaceful. So peaceful, in fact, that there was no reason on earth he should not be able to sleep.
Sam glanced down directly across the street to Mrs. Cambridge’s manicured front lawn. It was so green that he could practically see it in the moonlight. The benefits of a sprinkler system, he thought. Or maybe she really is a witch like everyone says. Mrs. Cambridge was known as the witch lady of Giddyup Lane. Mostly because she was a widow, wore black year-round, and had five fat black cats named Tyco, Bubbles, Reno, Janko, and Nelson. She was an irritable old lady with a hump on her back and a limp when she walked. Her yard was her sanctuary, and if you knew what was good for you, you stayed out of it. Bored, Sam started to turn away when he saw something flash next to the large maple tree in the center of her lawn. It was more of a glimmer really, as if the moonlight struck something reflective.
That’s odd.
Mrs. Cambridge never left her house at night and neither did her cats. Sam didn’t know of anyone dumb enough to step foot on her lawn. So what was that?
He rubbed his eyes then focused hard again, staring into the depths of the shadows. His eyes strained to make out any sign of movement.
It could have been Dirty Ernie looking for discarded items in people’s trash again, but tomorrow wasn’t trash day. Dirty Ernie was just that—dirty. The man had not seen the inside of a bathtub in years. At night Dirty Ernie would make his rounds throughout the neighborhood digging for cans or anything else he felt he might get money for. The phrase, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure” pretty much summed up Dirty Ernie.
The more Sam thought about it, the more he was convinced that he was just seeing things. It would make perfect sense, he thought. After all, he had not had a decent night’s sleep in what felt like forever. He reached to close the curtains, thinking he would give sleep one more try when he saw it again. Something moved out of the shadows. Sam froze, his hand still gripping the curtain. Narrowing his eyes, he stared down into the yard.
There was definitely something out there; he wasn’t imagining things this time. This is a good sign, he thought. This meant he wasn’t going crazy just yet, and he could put off meeting the guys in the white coats just a little bit longer.
Sam slowly dropped his hand and leaned back against the wall next to the window. He tried to peer inconspicuously through the curtains and down into Mrs. Cambridge’s yard. The dark figure moved back into the shadows behind the large maple tree, as if he noticed Sam looking down at him. But that’s impossible, Sam thought. The stranger was too far away to see him through his window. But if he could see the stranger, then perhaps the stranger could see Sam as well.
Sam could barely see between the curtain and the wall. It was almost impossible to scan Mrs. Cambridge’s entire yard like this. He still couldn’t see anything, but he knew the stranger was still there.
He quickly reached for his shirt and shorts that hung on his desk chair and put them on. Moving as fast and as quietly as he could, he scrambled down the stairs. Each step he took on the rickety staircase was like a house alarm going off. It was a good thing his mother was a heavy sleeper. He just hoped Sarah would not wake up again. But knowing Sarah, she was not getting out of bed unless someone was screaming her name. Even if there were a burglar or something she would probably stay in bed. In fact, she probably thought if she was really quiet they would just take Sam, and she could be an only child again.
It seemed like an eternity had passed by the time Sam reached the bottom floor and made his way over to the small living room window.
The room was dark except for the dim light above the stove that shone in from the kitchen. Sam’s mother always left it on at night. It made a great night-light when Sam needed to raid the refrigerator. The living room was small, just like every other room in Sam’s house. The brown worn-out couch sat in the center of the room, and was used as a divider between the living room and the kitchen. Pictures of Sam and Sarah, and a few candle sconces sat neatly arranged on the mantle. Everything was quiet until the grandfather clock to Sam’s right chimed three o’clock. Sam jerked forward, almost falling over.
“Jeeze,” he muttered, disappointed at his spying skills.
He moved back into position and looked between the curtain and wall hoping the stranger was still there.
Sure enough, the stranger was still standing next to the large maple tree in Mrs. Cambridge’s yard, looking up at Sam’s window.
He was a tall man, well over six feet if Sam had to guess, and lean. He wore a long, black coat that hung close to his ankles. Sam could no
t see his face; it was too dark for that, but he could see the large stick the man gripped in his right hand. It looked like a large root of a tree, naturally twisted and tan in color. There was a stained glass sphere that sat perched on top of it.
The man stood there for some time, periodically moving his hand to his mouth as if to scratch his chin, or maybe to eat something. But it was so dark that Sam wasn’t sure what the man was doing. For all he knew he could he be talking on his cell phone, but why?
Who in their right mind would be out at three o’clock in the morning on their cell phone wearing a coat in ninety-degree weather holding a stick? Circus people maybe, but no one like that lived on Giddyup Lane.
Sam watched closely, trying to make out some of the finer details of the stranger, but it was impossible. It was just too dark. Muscles twitched in the back of Sam’s neck. His eyes were straining so hard to see that his head began to ache. He needed to get closer. He needed to go outside.
With that thought, Sam pressed himself back against the wall and darted across the living room and the kitchen to the back door. Slowly, using his stealthiest moves, he unlocked the deadbolt and turned the door knob.
The door let out a loud prolonged squeak, one that Sam had never noticed in the daytime. It was no wonder his mother never got a house alarm. Who needed one when the house was falling apart?
Sam inched the door back halfway and stepped outside. The moonlight was bright on the back of the house and the night air was humid. He shut the door and gradually inched his way past the flower beds to the side of the house. It was much darker and somewhat cooler there, but that did not stop the small beads of sweat from forming on Sam’s forehead.
Looking down, he noticed the outside faucet was still leaking and the cracks in foundation were getting worse. The entire house was falling apart all around them. He was probably safer sleeping outside of the house than he was inside.
Cautiously Sam pressed on, hoping all the hours he had logged playing Ninja Warrior 5 would pay off. He was scared, but excited. His blatant curiosity drove his every step toward the front of the house.
The gravel beneath his feet hurt as the jagged rocks dug into his bare skin. Sweat streamed down the sides of his face as he reached the two garbage cans near the front of the house and crouched down behind them.
Finally he could see the outline of the stranger perfectly. Sam was right—he was holding a long staff with a round glass pommel. He wore black pants and tall black boots that came up to his knees. His face was still in shadow but Sam could see the bottom of his rigid jaw line. He leaned forward staring at the stranger, thinking to himself how eerie the night had become. There was no breeze, no chirping crickets; there was nothing but the sound of Sam’s breathing.
Something hairy brushed up against Sam’s leg. He jumped up and staggered forward into the garbage cans, knocking them over. The tin lids slid to the ground with a loud crash. Barron, the neighborhood’s stray cat, hissed and darted across the lawn.
Sam panicked and tried to grab the lids as they banged and clattered around his feet. So much for the ninja moves, he thought. He looked over at the stranger, who was startled as well. The man was crouched down next to Mrs. Cambridge’s maple tree with his staff across his chest in a defensive position. Then in one fluent movement he stood, lifted his staff and tapped it once on the ground. A flash of emerald light burst from the glass ball and engulfed the man, leaving only a green haze in his wake.
Sam stood there, mesmerized as the last of the two lids came to a stop at his feet. He could not believe his eyes. Did that just happen, or was he really going nuts? There was no way anyone with half a brain was going to believe this. He wasn’t even sure he did.
Sam was more than just scared; he was also fascinated, and a little dumb-founded at what had just happened. But who wouldn’t be? he thought. It’s not every day someone is staring up at your window and then disappears in to thin air!
While Sam was trying to process all this the toppled trash cans had rolled down his driveway, churning out trash as they went. This forced Sam back to the reality of the situation at hand. With a half-hearted run, he quickly recovered the cans at the end of the driveway.
He looked over to the tree in Mrs. Cambridge’s yard where the stranger had stood just minutes ago. He still could not believe it had happened. How in the world did he do that and where did he go?
Sam noticed several small pieces of white paper scattered near the base of the tree. Quickly he scanned the rest of the yard.
The lady may have been a witch, but she was a witch with a green thumb. She had an extensive collection of shrubs and conifers that bordered the perimeter of the house. Daffodils and apricot tulips lined the curved stone pathway that led from the sidewalk to the front porch. Her grass was so green it looked like a golf course. The white pieces of paper were the only things out of place.
Sam set the cans upright before they rolled into the street, and swiftly crept across the street to Mrs. Cambridge’s yard to take a better look. The street was still warm from the hundred-degree day and the tiny rocks continued to poke away at the bottom of his already tender feet.
He reached the cool, plush grass and made his way to the tree. He scanned the surrounding houses just to make sure no one had come out during the great trash can debacle.
Sam looked down at the small white papers, which were thrown carelessly on the ground. He picked one up and carefully scrutinized it. It was a candy wrapper.
The wrapper itself was made of cloth paper, not regular wax paper like you see today. The name “Becker’s Famous Chocolates” was written in bold red letters across the wrapper. The letter style looked old-fashioned to Sam, like something you see in a black-and-white movie, large and overstated.
Sam thought it odd because the name Becker’s Famous Chocolates did not sound familiar to him, and he was well-versed in the ways of the chocolate. Whatever it was, he was sure it was not as good as the Goldkenn Chocolate Bar his best friend Travis Martin had brought back for him after his family went on vacation in Switzerland. The Black Praline Goldkenn was sweet, but not too sweet, and its creaminess was offset by thin layers of almonds and hazelnuts. It was chocolate perfection. When it came to chocolate no one could out-do the Swiss, as far as Sam was concerned, and Travis was probably the only person on earth who knew chocolate better than Sam.
Sam surveyed the area one last time, then gathered at least five wrappers from the ground and headed back toward the garbage cans.
He grudgingly gathered the trash that had fallen out from the cans earlier and replaced the lids. He placed the garbage cans back where they belonged and headed back into the house and up to his room.
Finally, he reached his bedroom door. There was no sign of his mom, and more importantly there was no sign of Sarah either. Sam quietly opened the door and crawled into bed. The rickety ceiling fan was still turning overhead, sending out a cool, gentle breeze. The crooked street lamp outside had somehow resurrected itself, casting flickering shadows on his bedroom wall, but Sam was too tired to care.
His mind continued to work through every detail of the night, from the monster in his dream, to the disappearing stranger.
He was tired. The adrenaline he felt when he first saw the stranger was gone, replaced by exhaustion. His mind was drifting with fading thoughts of the stranger, his disappearance, and Becker’s Famous Chocolates.
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