Lucid Nightmares

Prologue

The boy hid under the old writing desk, knees clamped tight to his chest, knuckles white with strain. His breath came short and quick as his pulse pounded in his ears. Searching the darkness, he found nothing, and his eyes reflected only his fear.

The noises in the kitchen had stopped, but he knew the danger was not over.

The four old witches, one of whom he’d been told was his grandmother, had summoned a demon from Hell. He knew it was a demon from Hell because he had seen it. More than that, he had felt—even tasted—the creature’s sooty, vile presence.

One of the old women sobbed in the darkness, but he couldn’t bring himself to go to her. What could a little boy do against a demon?

Finally, her crying faded away.

Ashamed for not going to help, fear still prevented him from giving up his hiding place. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to sob out loud.

The nightmare had started out resembling a séance but quickly turned into a horror movie. The demon had coalesced on the kitchen table in front of the women, and he had been mesmerized by the evil exuding from it. He had felt the creature searching for something and, when it looked at him, it was like greasy fingers leaving slimy snail-trails on his soul, slithering away from him, flowing back into the materializing form of the demon, becoming the putrid smelling vapors dissipating into the air around it.

Still panting with fear, he looked out from his hiding place into the dark room, wishing he was anywhere but here.

He wasn’t sure what had happened. The old women had spoken only in Spanish, unless they were talking to him.

Silently mouthing a Hail Mary, he crossed himself. He had never paid attention to the words before, but now that he needed the prayer to work, he found himself thinking about them as he prayed.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now, and at the hour of our death, Amen.

The prayer made him feel a little better. Not a lot, but helped.

The words didn’t seem appropriate, but the more he muttered them, the more fitting they became.

He was going to die.

The demon was going to find him.

He knew from the oily touch against his soul that the demon wanted nothing more than it wanted him. The demon would come back for him.

Muttering the prayer again, and again, just as he had heard his mother do when she was upset, he said the words so fast he wasn’t sure what he was saying anymore, but it helped. It seemed to clear away the nasty coating the foul smell of the demon had left in his mouth, but not the filmy feeling on his skin.

After a time, his breathing came easier, although it still caught occasionally. He began seeing again, instead of endlessly searching the darkness with his eyes.

Releasing his grip on his knees, he flexed his fingers to ease the pain. His legs had lost feeling.

Soundlessly as he could, he crawled out from under the desk, listening for the demon’s clicking hooves on the kitchen tile. When he was able to stretch out, he sat on the floor, wincing as needle pains pricked at the bottom of his feet and up and down both legs.

He kept his eyes transfixed on the doorway, watching for the demon. The guttering candlelight from the kitchen was dimmer now. Some of the candles must have gone out. Knowing the evil that lie beyond, Victor felt he was peeking through a flickering doorway into Hell.

There was nothing from the old woman who had been sobbing.

He wondered if any of the four old women were still alive. At the instant the demon had appeared one had fainted, or maybe even died, he wasn’t sure which.

Involuntarily glancing around the drawing room, he checked for lurking shadows, remembering how the tiny demon had lashed out with an unnaturally long arm, striking down a second old woman.

Her plump, grandmotherly form had flown across the room. The sound of her limp body hitting the wall and dropping to the floor stuck in his mind, as if it had been the only sound made.

The demon itself made no noise other than the dull thud of its gnarled hand striking the old woman.

That woman was probably dead. He could see her form in his peripheral vision as he began crawling into the kitchen, but he refused to look at her.

His legs felt better, but fear still prevented him from standing upright. Shivers of weakness caused his hands to tremble and his knees to shake as he crawled across the cold tile kitchen floor, toward the door he had seen the third old woman run through.

Avoiding spilled wax and sputtering flames, he thought about how the demon had scattered the candles, leaping after a fleeing third woman. With tiny vestigial bat-wings flapping futilely on its back, it had hit the floor hard with small, split hooves clicking on the slick tiles as it scrabbled for purchase. The creature stood upright, less than two feet tall with a face shaped between dog and a horse; long, with eyes on the sides of its head. Its backward-bending, horse-like legs gave it great strength for leaping once its hooves found purchase in the grout between the tiles.

The boy wondered at how something so small could be so strong, and he feared he may have glimpsed fangs under the curling snarl of its lips. Thankfully, he had been in the far corner of the room, away from the demon when it bounded from the table.

The last old lady had jumped up and grabbed something long and silvery from a shelf before determinedly chasing after the demon and the fleeing woman. This final woman, the one he had been told to call Abulea, was the one he thought he had heard sobbing. She was his great-grandmother, but he really didn’t know her at all.

When the paralyzing terror had finally lost out to the instinct to survive, he had run into the study and folded himself under the desk. Muffled noises had come from beyond the far door but he had not dared imagine what was happening on the other side of those walls. There had been two or three more thumps, followed by an oppressive silence, and then the quiet sobbing had begun.

The entire incident had seemed to take place with an unnatural quiet, as though the world had been covered with cotton.

Now, still on his hands and knees, he reached the threshold of the door the demon had raced through. His mouth was dry and sticky as he peered around the edge of the doorframe. Dim candlelight flickered from behind him, pretending to reveal what lie ahead in the darkness. His heart stuttered at a movement until he recognized his own shadow wavering in the weak candlelight.

After a moment his eyes adjusted enough to discern two forms; one in the middle of the room and the other against the far wall. He was sure these were the women, and that they would be dead, but the vacillating light cast the illusion of movement over everything, making it hard to tell for sure.

The air held the same taste of dank, rotten garbage that had exuded from the demon. The boy wondered if the smell meant the demon was still here or if it had permeated the room the same way it had filled his own senses and covered his skin. He hoped it was just leftover stink.

Crawling toward the shadowy forms, his palm landed on something cold and hard. He fumbled with it in the dark. It glinted with the cold silvery reflection of metal. He drew a sharp breath of pain when he discovered the object to be some sort of knife. He brought his stabbed finger to his mouth and tasted the buttery flavor of his own blood.

The cut stung, but not enough to worry about right now.

He turned the knife over in his hands. It was awkwardly shaped and hard to clutch as a weapon, but he was comforted by it nonetheless. He turned his newfound weapon over and pointed the blade out of the bottom of his palm as he had heard the older kids say was the proper way to wield a knife. It was uncomfortable to hold while crawling. Gripping it while moving ground his knuckles into the hard floor, and he worried about stabbing himself in the knee, but he also worried holding it wrong would make it useless.

This knife must have been what he had seen his great-grandmother grab on her way out of the kitchen. If it was, she hadn’t made it very far into this room with it.

Holding his breath, he listened for noises. He could hear one of the women breathing lightly, maybe wetly, as if she were congested.

The woman closest to him was his great-grandmother. The candlelight was dim and the colors were washed out, but her red-checkered apron was discernable. He continued toward her, pausing his own breathing often so he could listen.

When he reached his great-grandmother, he put his hand to her face. Her breath was shallow and slight, but it was there. He didn’t see anything wrong with her, other than she wasn’t moving, but she was very old and he had seen how hard the demon had hit the other woman.

The moist breathing sound was still there, and it wasn’t from his great-grandmother. Maybe the other woman was still alive. He decided not to check on her. He would go for help instead. What did he know about helping someone who had been attacked by a demon? He wasn’t even sure he could find his way back to his aunt’s house, where the rest of his family was, but he could get a neighbor or someone to help.

He resumed crawling toward the front door. He knew it was there, somewhere in the dark. The old women had closed all the doors and windows to keep out the prying eyes of gossiping neighbors. The only other way out of the house was through the back door into the courtyard, but the courtyard had eight-foot walls, and the gate was padlocked. The front door was the only way out.

He sensed movement and froze.

Searching through the misleading flickers of the candlelight for the source of the movement, he thought it had come from the other old woman. Maybe she was waking up. Maybe he should check on her after all. If she was waking up, she could help the others. Besides she was only a few feet away.

He switched the knife to his other hand and pivoted on one knee to face the old woman.

Staring hard at the dim lump of her form, he tried to make out details. She lie on her side with her back toward him. It looked like she had moved her hand to her face.

Holding his breath, he inched closer, putting every effort into being silent; the horror of the demon still strong in his memory. The wet breathing sound was louder now, but it sounded wrong, like someone softly blowing bubbles with a straw.

Another movement.

He froze. He had seen the movement this time. It looked like the woman was scratching her chin, but her arm hadn’t moved.

He raised his head higher to see.

It didn’t look right.

His pulse quickened. He moved backward, away from the old woman, in a reverse crawl. The knife in his hand scraped the floor.

At the sound, the demon’s head popped up from behind the woman’s form.

The boy froze as the demon’s beady eyes locked onto his.

Its black eyes reminded him of a mouse’s: protruding, hard, shiny, and completely inhuman. The flickering candlelight reflected in them like the burning pits of Hell. Gruesomely shaped, the head was a mix of rat, horse, and dog. Barred teeth and fangs glinted orange in the darkness. The boy had no doubts the dark, wet stain around the demon’s muzzle was blood.

There was no time to escape. The boy lurched into a standing position as the demon leapt for him. Reflexively, the boy threw his hands up to protect his face and swat away the attack of the cat-sized creature.

The demon hit him as hard as a full-grown man, propelling him backward over a chair and onto a coffee table. He felt things breaking. He wasn’t sure if it was the chair, the table, or his own bones. The weight of the demon on his chest was like a bag of cement. Its fetid smell of rotting eggs and burnt hair suffocated him as much as the burden on his chest. A gnarled hand raked the side of his face, cutting deep gashes under his eye. Wiry legs kicked sharp hooves into his abdomen and thighs.

The boy gasped, unable to cry out. He squeezed his eyes shut in a grimace as fierce as the demon’s and waited for the end to come.

The attack lessened and the weight slowly lifted. The pain began fading into dull throbs. He wondered at the strange sensation of death. He had been told dying was painless, but he had expected the pain to stop suddenly, not fade away.

He took a breath and was rewarded with a stabbing pain in his side. Convulsing, he rolled up and clutched his side, causing even more pain. Gasping in pain and for air, he fought to breathe without breathing. The pain was worse than ever as he clutched at his side involuntarily.

Realizing he was not dead, and fearful of the demon, he fumbled about in the broken pieces of wood and glass from the coffee table, forcing himself up. Looking for where the next attack would come from, he clutched the knife tightly. It was slick in his grip and coated with something. Blood, maybe. Maybe his. He hurt in too many places to know how badly he was bleeding.

He held the knife up, ready for another attack, nearly passing out from the pain of moving. There was no sign of the demon anywhere.

Blood flowed into his eyes and obscured his vision. He could feel hot, wet liquids on his shirt and legs.

There was movement behind him.

He wheeled, wiping blood from his eyes and holding the knife up, but he tripped and fell back, sprawling into the pile of glass and wooden shards.

A light clicked on, and suddenly the room was too bright to see anything.

Shielding his eyes, he tried to hold the dagger ready, but the pain in his side, and his position on the ground, prevented it.

It’s okay, spoke a hoarse, thickly accented voice.

He searched through the blinding glare for the voice, waving the knife out into the air, trying to turn to protect himself.

It’s okay, the voice repeated. It’s gone now.

Spotting a figure leaning heavily against the doorframe, hand still on the light switch, he recognized the old lady the demon had sent flying against the wall.

He looked to the knife in his trembling hand and saw it was covered with something slick and black, like tar colored pond scum. Dropping the weapon, he closed his eyes and lay his head back into the broken glass.

He thought that maybe he would like to faint now.

Instead, he allowed himself to drift off slowly, mentally keeping time with the pain throbbing in his leg, ribs, and face. He almost smiled as he imagined they were a like the big bass drums he had seen in a parade once, beating so low you felt them vibrating in your chest as much as you heard them. He was comforted by the sound and feel of the drums as he heard the woman say he was okay.

It wasn’t okay.

He didn’t think it would ever be okay again, but just for right now, the drums were very nice.

One

Dreams were no longer an escape for Jack. The arguments with Julie weighed heavily on his mind and he awoke several times to reassure himself she was still sleeping next to him. The sight of the back of her head, silken black hair pulled back into a ponytail, calmed him and he closed his eyes again.

She hadn’t been there last night. Most of it, anyway.

Julie cancelled her plans with Jack to spend the night at the bar with Sandy. Sandy, who had just broken up with Michael, needed comforting. Or so Julie claimed.

The truth was, ever since the miscarriage, things had been tense between them. The emotional rollercoaster had taken its toll on both of them and strained their relationship.

Feeling petty, Jack tried to go back to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes he had visions of Julie leaning into some strange guy on a barstool.

He reached up and tiredly scratched his own mussed brown hair. His arms felt too long, with his hands too far away and not quite part of his body. He couldn’t remember ever being so tired before.

Hearing him stirring, Bear stood up from the dog bed and came nose to nose in greeting. Jack scratched the curly black hair on top of the dog’s head and murmured a few soothing words. Bear went back to his bed, turning in a circle twice before lying down.

Jack drifted back to sleep but woke so many times he began to dream he was awake wanting to sleep. He thought about getting up and going to watch television, but he was too tired to move.

Startling, he opened his eyes, surprised to find the room had a reddish glow. Normally streetlight filtered in, but nothing like this. The room appeared as though the bedside lamp had been turned on with a red light bulb in it.

The hair on the nape of his neck prickled. Something was in his bedroom.

His heart began pounding as he listened for what had awakened him. Bear’s nose whistled as the dog gently snored on the floor next to the head of the bed. Julie was softly breathing next to him. Other than that, and the thumping of his own heart, there was nothing. No distant traffic, no refrigerator hum, nothing.

Jack’s ears rang in the unnatural stillness of the room.

Trying to sit up, he found he couldn’t. He was paralyzed. His heart rate increased; something he wouldn’t have thought possible. Terrified, he rolled his eyes wildly to see around the room, trying to see anything, trying just to move any part of his body.

Except for the reddish hue, the room appeared normal.

He struggled to move, his whole body far away and numb. He tried to kick, tried to sit up or rock back and forth, or yell. None of it worked.

Closing his eyes, Jack tried to bring his breathing under control. Try to relax, he told himself. Just go back to sleep. Try to take deep breaths. It’ll be okay.

Bear whimpered and Jack’s heart nearly burst. He tried to look over at the dog, but his eyes froze on the entrance to the bedroom.

There was someone there.

A bulky shape filled the doorway; a giant man in a long trench coat.

Jack’s breathing became ragged with terror. Immobilized, he stared at the shadowy silhouette. A lump of terror in his throat reduced his breathing to quick wheezing gulps. Wanting to believe the intruder was a man, a burglar of some sort, Jack knew it was something much, much worse.

Bear whimpered again, softly and far away, but Jack couldn’t tear his eyes away from the embodied darkness, couldn’t move.

The figure remained, unmoving, backlit despite the horrible crimson light in the room. None of its features, if it had any, were discernable. Jack’s mind couldn’t grasp what it was looking at. The image refused to resolve itself, giving only a blurred impression like a photograph of something in motion.

Jack blinked.

It was gone. The room was dark, the doorway clear, and the red light replaced by the soft amber glow from the streetlights.

Jack’s breathing and heart rate were normal, but they began rapidly speeding up again as he recalled his terror. His eyes burned and reflexively squeezed shut as tears flowed to lubricate them.

He had been staring at nothing for a long time. How long? He remembered feeling panic; a fear that his brain had been paralyzed too.

He rubbed his eyes and was relieved his body worked again. Sitting up, his muscles moved jerkily, awkwardly, as if he wasn’t familiar with using his body anymore.

Looking around, everything was normal. The dim orange glow from the streetlight was more than enough to see both Julie and Bear sleeping peacefully.

Finally, his heart rate leveling out, Jack took deep breaths to calm himself.

Exhausted, his body began falling asleep even as his mind tried to race around the horror he had experienced. He needed to pee, but he was too tired. Slowly sinking back down into his pillow, he nervously pulled the blankets up to his nose and dozed off while considering putting his head under the blanket.

Two

Morning sunlight beamed through the bedroom window with a physical pressure on Jack’s face, waking him readily as a hand on his cheek. He lay with his eyes closed, wondering what time it was until remembered it was Saturday.

Eventually the warmth of the sun became too much. He opened his eyes to sunbeams streaming through the blinds in dusty rays, each containing galaxies of silently spinning motes. For a moment he enjoyed the peace—until he recalled his nightmare.

Sitting up, he inhaled sharply in panic, looking wildly about the room.

The sun was soothing company, banishing any shadows from the room. Just a dream, he told himself, waiting for the panic to pass.

When it did, he stood and stretched his six-foot plus frame, allowing his fingers to brush the ceiling. Shuffling toward the bathroom, he wondered where Julie was. The open window in the bathroom quickly satisfied his curiosity when Julie’s voice floated up from the back yard.

You stay out of those flowers, Bear, or I’ll start keeping you in a kennel! She was admonishing the dog for damage done the previous week.

He went back into the bedroom, pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and then headed outside to stand on the deck. He could see Julie on her hands and knees in the far corner of the yard where the sunlight had just started to hit.

Dressed in old sweats and working at the weeds with a hand shovel, she was beautiful in the sunlit corner of the yard. Her sweat pants pulled tight across her form, accentuating her figure, and her straight black ponytail swung like a pendulum, keeping time with her movements.

Good morning, Honey, he called.

Hm, Julie said over her shoulder. I didn’t expect to see you up for a while yet.

Really? I thought you opened the blinds so that I would get up.

No, I just thought the room needed more light. I figured you’d sleep until noon.

Jack smiled grimly and tried not to be irritated. This was the start of yet another petty argument and he knew it. Stifling the comment he wanted to make, he asked How come you’re up so early? Normally Julie was the one who slept until noon on the weekend.

I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned all night, so I finally just got up.

Yeah, me too. Jack stepped off the deck and walked across the grass toward Julie. The dewy grass was cold on his feet and made his toes ache but felt fresh and invigorating. What do you have planned for the day?

Look, Jack. Julie stabbed the ground with her hand shovel. I really didn’t sleep well last night and I’m cranky, so let’s not get into it right now, okay? I told Sandy that I would take her out to the mall today to take her mind off Michael.

Jack threw his hands up in an involuntary defensive response. This was not the conversation he had just initiated. This was the one she had been rehearsing in her head for the past twenty minutes. He had already lost an argument he hadn’t been aware they were going to have. He turned and headed back toward the house.

You don’t need to act like that, called Julie. All I said was I don’t want to have an argument right now.

That’s fine. I’m going to go take a shower, okay?

He didn’t wait for her response.

Julie’s knees were wet. The morning had dew soaked through her sweat pants and the damp was starting to come through the cotton gloves she wore too, but she couldn’t bring herself to quit re-planting bulbs and go back in the house yet. She needed to be out of the house, to be outside in the open space. The sun was warm enough to allow her to ignore the cold spots and she was grateful for the good weather, knowing winter was coming soon.

She stopped and pulled the back of her sweats up and her t-shirt down, re-covering her lower back. A sunburn there and her wardrobe would be severely restricted for a week. That didn’t go well with a job that required her to wear hose and a skirt.

Grabbing another handful of bulbs, she began sticking them in the ground at random. After Bear dug them up, she didn’t have any idea what they were anymore. She was irritated at the dog for having destroyed her soon-to-be flower garden, but she was grateful for something to distract her. She didn’t feel like talking to Jack right now and anything she did in the house would put them in the same room eventually.

She didn’t mean to be so bitchy, it was just that everything Jack did irritated her lately; in fact, just the sound of his voice had grated on her nerves this morning. She regretted snapping at him already. After messing up last night’s plans, she had hoped to make up for it today, but now that probably wasn’t going to happen either.

I’m just tired, she decided. She hadn’t slept well in ages. She had been having nightmares she couldn’t remember when she woke up, and some she didn’t want to. Sighing heavily, she arched her back and stretched.

It was hard to admit it to herself but she had been glad when Sandy had called last night. She had been dreading spending the evening at home with Jack. She kept trying to tell herself everything was fine, but something wasn’t. She just couldn’t put her finger on exactly what was wrong.

Three

Saturday evening found Jack at the bar without Julie. His thoughts were on her as he gazed across the top of the pitcher of beer at Victor Ramirez, who was taking a deep drink from a plastic eight-ounce beer mug.

Vic, as he preferred to be called, put the mug down empty and licked the foam off his thick black mustache. His dark eyes danced with pleasure as he smiled at Jack. Three parallel scars under his left eye stretched into crescents, their stark whiteness deeply contrasting with his swarthy complexion and the inkiness of his eyes and hair. Vic picked up the pitcher from the center of the wobbly bar table and refilled his mug, then topped off Jack’s.

"I, for one, am glad that your plans for the weekend fell through, amigo. Vic grinned at Jack as he put the pitcher down. It has been way too long since we pondered the mysteries of life through the clarity created by the use of many cervezas. I was beginning to wonder if you still went out of the house or if you were officially an old man now." Vic’s voice was deep and rich, full of beguiling Hispanic accent.

Jack smiled at his friend’s use of the accent. Vic used it only sporadically and his English was no more accented than Jack’s, who suspected that if he had tried harder in high school his own Spanish might have been better than Vic’s.

"I think it’s official. I am old. I just don’t feel like going out anymore." Jack tiredly rubbed one eye and picked up his beer mug.

You seemed ready to get out to a bar tonight. I think maybe it’s just the noisy places you don’t like.

Could be. Jack nodded. I definitely needed to get out of that house because I sure am enjoying the sight of your ugly mug.

Vic picked up his scratched plastic beer mug and looked at it with feigned surprise.

I thought it was all right. I’ve been sucking face with it!

Jack and Vic both laughed and toasted each other.

I’ll have to remember to tell Anita you were sucking face at the bar, said Jack, referring to Vic’s wife.

Vic’s smile became lopsided as he shook his head with mock sorrow. "She already knows how fond I am of the pretty chicas. He sighed deeply. And that they have no interest in me!"

The scratched mug went to Vic’s lips again before he confronted Jack. So, what’s going on? You ready to talk about it yet?

Jack shrugged, a little embarrassed his friend had so quickly noticed there were ulterior motives for getting together.

Is it you and Julie?

Looking away, Jack nodded. I don’t know what’s going on. We just…bicker. All the time. And she hates being in the house. Ever since my sister told her the dog was barking at ghosts.

Bear?

Yeah. Remember that thing he does when he walks around the house growling for no reason?

Vic nodded. I remember you mentioning it.

My sister told her it was probably a ghost. Julie’s been freaked ever since.

Was it? Vic asked.

What?

A ghost.

Jack scowled. You don’t believe that crap, do you? he asked incredulously.

Vic shrugged.

Like what? Jack eyed him curiously.

Vic hesitated for a moment, and then answered with another shrug. I believe that my great-grandmother saved my life with an egg under my bed when I was little.

What the hell are you talking about? Jack laughed.

Vic leaned forward and took on a hushed tone of voice, dark eyes glittering brightly in the dimly lit bar as he thickened his Hispanic accent for proper story telling. His bushy moustache danced on his lip like a living creature, emphasizing the story with its undulations.

"When I was little, only about four years old, I got sick. Really sick. I remember I would dream while I was awake. Sometimes when I was talking to my mother, I would feel far away and couldn’t hear her, and other times I would think that someone was there when no one was.

Finally, my great-grandmother came into my room and told me it was an evil spirit that was making me sick. Then she took an egg, touched it to my forehead and then my stomach, and then to the right and left sides of my chest. Vic made a motion like a Catholic crossing himself before prayer. "Then she wrapped it in a towel and put it under my bed. She told me to be very careful not to touch it.

The next day I was better. When she came and got the egg, she asked me if I wanted to see what had been making me sick. She took me outside and broke the egg open into a bowl so I could see. The egg was thick, like it had been half boiled, but it was nasty black stuff and it stank horribly. She told me that was what had made me sick and that she would get rid of it so no one else would ever get sick from it again.

Jack awkwardly met Vic’s stern expression for a moment before commenting.

That’s quite a story.

You don’t believe me.

I didn’t say that.

You didn’t have to.

What’d she do with the egg?

We buried it. She said it was important to bury it in the deep shade of a tree, were it couldn’t be touched by sunlight.

I thought sunlight was supposed to banish evil things.

Vic shrugged. "That’s what I remember. She told me it was caused by the Ojo, the evil eye."

The ‘Oh-ho,’? Jack raised his eyebrows. So was your grandmother a witch?

Vic hesitated for a moment before answering. "Kind of. She was a curandera."

Seriously? A witch? Jack was awed. Vic was calmly talking about modern day witches in his family like something out of a midnight movie on a free cable channel.

"Well, technically a bruja is a witch. A curandera is more like…a healer."

A ‘brewha’?

Vic nodded.

Did she ever do anything else? Jack’s interest was piqued.

Vic frowned and his eyes seemed distant.

Jack leaned in. What?

When I was about ten years old my father took us all back to Mexico to meet our family and … I don’t know. That’s not something I like to talk about. Vic’s accent was gone now, and he his lips had tightened. The three linear scars under his eye turned a light pink color.

Jack, worried he had upset his friend, took a deep breath and tried to sound casual. I don’t really think our house is haunted, I just had a dream I saw a ghost. Julie’s talked about it so much I was bound to have a dream sooner or later. It was just weird because I never used to have nightmares.

Did you dream you saw it, or did you really see it? Vic took a sip of beer, his eyes on Jack’s.

What do you mean?

"Sometimes you know, I mean really know something, but then later convince yourself it was a dream or your imagination, even though you know it was real. You know what I mean?"

Not really, no, Jack answered, but even as he said it, he thought of how real, how evil, the thing in his room had been, and he did understand.

Tell me about your dream. Vic topped off both of their mugs and waved to the waitress for a refill on the pitcher.

Jack felt foolish but started describing the apparition.

Vic interrupted. That’s not what I mean. Tell me the whole dream, from start to finish.

Jack thought about it for a moment, surprised to find the events of the dream were still so clear in his mind. He decided to humor Vic, and he did feel like he needed to get it off his chest,