The Dream Hopper (Those Whom the Gods Wish to Destroy Book 2)

by Shawn Mackey

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 1:

  A Night of Dream Hopping

  I found myself in a town named Oaksdale. Leaning against the rickety welcome sign, I gazed at the street teeming with people, bustling in and out of a long row of shops. The same neon-lit OPEN sign on every window hung over vacant displays. Behind the displays was pitch-darkness, impenetrable even by the sun’s blinding glare. The darkness didn’t stop the people from walking straight into the dim buildings, and it didn’t stop others from walking out. They were scarcely corporeal, lacking any discernible features. A few had no faces at all. When confronted with these sights, one would normally assume to be in a bizarre dream, and as beads of sweat trickled down my brow and the bridge of my nose, I wondered if any of it was real.

  The sun’s warmth was authentic enough for me to temporarily disregard the ghostly automatons and the ominous buildings. It was usually nothing but a ball of light hovering in the sky, more of a prop than a source of heat and nourishment. But today I closed my eyes and basked in its rays. Whatever madness in store could wait. In this brief moment of respite, I was alive.

  In a world of smoke and mirrors, it was impossible to take basic sensations for granted, even if they were caused by illusions. I’d been stung in the neck by a flying scorpion, blasted point-blank in the face by a shotgun, and engulfed by a dragon’s fiery breath. All this without a tickle, yet a pricked finger would sometimes cause a healthy dose of pain. Those moments reminded me I didn’t belong here. This was a world for dreamers and their phantasms, with a lifespan of a short nap or deep slumber. I’d seen plenty of elaborate settings disperse into nothing only seconds after my entrance, and I’d lingered in blurry wastelands far longer than my liking.

  The people didn’t look as abnormal in my peripheral vision, nor did the pattern of their movement seem as rigid. With my gaze fixed to the ground, my surroundings could have passed for a regular afternoon. These poor souls were projections of the dream, nothing but fodder to further immerse the dreamer in their fantasy, utterly lifeless no matter how well they interacted. I felt a kinship to the mindless phantoms. Some were uncannily human, in personality and appearance, and probably impossible to distinguish from the dreamer if viewed by an outsider.

  I recalled one in particular, far too long ago to remember many details. The dreamer and I were being chased by a grotesque monster, more akin to a slithering pile of eyes and teeth and tongues than a cohesive creature. We were accompanied by a few of the dreamer’s friends. They weren’t quick enough to escape the hungry blob. I remembered climbing a ladder onto a roof, clinging to the hand of the one behind me and trying to hoist her up. When a tongue wrapped around her waist and yanked her from my grip, the fear in her eyes was as unmistakably human as her agonizing screams.

  I lost a bit of myself after each dream. I had no name, let alone a place to call home. The sun warmed me because the sun was meant to warm me—just like that girl was meant to be chewed into bits. In my gut, I knew two things were true, no matter how adamantly I tried to disprove them: the illusions were my ilk, and it was only a matter of time before I found myself in the wrong place at the wrong time. After that, whether I had a name or a home would become irrelevant.

  Coupled with my sour thoughts, the sun’s warmth lost its luster when a bead of sweat dripped into one of my eyes. I rubbed it out with a curse and grudgingly approached the nearest shop. A table covered by a thick white fabric was on display. I noticed several circular indentations on the cloth, but whatever previously lay there had been removed. I pressed my face against the glass for a better look at the darkness beyond the vacant displays, but saw absolutely nothing.

  At least the window cast a decent reflection. If there was one thing I enjoyed more than helping the dreamer, it was seeing how their dream twisted my appearance. I considered a glance sufficient payment for the toils ahead. A familiar feature would be enough to rekindle some dormant memory and set me on the right track. Unfortunately, I never even spotted a pattern to my repeated metamorphosis. It didn’t stop me from looking whenever the possibility presented itself.

  I stroked my newly acquired goatee, which appeared to be as neatly trimmed as my brownish hair. My attire consisted of plain jeans and a blue button-up shirt. I looked good enough, though I would have appreciated different clothes. Not that I had a preference. My lifestyle didn't leave enough time to establish a wardrobe.

  Feeling handsome and a bit inspired, I decided to further explore Oaksdale. The other streets were less busy and surrounded by two different types of buildings: mostly small white houses with worn down porches and dark shades covering the windows and a few dusty brick buildings with boarded windows and rusty steel doors. At the end of one of the streets, I found a bar named O’Toole’s. I rarely encountered a building more elaborate than the people surrounding it, but O’Toole’s was different. Buildings were usually hazy things that looked like they'd turn to a billow of smoke if you brushed your hand against them. Bright neon signs had been plastered on the windows and roof of O’Toole’s, and the building was fairly large and, judging by the long line outside, probably packed to capacity.

  I wanted to be prepared before my inevitable encounter. An old man sat on a bench near the bar’s back parking lot. As I approached the haggard-looking fellow, he dropped his hand to the side, clutching the neck of a bottle wrapped in a brown bag. He locked his nervous gaze on me, opening and closing his mouth like a mumbling halfwit. These people were fragments of the dreamer, and the more isolated ones made the best sources of information. Probing the automatons was never easy, but no harm ever came from trying.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Frrrrrrrggggllllll,” he replied, spraying spit from his pursed lips. The man took a swig from his bottle and eyed me warily.

  “Let’s try that again. Are you from around here?”

  “Sure am. Born and raised.”

  “I’m not from around here. Mind telling me about this town? It’s a nice place. I’d like to stay here for a while. Does that bother you?”

  “No.”

  “Why would it? So, what can you tell me about Oaksdale?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. His mouth hung slack, as though he desperately wanted to speak but lacked the words. The bottle slipped from his hands and hit the pavement, spilling its contents into the gutter.

  “We’ll keep it simple. Who’s in charge?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you want more than anything else in the whole world?”

  “Whiskey,” he said, his eyes flaring wide. The sudden animation of his face was startling. “Whiskey on the rocks.”

  “And what if we’re all out of whiskey?”

  “Whiskey. And more whiskey.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Laura.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, picking up the bottle before the contents finished emptying. It smelt more like rancid vomit than whiskey. I placed it next to the old man, who had returned to his drunken stupor, chin resting on his chest and brownish spit leaking out of his mouth.

  M
y destination had a name and a drinking problem. Abandoned buildings, rundown houses, liquor stores, hobos, and bars were hot spots for a degenerate in their late teens or early twenties. The only thing left to do was meet Laura.

  I walked right past the line in front of O’Toole’s and approached the bouncer. He was a burly tattooed man with a handlebar mustache, far more vivid than the old man. It was a welcome sight. He could have easily passed for a human being.

  "I'm here to see Laura," I said. He merely nodded. As I started to turn toward the entrance, I noticed a black glint in his eyes.

  The bouncer disappeared before I could open my mouth to question the abnormality. The line of people outside the door dissolved into a puddle of black goo, then sizzled and evaporated into a puff of putrid black smoke. I rushed into the bar and slammed the door shut. Billows of smoke flowed under the door and evaporated a few inches after rising. A noxious stink lingered under my nostrils even after the smoke dissipated. The scent was a perfect amalgam of all things revolting to the senses.

  The Nightmare's tendrils were already burrowing its way into the dream—a caustic entity that hunted me relentlessly, possessing the dream projections and working them like puppets intent on destroying their creator. The Nightmare knew exactly how to pull their creator’s strings, often without making it discernible to anyone but me. Naturally, this made us enemies. Part of all that investigating outside the bar was to weed out my nemesis before it could become a problem.

  The outside was now as empty as the shops had been. I was left with a poorly lit interior and bad music. Didn't care for the crowd either. They were even more nondescript than those outside, and their chatter— a cacophony of inane gibberish, though I picked up an occasional coherent word, possibly a phrase or two—grated my nerves. For the most part, it was maddening nonsense, more like the buzzing of flies than the sound of overlapping conversations.

  I picked up a lit cigarette from an ashtray and took a long drag. I let the smoke linger in my lungs as I watched a group huddle around a pool table. A young man focused intently on the balls before making a shot. They scattered across the table without a sound. Strange, considering I could hear the intermittent clatter of pool balls amidst the constant chatter. I put out the cigarette and made my way to the bar counter. A large crowd congregated around the only occupied stool. I trudged through the faceless mass to finally meet Laura.

  The dark-haired woman sat in front of the bar. I casually seated myself next to her and glanced from the corner of my eyes to see if she noticed me. The glass of whiskey seemed glued to her face, endlessly pouring down her throat in long gulps, spilling much of its contents down her chin and onto her chest. Despite Laura’s gluttonous thirst and poor choice of locations to frequent, I noticed a youthful beauty in the girl that had yet to be consumed by her appetites. The heart tattoo on her wrist read Daddy along with a few sparkles and shooting stars. Her shirt sleeve covered another tattoo on her upper arm.

  When the glass finally emptied, she slammed it onto the counter and slid it toward the bartender, her maw dripping like a gorged animal. He tipped the bottomless whiskey jar and refilled the cup to the brim. Thick black veins on his hand pulsed and throbbed so tremendously they seemed about to burst. I turned my gaze back to Laura. The liquid coursing through those veins would become hostile if she noticed it, and even more so if it realized I did.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?" she said. Her voice was crystal clear, almost musical sounding compared to the background noise.

  "I can't look at my girlfriend?" I said teasingly. She smiled with the corner of her lips and took a small sip.

  "In your dreams.”

  "If only my dreams were that pleasant," I said, waving at the bartender. "Let me have what she's having."

  The bartender filled a glass. Judging by his black hand, I knew better than to drink its contents. Of course, I did it anyway. How could I pass up the chance to indulge in a little alcohol? I drained it in a single swig and tasted nothing.

  "I wasn't sure if you'd come," the woman said. She placed her glass on the table and stared at it somberly. "The booze tastes funny tonight."

  "Then don't drink it," I said. She appeared to contemplate my words for a whole two seconds before bringing the glass to her lips again.

  "I didn't say it was bad," she said into her cup.

  "What's on your mind, Laura?" I asked. She finally glanced in my direction, but only for a second. "You're not pounding down those drinks because you like the taste."

  "Since when do you care about what I'm thinking?" she asked. I feigned a sigh and moved closer.

  "Since now," I said. She stuck her finger into the glass and twirled it around. The bartender stood like an obedient slave in front of Laura, a faint smile full of mockery and malice on his thin lips. The black veins emptied, and an oily substance coursed under his fingernails and slithered across the counter and into my mug. I swiftly flipped it over and slid the glass across the counter. It flung off the edge and shattered at the feet of the faceless crowd.

  "Why would you do that?" she said, darting her head back and forth in alarm. The surrounding crowd hadn’t so much as stirred. When she realized this, Laura let out a hearty laugh and said: "This place is weird. They usually cut me off after the fifth round or so. Then you go and do something like that, and no one does a thing."

  "You should try it," I said. She smiled wickedly and hurled the glass over her shoulder without looking, shattering it near the pool table and sending the nearby patrons scurrying away.

  "I've got to be dreaming.”

  "Then I'd have to be dreaming, too. Or am I part of the dream?"

  "Only one way to find out," she said, turning to me giddily. "Pinch me."

  "Pinch yourself.”

  "That won't work. You'll have to do it."

  "I don't want to hurt you.”

  "Then how will we find out if this is a dream?"

  "We sit here. Either they'll kick us out or you'll wake up. I can wait all night."

  "Me too.”

  The bar had completely emptied, our seats and the section of the counter all that remained. Laura seemed completely oblivious to the surrounding void. She rested her head on her arms with a serene smile as the bartender faded like a dimming light, leaving behind a faint outline, then nothing at all.

  The Nightmare's cold tendrils gently caressed my neck, then slowly wrapped around my throat. I couldn't tell whether it was attempting to strangle or mock me. Most likely the latter, though it would perform the former if given the opportunity. Its grip gradually dissolved as Laura closed her eyes. When the counter and our chairs started to disappear, I leaned in close.

  Laura vanished, leaving me alone in the black void. I breathed a sigh of relief, supposing it went well, though the only thing I knew for sure was that I would never see her again. In a span of a count from one to ten, I would be in another place.

  Chapter 2:

  Don’t Call Him Timmy

  I found myself in a run-down city. A maniacal chant reached my ears before I could see the people. They ran in small packs, hunched over and snarling. The city's bright lights cast their twisted shadows on the cracked roads. These were pointy-eared jackals, mouths dripping with slaver, disguised in the skins of men and women. They obviously skittered around me; I wasn’t the object of their lust for violence.

  “Kill Timmy!” they chanted. “Kill Timmy! Kill Timmy! Kill Timmy!”

  Those words seemed to be a running theme. They were painted and carved into every building and sign. Rows and rows of dilapidated apartment complexes made it difficult to navigate the mazelike city. I hoped following the bloodthirsty mob would lead me to poor Timmy. These animals wouldn’t tear him to pieces right away. Their mocking chant seemed more fervid than their bloodlust. The lunatics would likely take their time and toy with him.

  Finding Timmy was a matter of finding the mass congregation. Hundreds of his pursuers crowded around one of the apartment complexes,
howling and beating their fists against the wall. The chant had perfectly synchronized into a single, booming voice.

  "Kill Timmy!"

  I decided to approach the crowd carefully. Even though they showed no interest in me earlier, I wasn't about to risk invoking their wrath. They'd most likely see me as an obstacle in their way to Timmy. I walked down the adjacent alleyway in search of a back entrance. The only door had been boarded shut with several beams, so I had to settle with the fire escape above. I climbed up a dumpster and had no trouble reaching it with a little jump.

  The door was locked. Already out of patience, I proceeded to kick it in. Another problem revealed itself: I had no clue which room sheltered Timmy. The apartment had to be at least thirty stories high. My first idea was to sprint down the hallway and call his name. He'd probably end up mistaking me for one of the maniacs, and scaring him was the last thing I wanted to do.

  After thoroughly searching five floors, I decided to stick with the stairs and brace for the top. The further from the lunatics the better. The top floor was much different than the others. The walls were more vibrant, and the floorboards actually creaked with each step. The chanting outside had softened to less than a whisper. There was a new sound in its place—one much closer. In the furthest door from the stairs, someone was weeping.

  For some strange reason, the door was locked from the outside. I unhooked the latch and then slowly turned the knob. I carefully pushed it open, hoping Timmy's loud sobbing would drown out my entrance. The door didn’t make a sound, but my first footstep creaked loud enough to echo across the entire hallway.

  A disheveled, middle-aged man, who I assumed was Timmy, huddled in the corner of the empty room, cradling himself back and forth, long greasy hair draped over most his face. I held my hands above my head and took another step forward. He covered his eyes with a gasp.

  "Easy there," I said.

  "Who are you?" he whimpered.

  "You look like you need a friend," I said, taking two more cautious steps. "I'm not going to hurt you. Relax."