SLEEPWALKER
By Michael Laimo
First Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press & Macabre Ink Digital
Copyright 2010 by Michael Laimo
Copy-Edited by Erin Bailey
Cover Design by David Dodd
Cover image courtesy of Andrew Pearce
www.krop.com/andrewpearce
LICENSE NOTES:
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OTHER CROSSROAD TITLES BY MICHAEL LAIMO:
NOVELS:
The Demonologist
COLLECTIONS:
Demons, Freaks, and Other Abnormalities
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Richard
The dreams came unexpectedly.
They were disengaging dreams, odd haphazard images having no discernible intent or direction. He remembered how they started, peculiar blotches of color shifting and floating into geometrical patterns, then ultimately bursting like colorful fireworks displays. At some point during these earliest dreams his ever-present conscience reminded him, You are Richard Sparke, and you are dreaming, but that had been a long time ago. Lucid dreaming, he later discovered through the counseling of Dr Marcus Delaney, was the correct terminology for this strange nocturnal awareness.
Later his dreams became more vivid, blossoming into a blue light that metamorphosed into more distinguishable episodes, and he had seen in his mind’s eye entire scenes including the faces and bodies of people he knew, and many more individuals he recognized in mere passing during his awake state. That’s Dr Delaney, his conscience pointed out. And Pamela, your girlfriend. What a doll. She looks real good, even here in your dreams. And didn’t you see that tall dark man somewhere before? And look, there’s Tom…he’s your old boss, the principal from Michael P. Slater Elementary School where you once taught third grade.
And with these impressive dreams came visions of sadness. Julia, his mother, visiting him in several episodes, standing alone in the room, away from the bed at some indiscriminate spot and begging for her only son’s comforting hand. And then, Debra. His daughter. She’d come to visit on a number of occasions too but had remained mostly silent, merely pouting and crying and twirling her blonde locks as though lost and unable to find her way home. They’re both dead, Richard reminded himself each time after waking. Passed on long before the dreams came.
Richard opened his eyes. Saw nothing. Felt only the thin cool sheets of the bed and a sheen of sweat dampening his face and back. The darkness was complete around him. He peered about, eyes wide and struggling to distinguish if he were presently immersed in the landscape of a dream-world, or if the gloomy vista surrounding him was forged by the unilluminated walls of his bedroom in the waking world. He could sense the soft pressure of the mattress against his back, and when he dropped his hands from his waist he could feel the comforting texture of the sheets. He turned over onto his side with very little effort. This could be a dream, there is no paralysis. You feel weightless. Yet your mind functions with the confidence and authority of being awake. So which is it? Are you awake, Richard? Or sleeping? Which is it?
He was unable to answer the question, for at this instant Richard Sparke’s current state of semi-awareness slipped away. Still, he somehow knew, that regardless if awake or dreaming, he still lay in bed. And that was a good thing.
At some point thereafter, Richard became semi-conscious again, and beheld the blue light. It appeared as a solitary source, muted, as if cloaked behind a vapory cloud of fog. He wiggled a foot free of the sheets and held it up towards the hazy luster, stretching his toes out to see if he could touch it. He couldn’t. It was too far away.
He could see that the blue light was acting differently--it was transmitting its radiance to levels much brighter than ever before, eating through the hazy occlusion like the sun burning away a thin layer of clouds following a thunderstorm. He put his hands up to shield his eyes, but could see only the near-black silhouette of his fingers. No details came into view other than the partially blinding circle of light itself. He looked away, closed his eyes, then pressed his fingers back down against the mattress. He made an attempt to prop himself up but could not muster the strength to move. That’s it then, you must be dreaming. Or, then again, are you? Could this be another episode of sleep paralysis? Is it possible that the man in black is coming back for you after all? My dear Richard, why is it so confusing for you to distinguish between the waking and sleeping state? His breathing moved quickly, the sound of it racing like wind through his inner ears. He could feel his heart rate performing at an increased level. As if coerced from the rapid pressure in his body, his mind became more alert, and his conscience reminded him of the sad events that took place before going to bed late last night. Pamela was here. The two of you argued. She said she needed a break, wanted time apart, time to herself. You cried, didn’t you? Begged her like an unfed dog for another chance. But she left without an answer for you. She was very confused and couldn’t make up her mind. She said she would see you in the morning.
Is it morning yet?
How long have you been sleeping, Richard?
He heard a slight noise in the room, a knocking, soft and muffled like a hand against a pillow. It seemed to generate from within the shadowed walls. The blue light at the foot of the bed faded slightly and once again he was bathed in semi-darkness.
“Richard?”
At first the soft voice sounded as if it had emerged from his dream--a distant unseen echo filtering in from somewhere behind the scenes. But then he heard his name being repeated over and over again, “Richard...Richard...Richard...” and he came awake with a start, eyes fluttering in fearful expectation.
Anxiety blooming, he writhed in bed, the sheets gathering about his waist and thighs. His heavy breathing seared his lungs. Perspiration doused his skin. A wave of apprehension raced through him like an injection of vaccine from a doctor’s needle; he couldn’t help but be terrified--yet strangely seduced--by the familiar voice sharing the room with him.
The gentle beckon of his dead mother.
Mother
When he opened his eyes she was there, only inches from the edge of the bed, standing closer than ever before. She was wearing her favorite dress, the one she’d been buried in, the soft turquoise linen faded into drab gray threads, gauzy webs swathing her shoulders like a tattered shawl. Her skin was gaunt, carved with wrinkles, pasty lumps of age-old make-up caking her shrunken jowls.
Richard took a slow deep breath--a weak yet serious attempt to quell his mounting panic. It didn’t work, and wouldn’t if he tried again, the harsh grinding of his heart keeping him well aware of that. Staring at Julia Sparke, his dear mother, his conscience reminded him, she’s never come so close, Richard. She looks so...so real.
She reached out to him, hands withered to mere skin and bone.
“Is it morning yet? Is it, Mother?” he whispered softly. If indeed it is morning, Richard’s conscience interjected, then you’re finally dead and Mother has come to take you away into the blue light, to the place she now stays. The miraculous place she hints to you about time and time again in these incredible dreams. About the place where you
belong, Richard...
Julia Sparke spoke, interrupting the voice of his conscience. Her voice was soft, floating like a thin wisp of smoke:
“There is a place, Richard, a place where the grass is always green and the trees are full of color. Here in this place there is no pain, only the pleasures of life. I pray for you to come join me, my son, so that we can be together again just like we once were, so that we may partake together all the wonders and joys this world has to offer.”
“Mother,” Richard asked the apparition, “is Debra in this place you speak of?”
“Yes, she is here with me. She asks for you, for you, Richard. We want you.”
“I want to come with you, Mother. I want to come with you, I want to come with you...” He reached out to take his mother’s hand. His body trembled, never having been so close to actually touching his dream-mother before. Rivulets of sweat poured down his back. His eyes locked with Julia’s gray irises.
The tiny bit of luster in them faded sharply to a gray monotone, devoid of life, perhaps even sight. They rolled up into her sockets, revealing only bland whites. Her wrinkled lips spread open and from within a gargled shriek sputtered forth. Richard pulled his hand back as if suddenly shocked with electricity, watching with gross fascination as the blue light developed behind Julia, growing from a tiny pinpoint near her right ear to a full aura ensconcing her entire fragile body. A breeze sprung up, sending shivers across Richard’s spine, drying his dampened brow. A faint whistling noise filled the air.
Then from within the cool blue brilliance dark blotches appeared at either sides of her. They danced, spread open, and from within these pulsating circles ghostly human hands emerged, carrying their own source of white luminescence as they entered Richard’s world. A total of four hands to the wrists, they flexed and wriggled their fingers, as though testing the air for oxygen, continuing for a few seconds until stopping all at once like a video in freeze-frame. Roughly, they grasped Julia’s body, by her arms, her legs, her neck, pulling her back into the blue light from which they--and she--first appeared. In an attempt to scream, her jaw fell open, hanging like a dresser drawer suddenly free from its tracks. Only silence spilled forth.
This must be another vivid dream! This can’t be happening! He cowered against the headboard of the bed, bit his fist and squeezed his eyes, teeth clenching as he sucked in harsh breaths. He held his arms around his shoulders, bathing himself in the darkness of his closed eyelids until a normal state of indifference came back, his breathing somewhat regular, his blood once again flowing smoothly through his veins.
Richard opened his eyes. Darkness met his trying gaze. Everything had vanished. The light, the hands, his mother. All was quiet, silence dominating the gloom as if nothing had ever occurred. He glanced nervously about the room, looking for his mother, for the hands, the light. Perhaps they’d moved someplace else? He shot glances about the dark room, into the hallway, the bathroom.
Nothing.
Everything was gone.
Pamela
He listened for noises. Anything at all. Voices in the room. Footsteps elsewhere in the condo.
He heard nothing.
Still, he listened attentively.
“Richard?”
He cried out in fearful response to the new voice sharing the room with him, clutched his racing heart, eyes darting crazily about, climbing the walls. A high-pitched yelp answered his shout--that of a woman caught in surprise. He tried to take a deep breath but found it difficult to grasp any air.
“Damn you, Richard!”
He bolted upright in bed, sweat dousing his face. Strips of daylight filtered in through the blinds on the left window, thrusting thin white swords onto the damp sheets. He was confused, unable to locate the source of the voice--if it had indeed existed. Suspiciously, he peered around the room. His surroundings. The furniture. The unmoving ceiling fan. The whole scene, although daunting at the moment, was still a familiar one: a sudden and rather welcome reprieve to the darkness of the nightmare he hoped to have left behind.
But Richard, how do you know if this is real, that you’re not dreaming?
He slumped back down against the pillow, his breathing still strenuous, the fear still lingering. He closed his eyes, hugged himself and clenched his teeth--a customary anti-anxiety practice--determined not to faint. The voice, the woman’s cry he’d just heard, whether dreamed or not, seemed so real, and the unpleasant anxiety it raised propelled him to hold each shallow breath in his lungs for as long as possible, the very process of which helped to prevent an unmanageable wave of hyperventilation, and further discomfort.
“Richard?”
Heart hammering, he again startled upright. He twisted his neck to face the source of the nearby voice.
A figure stood against the wall, alongside the bathroom door.
He rubbed his eyes, shook his head. When the blur diminished and the sleep-induced flashes of light cleared from his sights, he saw Pamela staring back at him. She had one hand on her elbow; the other nervously gripped her cheek. Her face was pale, brows knitted into triangles of worry. Her grin was tight and mean.
“Pam?” he coughed, wiping spittle from his mouth. He was shocked to see her, yet relieved in a sense that it was only her and not somebody dream-worldly. “What the hell are you doing here?” His voice was a dry crackle, mouth and throat on fire, tongue coated as if stuffed with cotton. Despite this unpleasant state and the scare of finding Pamela in his bedroom, he felt somewhat comforted to be finally awake and conscious of the second dream-invading voice.
“I...I need something to drink,” he said.
Pamela frowned, silent and ignoring of his request. She dropped into the chair cornering the room, the highback Richard used for his dirty clothes after the hamper took its fill. She wore jeans and a brown knit top that hugged her body and accentuated her cola-bottle figure. She crossed her legs and gently tossed her wavy brown hair just as a mild breeze entered through the screened window. The wind felt cool against Richard’s clammy skin.
“It rained all night, Richard. You left the window open.” Usually her ice-blue eyes retained a cool comforting aspect; now they burned red hot.
She was angry.
Richard propped himself up, making a few awkward attempts to seek comfort against the soft pillow. His back ached: a burning sensation that ran up his spine and tightened the knots of tension in his neck. Tiny hammers beat their chaotic tune against his skull, sending jolts of pain through his trapezoid muscles. “I like the sound of the rain,” he lied. He peered at the nightstand. Drops of water coated the polished surface, as well as the clock-radio and the base of the ceramic lamp.
She frowned. “You’re being childish, Richard.”
He ran a hand through his mussed hair. “Pamela, please. I’m not in the mood for this.” He closed his eyes and tried to rub the sleep away, wondering how awful he must’ve looked to the woman he’d always tried to impress, to love, to be loved by. Pathetic, no doubt, a mentally frail man whose strong-willed efforts went mostly unrewarded, making him appear pitiable, aloof, and at many times cold and distant. When he opened his eyes, Pamela was temporarily lost behind dancing blotches of gray haze that dissipated just soon enough for him to indisputably conclude that this scene was no dreamscape--much to his disappointment now. As dreadful as many of his dreams were, the waking world could be just as painful, and Richard had to remind himself that at times it took a while to distinguish the two states of awareness. Dreams equal terror. Awake equals heartache. Here and now the emotional pain seemed too intense, too real to be part of a dream. Indeed, he was awake.
But she doesn’t look like her normal self, his conscience noted. You’ve never seen that look in her eyes before. Even when angry she’s always showing some compassion. There’s nothing here but cold hard perceptions, filled with acid and irrationality. Yeah, she’s different alright.
“I was upset about our argument. I must’ve forgotten about the window.”
; She shook her head, her face contorting even further into the land of the angry and annoyed. “I came to return your key,” she revealed, dangling it tauntingly by the chain. “I tried to call before coming but your line was busy. When I got here, I let myself in, and guess what? The phone in the living room was off the hook. Gee whiz Richard, I wonder why?”
He shrugged his shoulders, uninspired to answer the sarcastic question she already knew the answer to. Bullets of painful tension raced from his traps into his brain. You know what she’s thinking, Richard. Damn basket case has been out for another midnight amble. Had himself an imaginary conversation with the dial tone, left the phone off the hook after all good-byes were said and done. God knows what else he’s got himself into. Digging through the fridge in search of gold?
“You look like shit, Richard.”
At first he didn’t want to respond, determined not to let her ruin the start of his day. But she was right, and he knew it. Without looking into the mirror he could tell that his brown eyes were glassy, the whites red and crusty, black circles floating on prominent bags beneath; his skin pale, looking jaundiced, having not been exposed to the sun for months. Yes, he did look like shit, felt like it too. Yet still, he felt a need to defend himself, to continue their circuitous conversation. Her unmoving gaze remained fixed on him--a last lick awaiting a challenge. He answered defeatedly, “Been a bitch of a night.”
Tears filled her sharp blue eyes, an emotional response hardly a product of sadness, Richard knew, but a reaction brought on through resentment. He’d seen those tears many times before, had grown accustomed to the familiar sight when things didn’t turn out exactly the way she wanted them to.
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