“It’s called lucid dreaming.”

He was hardly paying attention, but something about that word caught his ear. Lucid. It had a nice sound to it, smooth and easily digested. The word entered his ear and instead of flowing directly out the other side, as most words coming out of Tony’s mouth were doing, it hit a stoppage and went straight to that part of the brain that decides it’s time to tune in. That same part of his brain had saved him on more than a few occasions; zoning out in the back of class, thinking pleasant thoughts, only to be rudely interrupted by that deep anchor in the mind that gave a nice tug when his own name had been called and it was time to stand up and present. Saving, alerting at the right time; yes, that’s what this specific neural pathway seemed to be good for. Until today, at least. But that did not become apparent until later when things had progressed a little too far for epiphanies and sudden realizations.

“Lucid dreaming?” he asked. “What’s that?”

“I told you man, it’s this weird shit where you’re awake, but you’re not awake,” he continued, totally oblivious to the fact that his friend had tuned out the entirety of the conversation preceding this moment. Tony was good at being oblivious.

“You have to practice it, but when you get good enough, you can control your dreams. You realize that you’re dreaming and you get to be sort of awake inside your dreams. People use it for all kinds of things: rehearsing important presentations, making a mental list of things you need to get done the next day, shit, some people even use it to face their fears and work some things out. Me, I got a different idea.” 

Ah, here it was. He prepared himself for an ever important piece of Tony Wisdom.

Tony was a decent person most of the time; he liked to talk, but he recognized that if you want an ear to chew, you also had to listen, and finding someone who had the capacity or even the desire to listen was a rarity. Plus, Tony was a pretty smart kid and that was worth something, despite all his eccentricities. He was a large, hulking kid at six foot two and two hundred thirty-five pounds by the age of sixteen, and he was still figuring out how to maneuver his body with any grace, like an overgrown toddler getting comfortable with his first steps.

Most people in high school wrote him off because he missed social cues. He was the type of person who stood too close to you when he spoke and didn’t recognize that each step backward was meant to increase the distance as opposed to draw him nearer in an odd one-two dance. He spent most of his time playing games on his computer and spent an unhealthy amount of time sharing stories about his virtual adventures. He smelled bad. He was quick to share personal stories of a graphic nature that really should have never left his lips, and was completely alien to the idea that some things were better left unsaid. One day, sitting in the open concrete courtyard, baking in the sun during lunch period, he stated, almost proudly, that he could “get off” to almost anything.

“I’m serious, I once rubbed one out to an old Macy’s advertisement,” he said loudly enough to cause concern. “I went to the bra section and went to work with the first pair I saw. I don’t even need any lubricant, shit, I can get it done with two fingers.” This last part was said with the same beaming pride that seemed to accompany a great deal of things it shouldn’t have. The mental image left Elliot feeling unappetized, as if the piss poor imitation of a chicken sandwich that was sitting on his tray hadn’t done a good enough job on its own.

But weird perversions and lack of social awareness aside, he was a decent friend, and in a place like Jefferson High School where most students were either too conceited to recognize other people existed, too high to care, or too dumb to make any effort, Elliot felt he was someone worth keeping around. Not to mention, he had very few friends himself and thought it was healthy to have an actual conversation with a living person as opposed to existing purely in the non-stop dialogue that seemed to go on within his head.

“What I’m going to use it for,” Tony continued, “is to get laid.”

“You’re going to use lucid dreaming to get laid? Do you think your lack of that ability is what’s been keeping you a virgin the past sixteen years? I’ve been turned down by my share of girls, but none of them have ever asked about my dreaming skills.”

“Not like that, asshole. I’m going to use it to get laid in my dreams,” he said as if this was something so blatantly obvious that stating it should have been unnecessary.

“Oh,” Elliot replied. Should have seen that twist coming, he thought to himself.

“Think about it dude, you make all the rules in your dreams. People appear and disappear all the time, you can go from one place to any other in an instant, and there’s nothing to stop you. No consequences. Imagine if you had total control over that. You could bang any girl in this entire school, and she couldn’t say no!”

You might have more friends than just me if you thought about what you were saying before you blurted it out, Elliot thought.

“You know Emily from period 3?” He was once again talking without any care as to if there was a receiver at the other end of his message. Once he got going he was hard to stop.

“She’s who I’m going for. I figure a couple more days of practicing and I should be able to figure this out. I’m usually a pretty quick learner, it only took me two weeks to get to the top of the leaderboards in Counter Strike.”

First talk about having imaginary sex with girls that can’t say no, then segway that into video games; you’re a real charmer, Tony. It’s no wonder most of the girls at this school find you repulsive.

“What do you mean by practice?” Elliot rejoined the conversation. “How do you practice lucid dreaming?”

“Dream journal, dude,” he stated with the conviction of a grizzled veteran. “You keep a journal next to you when you sleep, and when you wake up, you write down what you dreamed about. You do that for a few days and your brain starts to recognize that what you’re dreaming about is important or worth remembering or something like that. I’ve been doing it the past couple of nights and I’ve already noticed that my dreams are becoming vivid and easier to remember. Last night I think I finally broke through a bit; I recognized I was dreaming and tried to take control. It worked for a minute, but then the dream broke down. It’s important to not change too much too fast, you have to let the dream sort of follow its natural course otherwise everything falls apart and you just wake up.”

“You seem to know a lot about this, man,” he said, “where’d you hear about it?”

“This guy I game with said he’s been doing it so he can practice in his sleep. He could really use it too; he plays a lot more than me but he’s not even close to as good as I am. He’s actually the weakest member of our team, earlier this week we were playing in capture mode and I totally had to bail him out because he forgot…”

Elliot returned to the flowing current of his mind. Better to let Tony babble on for a few minutes than try to redirect him to the topic at hand. Had he said that people use this technique to face their fears? That was an interesting concept. He was no stranger to nightmares himself, having dealt with them since he was a child. They began when he was six, and at first the dream was always the same.

He was outside playing in the backyard of his house, the house he had lived in from birth until four years ago when his family had decided it was time for a “change of pace.” He had picked up that particular euphemism from his mother. She wasn’t fond of mentioning that the old house was far too expensive for them, or that the brutal winters of upstate New York were slowly degrading her sanity, turning her into a hideous caricature of her worst traits for eight months of the year, making her want to rip her own eyes out when that first cool day casually slipped back into her life at the end of September. No—it was a “change of pace” that had sparked the big move from New York to South Florida. The move that had uprooted every relationship he had developed, every routine he had established, the burgeoning life he could feel beginning.

In the dream he was outside and he was alone. Being alone was a rarity for him considering he had an older sister close in age and they spent almost every free moment they had together playing tag, or wiffle-ball, or making up some make-believe scenario to act out in the lush beauty of their half-acre yard. But in this dream he was always alone, and it was always chilly.

He’d look around and take everything in; the way his backyard curved upward in a gentle hill as it made its way to the chain-link fence, the stone stairs that went up the hill on a covert path. It was overcast and dreary and the chill from the cold October wind always seemed to cut through his clothing, and then through his skin to the very bone. It was the kind of wind that hurt, and caused pain that was more than physical. It was the kind of cold, achy air that seemed to go directly to his heart and freeze him off from the rest of the world. The kind of wind that penetrated any defense you could put up. The kind of wind that seemed to speak to him as it rustled through the devastatingly beautiful oak trees that enveloped the yard, with their vivid yellow-orange leaves, and said, “Come here. It’s ok. It’ll be just us, forever, and it’ll be ok. Come with me. Don’t worry about the pain; that won’t last. It’ll be quick. I’ll make it quick, and then it can be us. Forever.”

He was always alone, and on the swing set that had been erected close to the back of the house, next to the sandbox that sat aside the wooden back porch. He was swinging, feeling that melancholy happy-sadness that seemed to be a part of the fall in upstate New York. It was late afternoon and it was getting dark. He thought that it was probably time to head inside before mom came out looking for him, and he remembers that it always felt odd that all the lights were off in the house.

He’d peek over his shoulder as he reached the apogee of his swing to look at the house that sat behind him, and that’s when he’d feel the first stir in his stomach, the first inkling that something wasn’t right. He’d turn his head and expect to see the bathroom window filled with light, or the living room through the sliding glass door exuding warmth and invitation and peaceful confidence that the cold outside couldn’t get you, that you were always only a few steps away from safety and comfort.

But instead he’d see black.

He’d see darkness inside the house, as if no one was home, as if no one could be home because the house was nothing more than wood and white paint and red trimmed outer window shades and inside was nothing. No living room with a couch and a tv and a mom who loved you, no bedroom where you could rest and feel content, no peace; just emptiness. The void.

He’d attempt to push these horrible thoughts aside, knowing that it couldn’t be, that his family was inside and they were waiting for him to come back. They wouldn’t just leave and not tell him. Leave him alone with the dark unforgiving sky and the cold, soulless wind that ate its way through every bit of joy he had ever felt inside of him. No, they wouldn’t do that.

And that’s when he hears him; his voice sounding disguised yet familiar. It’s a voice that sounds like it’s fighting its way out from underneath a pile of rotted leaves.

“Elliot! It’s all right bud, I’m here.”

He looks around, not sure where that hauntingly kind voice is coming from.

“They left, Elliot, but I won’t leave. I’ll never leave. Come here, we can be together. It’s not so cold when we’re together.”

It’s coming from his left, but he doesn’t see anyone. All he sees is the wooden porch that leads to the sliding glass door in the back, the door that is almost leaking the blackness that it holds, the blackness that exists within his desolate, lonely house. The wind picks up and he hears dry, dead leaves rustle on the ground as they’re whipped up into a whirling frenzy; he hears this before he feels the bitter piercing encroachment of the wind tear through his jacket, through his shirt, through his happiness.

“Elliot…don’t pretend you don’t know me. I’m waiting for you. I’ve been waiting for so long.” A whisper being carried through the wind. He feels like he knows it, but he can’t place it.

He calls out even though he doesn’t know who he’s responding to: “Where are you? It’s cold out here.”

Sitting on the swing in his blue jeans and puffy winter coat he looks small and vulnerable.

“I know it’s cold, Elliot. But it doesn’t have to be cold. We can be together. Don’t worry about the pain, it’ll be quick.”

His eyes scan the porch and he notices that the intricate laced-wood pattern that skirts the bottom is broken at the spot where it connects to the house. It’s tattered and decrepit, as if it had aged for untold years and then some rabid animal tore it open with sharp, vicious claws. He looks into the darkness of that hole, his line of sight clear now that the strong wind has blown the pile of leaves that was blocking the opening.

He sees eyes. There’s someone under the porch, and they’re looking at him.

He feels terror seize his body and his stomach drops like he just went over a climactic hill on some monstrous roller coaster that he wants to get off. He wishes he never asked where to find the voice that was beckoning him, he wishes he never saw those hideous, yellow eyes underneath the porch, he wishes he wasn’t so cold, he wishes that he could just run, or do anything, but he can’t move, he’s paralyzed, and the eyes, they’re moving, they’re getting closer, and whatever is under the porch is crawling out and coming towards him.

“Elliot…they’re gone,” It says in a choked, bubbling voice. “It’s just us, come down here with me. It’s warm, and I promise it’ll only hurt a little and then it’ll be over and it can be just us, forever, and I promise I’ll make it quick.”

He tries to get off the swing and run, but he can’t move. He wants to scream but he’s frozen, stuck watching the abomination claw its way out from under the porch, and he can see that it’s a man with dark black hair and pallid, white skin and his eyes are sunken, yellow, and rotten and his mouth is stuck in a grotesque smile that’s too big and the teeth inside are black and broken and jagged.

“Elliot you can’t run, you can’t leave me Elliot, you’ll never leave me, I’LL ALWAYS FIND YOU!” the hideous man-thing screams as he pulls himself out from underneath the wooden skirt of the porch and begins to stand. He’s wearing a gray and red striped sweater and Elliot has a delirious moment to think that the sweater looks like the one that Freddy wears in those scary Nightmare on Elm Street movies. His legs are misshapen and uneven and it causes him to limp as he staggers towards the swing set, slowly getting closer to where he sits, frozen, unable to move, unable to scream, and just wake up, wake up, WAKE UP, WAKE THE FUCK UP. 

He always wakes the same way—violently, as if he’d been physically yanked from the dreaming world, sweating, crying, heart pounding like a miniature bass drum inside his chest. He’s frozen in his bed and for one fleeting, terrifying moment, he can’t move, as if he’s still in the dream and the terrible thing from underneath is still inching its way closer, closer to an inevitable conclusion, a conjoining of flesh and fear. And then he moves, he breaks the hold, and he’s left with emptiness, as if part of him is stuck inside the dream, forever, never to come out.

His thought is broken by that all too familiar drawstring that works to keep us grounded in reality when we’re somewhere far away in our own head.

“…So he said that if he could find more time to practice, he’d be better, and then he could keep playing with us. He thinks that he’ll be able to figure it out and then he could practice while he sleeps. Kind of dumb if you ask me. I mean, if you could do anything, anything in the whole world, with no consequences, why would you spend that time doing the same thing you do in real life? Makes no sense. I’ll be getting laid. Yep.”

“Sounds like a plan, man,” he said.

“You all right, man? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“I’m fine. Just tired. And bored of this stupid class.”

“Did you have trouble sleeping again last night?”

“Yeah, I was up way too late.”

“Anymore nightmares?”

“No, nothing like that.” He was telling the truth; more often than not these days, he didn’t remember his dreams. That’s not to say he didn’t remember the dreams he used to have. “Just stayed up too late watching tv.”

“You should get a dream journal, dude, I’m telling you. It’ll help you remember your dreams. Might even help you work through some stuff.”

“I don’t need to work through anything, I’m fine.” He was a bit defensive at the idea of Tony giving him advice.

“Well, it might help you get laid. All I know is, I look forward to going to bed every night now. You look like you could use that.”

“Yeah yeah.” He thought Tony’s suggestion was immature and foolish, as most of them were. Yet he still found himself stopping at Walgreens on his way home to pick up a journal. What’s the harm in having it?, he thought.

**********************************************************************************************

His head was cloudy with thoughts as he approached the tepid gray apartment building that loomed ahead. He’d never liked his building—hated it in fact. It was constructed in the late 1950s and the years had not been kind to it. The first day he saw it, a mercilessly humid, stormy day in the middle of June, he’d thought it looked like a prison. The washed up concrete foundation peeling in a number of spots, the ugly and somehow out of place parking structure that was attached to the side, the intermixing smells of mothballs and dirty laundry that seemed to radiate from the entrance––all of these things aided the illusion that his new home was a fortress that he wasn’t meant to escape.

A dirty child with no shoes and a bowl haircut was sitting in front of the main entrance. Unattended and left to his own devices, this boy had found entertainment in catching the lizards that spent time in the cool shaded area created by the apartment’s man-made foliage. These plants, which were supposed to improve the unforgiving look of concrete and asphalt that most buildings this side of town were constructed with, somehow seemed to do the exact opposite; they created a juxtaposed tableau that further illustrated that nature never intended this, never meant for such atrocities to stand where the good Earth had once birthed its own creations.

The lonesome boy was picking lizards at random like a malevolent god that has no time nor desire to understand the lesser beings that exist before him. He would put a tin can over the top of each and smile as the can rocked around on its rim, trying to contain the panicking animal. He’d then grab a large rock to stack on top of the can. The next day he would return to his makeshift prison and check on his inmates. The lizards were slowly roasted in their aluminum cages. Seeing the bones that remained—because bones were all that were left after a colony of fire ants found their hidden treasure and slowly ate every soft, fleshy part of the body—made him feel powerful and slightly afraid. He felt bad the first time he had returned to a corpse, not expecting the animal to actually die by his hand, but upon realizing that he had provided nourishment for hundreds of ants, he felt that his actions were actually ok. Good even. Playing his part in the circle of life. He liked the idea.

All of this occurred less than three feet from where Elliot walked most days. But he never noticed. More often than not he was swimming in that mighty river in his head. He imagined that he was in a roaring stream, rocks being slowly eroded by the unrelenting flow of water as it barreled downhill, white waves cresting and receding, cresting and receding. This is where he always imagined himself going when he returned to those thoughts that never seemed to shut off. It seemed that there was turmoil and great noise every time he found himself here. More and more he found himself missing, unaware, not present in the waking world. He liked to escape to there, away from real life and all the complications of existence, but couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t alone in his special place. Something about the way the water pushed him farther and farther downstream seemed out of his control, alive and awake with thoughts of its own.

He walked through the tall wooden doors that separated the lobby from the rest of the world and waited for the elevator. No one inside. Lucky. He preferred to avoid small talk with his fellow residents. He liked swimming better.

On the seventh floor he exited the elevator to the left, went around the first bend and put his key into the first door on the right. Apartment 712. Home sweet home.

He was hoping he’d be alone. He beat his mother home most days, at least at the start of the

school year when she was working more he did, and that would mean he had the place to himself with his sister Macy away at her first year of college.

At first he missed her greatly. She was his only sibling and his closest friend for most of his life. They were inseparable in their younger years and didn’t suffer through the growing pains that most siblings seem to as they age. The end of August, when she had moved north to her new home, the large university 200 miles away, was a very rough time for him. He found himself visiting her room when no one was around, sitting on her bed and climbing into his memories. It was easier to exist there. Less constricting.

He’d think about their old house and their old life. Macy, three years older and infinitely wiser. He always thought of her as the smartest person he knew and placed a reckless amount of his trust in her intuitions. Whether they were trying to find something to occupy their long, seemingly endless summer days, contemplating the answer to some tough question they stumbled upon in one of the brain-teaser books their mom had purchased for them, or trying to escape punishment for some colossal mistake they had made, she always seemed to have the answer.

He felt lost without her. Especially living in a new place where friends were few and time was plentiful.

But lately he found himself much more ok with being alone. Just fine, in fact. He didn’t feel alone when he was alone. He had himself, and he seemed to be his best company these days. He had always felt that way to some degree, he remembered. Even as a kid. His mother had found it somewhat worrying the first time he expressed these thoughts; he remembered how her face changed when he explained to her that he talked to himself in his head when no one was around. She told him that it was important to stay grounded. That was another of her favorite phrases. “Staying grounded” was a key to survival according to Marcia Kilroy.

But he never felt that he wasn’t attached to the ground when talking inside his head, alone in his room, playing a video game or watching the 14” television that was kiddy-cornered on his dresser. That internal monologue was just how he thought, how he expressed his feelings to himself. Those conversations were for him. It’s not like he thought there was someone on the other end listening.

He had spent a lot of time alone since the end of August; he’d get home from school a little after 3:00 PM and have the entire three-bedroom apartment to himself. After realizing that spending time in his sister’s room reminiscing over days that were long gone and never coming back wasn’t the best thing for his internal climate, he had developed a more stable routine. Solitary, but stable.

He’d close himself in his room and play music from his computer. Most of what he was into lately was metal, very hardcore and aggressive. Florida had the advantage when it came to hardcore music, that he couldn’t deny. He’d relish the time that he was alone because he could blast his music as loud as he wanted. When his mother came home he’d have to resort to headphones. She found his taste in music frightening and concerning. “Too aggressive Elliot, I don’t like what it does to you,” she’d say. It seemed to him his mother was always concerned about something. Rarely present, but always concerned. He found it easier to circumvent these conversations by keeping certain things, like his music, to himself.

Through this new solitary routine he found himself returning to that familiar headspace from childhood. He liked to be alone with himself to talk to. After a few months, he discovered he was not so lonely without Macy. It was like it used to be when he was young and he’d return to his room after a day of playing outside. He found he could decompress and make much more sense of the world after a brief conversation with himself.

But today he was not so lucky, as seemed to be the case more often than not lately. The department store where his mother worked was not doing well, like much of the country. They were one year into the biggest recession the country had seen since the Great Depression and the economy and stock market were in the toilet. These weren’t things that were on the forefront of Elliot’s mind, but it was impossible to forget when he’d come home from work and see his mother there, sitting idly, like a recently developed android waiting for a purpose to be programmed into her software.

“Got cut early again?” He asked, knowing the answer.

“Yeah. Another slow day. No one wants to spend any money,” she said and uttered a high-pitched laugh that seemed to teeter on the verge of hysteria.

“I’m lucky that they even keep me. Lord knows most people haven’t been so lucky,” she continued. “Short hours are better than no hours.”

“Yeah, that’s true. I’m gonna go to my room, mom. Got a lot of homework.”

“Wait, Elliot.”

“Yeah?” He was hoping to make it to his room unscathed. His odds weren’t looking too good.

“How was school today?”

“It was fine. Boring as always.” He realized that the less he said, the less she could respond to. This had become his most successful strategy for avoiding conversation.

“Learn anything new and exciting?”

“Nope. I told you the schools down here suck. If you wanted me to learn things we should have never left New York.” Shit, so much for deflecting and avoiding, he thought. I’ll be lucky to see my room before dark.

“Elliot, I know it’s been tough on you, but can’t you even try to like it down here? Can’t you at least try? For me?”

“Couldn’t you have tried not to move me two thousand miles away from all my friends and all our family? Couldn’t you have tried to not completely screw my future by moving me to this hot, miserable, hick state full of morons?”

“There’s no need to be like that, Elliot. I’m trying to have a real conversation with you. Something you seem to have no interest in doing with anyone beside yourself anymore.”

He laughed at this. Had to, otherwise he would have screamed.

“You want me to talk? Then why’d you take me away from everyone I know? I had friends mom, I had people I talked to. And now you want to yell at me for not talking enough? Make up your mind.”

“I’m just worried, Elliot. I hate to see you retreat back into yourself. You were doing so well before we moved. I just want you to be happy.”

“I’m fine, you don’t have to worry about me.”

He turned and left, not able to stand the concerned look on her face. Back in his room, closed off to the outside, he felt more comfortable again. Sitting at the kitchen counter, his mother nervously played with the pen in her hand and looked at the phone number she had written on her notepad earlier that day.

Later that night he set his new notebook down on his night stand, grabbed a pen, and wrote the date at the top of the first page.

“Okay Tony, let’s see about your dream journal,” he said to himself.

His sleep that night was restless and uncomfortable.

He dreamed that he was in his elementary school. It had been a long time since he thought of his days at Grant Elementary, but he found it was easy to remember the details in his sleep. He was in the entranceway and looking straight ahead down the long hall. There were no lockers—lockers were for the big kids in middle and high school, and the fluorescent lights above shined down and cast the entire school in a surreal ambiance.

The halls were decorated with crude paper drawings, clearly done by heavy handed children. On the bulletin board was a poster that said, “You Have To Do Your BEST To Be The BEST.”

To his left was the entrance to the small auditorium, empty, looking like an abandoned ballroom. To his right was the principal’s office encased in glass windows. He could see inside. It was dark and also empty. Just beyond that office was a hallway that went down even further to his right, and this too was empty. He looked behind him out the front doors and realized it was night time. He was alone in the school at night.

Except he wasn’t alone. Straight ahead, before the corridor turned sharply right and out of view, was his mother. She was far away, so far that he could only barely tell it was her. If not for her faded brown leather jacket that she had worn through so many cold New York winters when he was young, he might not have been able to tell who it was.

She saw his gaze and quickly moved out of sight, proceeding down the ninety-degree angle turn towards the part of the school where the older students, the fifth graders, had most of their classes. He was a kid again himself and afraid. Of course he followed after her.

He makes it to the end of the hall and turns right. His mother has progressed farther and is now at the end of the corridor. She opens the blue double doors at the end of the hall which take her outside to the back of the school.

“Mom! Wait!” he yells, but she pays no attention. He barely catches the back of her brown jacket as she pushes her way through the door that leads to the back playground.

He is running now, thick panic in his throat, choking his airway. He doesn’t want to be alone in the school at night. His footfalls echo loudly in the hallway and the loneliness is palpable. He feels as if the walls are going to close in at any moment, as if the door at the end of the hall will disappear and he’ll be stuck inside this white cinder block prison forever. As he races towards the blue double doors that lead outside he has a moment to recognize that he is passing the bathrooms to his left. He heard a rumor when he was a young Grant student that there was a couch in the girls’ bathroom, something that he was always curious about. He almost stops to peek inside, wanting to take advantage of the only time he’s ever been truly alone in the school and with the opportunity to investigate, but he doesn’t dare slow down, doesn’t dare stop running full speed ahead to his escape at the end of the hall. He is certain that the doors are going to disappear right before he can reach out and touch the silver push bar that will free him from this stifling tunnel, but then he is crashing through, feeling cold October air on his face. He made it.

His mother is farther up ahead, seemingly the same distance she’s been since he first spotted her. He can’t seem to catch up. She is past the rear playground, across the baseball field.

She’s entering the woods.

Elliot feels sick, piercing fear hit his chest. Why is she going into the woods? It’s night time and it’s freezing cold and he doesn’t want to be alone, but the last thing he wants to do is go into the woods behind Grant Elementary School at night. During recess, the kids used to tell stories of a hideous creature that lived back there. He was a man with a wolf’s head. According to legend, a kid named Billy Reynolds chased a foul ball into those woods one winter afternoon when the sky was already approaching darkness by midday, and never came out. This was the type of upstate forest land that was easy to get lost in, even in the depths of winter when all the trees were bare and dead, nothing more than stumps with ugly skeleton fingers at the top groping for the sky.

He sees the faded leather jacket disappear into the tree line and he darts straight ahead, not thinking. He doesn’t want to lose sight of her because then he’ll be alone in the dark, alone in the dark, the cold dark with no one.

He makes it to the edge of the trees and looks inside. He can see his mother, moving deeper in, farther away from life and light, further away from warmth, deeper into the void. He chases after her as fast as he can, dead leaves crunching loudly beneath his feet, bare, skeletal tree branches whipping and grabbing him as he sprints.

He runs and he yells for her until he can’t anymore. He has to slow down to catch his breath; the cold, sharp air that he’s inhaling has lit his chest on fire and he can’t breathe. He’s lost sight of her. He’s alone, in the dark, in the woods. He turns around and realizes he can’t even see the tree line. He can’t see where the woods end and the schoolyard begins.

He hears someone approaching from behind. Leaves rustle, branches break; someone is coming quick. He wants to turn around and look but he’s frozen in place like a statue. He can feel him coming up behind him, anticipates his cold, repulsive touch. He can feel his warm canine breathe on the back of his neck and he knows at any moment he’ll feel a mouth full of sharp teeth sink into his soft flesh. That’s when he wakes up.

It’s four in the morning, still dark. He only has an hour and fifteen minutes left to sleep. He jots down what he can remember of the dream.

Grant

Brown Jacket

Why is she running?

Alone

Scared

Outside

Cold

Woods

Him

When he gets up for school the next morning, he doesn’t remember writing anything at all. The dream is distant, vague. Then he reads those few words and feels he remembers more than enough.

**********************************************************************************************

Walking into sixth period he feels that the day is dragging and wishes it would just end already. It’s in the 90s again and he wonders just whose idea it was to construct a school that is almost entirely outdoors in South Florida. There are two main corridors that run parallel to one another at Jefferson High, and connecting them are a series of hallways that run horizontally from one main access point to the next. At the top and the bottom of these vertical corridors are two outdoor courtyards, barren except for a few benches and tables for kids to eat their lunches.

Eighty percent of this school is outside, he thinks to himself, and it seems like no two classes are ever in the same hallway. Oh yes, he wishes he could have a few choice words with the guy who dreamed up this design.

He enters the third hallway from the south end of the school, marked with a large number 3 dressed in worn blue paint. On his way to his speech and debate class he tries to remember if today is his day to present, but he finds his mind is elsewhere. He can hear the rapids. Lovely.

He finds his classroom, walks to the far left corner in the back row and takes his seat. Tony is already there waiting for him one seat over. Wearing his plain red polo shirt and plaid shorts, Elliot can’t help but find humor in the illusion; Tony looks more like a giant child than normal, bulging out of a desk that seems a few sizes too small.

“Sup man?” He’s doodling on his notebook and doesn’t look up. Tony always seems to be scribbling something on whatever surface is available to him. The drawings are actually pretty good, Elliot has noticed. Subject matter can be weird sometimes, like when he draws their fellow classmates morphed into various zoo creatures, envisioning grotesque human-animal hybrids, but the quality is there nonetheless.

“Nothing much man, ready for this day to end,” Elliot replies.

“I feel you dude, I’m just about ready to go home. Think I’m going to take a nap as soon as I get through the door. I’ve been trying to work an extra sleep sesh into my schedule; gotta get those reps in with my journal.”

“You’re pretty serious about this, huh?”

“I’m getting so close dude. Last night I almost had her. I dreamed that I was in the school, walking from 3 to 1, you know, making my way to third period. I noticed it was night time and that’s when I realized I was in a dream. I mean, why the hell would I be here at night?”

Elliot felt a chill work its way through his body. He had mostly forgotten about his dream from last night. Mostly.

“So once I knew I was dreaming, I decided to take over. I walked into Brenner’s classroom and it was empty. I thought about Emily and sure enough she walked right through the door. It was just me and her in there. I decided I was going to do it right there, right in Brenner’s pre-calc room. As soon as I started taking my clothes off, the dream started to fall apart. I guess I got too excited.”

“Yeah, sounds like it. Maybe take it a little slower next time, take her out to dinner, ask her about her family.”

“Ha-ha, fuck you. I know you think this is a big joke, but I’m telling you man, there’s potential in this thing.”

“Whatever you say, bud.”

The bell rang and Mr. Mardsten stood up at the front of the classroom. He was a big, burly man at sixty years old. He wore rimless glasses and had a big white mustache that seemed to dominate his red spotted face. Tony and Elliot had learned after hanging late one day and speaking with him that Mr. Mardsten was a black belt in karate and had been a bouncer through much of his college years. Hearing these stories, from a teacher no less, had led to both boys having a level of respect for the elder man that bordered on awe. They both liked him and enjoyed his class more than most, but that was not enough to keep Elliot grounded when they began the day’s lecture.

Sleep was rough last night, and Elliot was feeling very tired. He knew that today was a presentation day, and that a number of kids would be standing up to present their speeches on prominent figures of the 1950s and 60s. He decided to put his head down, just for a moment. He knew that part of his brain that always seemed to be working, always waiting for his name to be called, would bail him out if today was indeed his day to present. What could be the harm in snoozing for a minute?

“As you may remember from last week’s class, the 50s and 60s were important times in America. There were a number of prominent cultural movements happening at that time, and therefore, plenty of great speakers for us to talk about.”

Mr. Mardsten’s deep voice was soothing, soporific. He felt himself being pulled under. It was like a weighted blanket had been thrown over him after walking into this cold classroom from the hot, tropical environment.

That was one thing about the design of this school; going from the outdoor walkways where it was in excess of ninety degrees most days, into the cool, air-conditioned classrooms was very welcoming. It had a way of pulling you in and making you feel drowsy and comfortable.

He was enjoying the soft air-conditioned air and resting his eyes for a moment. Normally, after sweating through most of the day, the AC was welcoming and refreshing. He was surprised to feel his arm break out in goosebumps and for a shiver to work its way through his body. He was actually cold. That was a rarity. He didn’t think that he had actually been cold once since moving to Florida, but right now he felt chilled to his very core. Something about the way the cold was creeping in on him was starting to make him feel uncomfortable, starting to make him feel trapped. It was like he was being enveloped and suffocated by the cool air. He felt like he had somehow found his way to a giant walk-in freezer. Or like he was sitting outside on the wing of an airplane as it glided along at 30,000 feet. Yes, that was more like it actually. Because he could feel his hair being blown in the icy wind and he could feel that sick, terrifying nothingness underneath him, that feeling that the inside of his stomach had fallen out, that feeling that only came along with soaring through the air.

He decided he didn’t want to doze anymore. The encroaching cold had given him a feeling of unease that he didn’t care for. No, sleeping would be a bad idea right now. Better just to open my eyes and come back to reality, he thought. So he opened them.

He was on the swing, arcing through the air. He was looking into his backyard. It was autumn and the trees were shifting slightly in the wind, telling soft secrets to each other through their orange leaves. He should have been surprised to find himself here, but somehow it felt right, as if he never left.  

He was cold and he was scared. He decided to get off the swing before he found himself glued to it, unable to move.

Walking now, feet crunching on dead leaves. He sees the hill directly ahead of him, the hill that leads to a gentle plateau before advancing further towards the chain-link fence that marks the border of their property. He glances to his left and sees the porch, sees the broken border that sits underneath it, connecting Earth and man-made creation. The blackness underneath makes him uncomfortable and scared. He decides that he’d better get inside—even if it’s dark in there, it’s better than being out here.

He walks up the three steps that take him to his porch, hearing the wood thud hollowly beneath his winter boots. The wooden porch consists of long planks that run horizontally and between each is a small crack. He looks down and wonders what might be beneath, but decides he’d rather not think about that. Better to get inside, better to open the sliding glass door and get out of the cold. It’s dark in there, but he can fix that. He can turn on the lights.

The door slides on its track, producing a thundering sound like a bowling ball rolling towards waiting pins. He enters into the dining room and flicks the switch that will illuminate the room and drive out the darkness, the cold, the unease.

The switch doesn’t work. He flips it on, off, on, off, on again. Nothing. The fear is trying to climb up his belly into his throat, but he fights it. Better to be inside he thinks. Better to be above.

The kitchen is to his immediate left, not closed off by a door but instead separated from the dining room and the front hallway by two open arches. He progresses forward through the dining room into the living room with the black leather couch that sits beneath the three-panel window. To his left is the long hallway where his room, his sister’s room, and his mother’s room await.

No one here. Completely alone. He decides that maybe it would be better to wait outside. He decides that he doesn’t like it very much in here; it’s dark, and it’s cold. Just as cold as it is outside, it seems. He turns to go back to the sliding door, but he hears something. A moan. Coming from the door that sits straight ahead, at the end of the hallway. Macy’s room.

Don’t go down there, he tells himself. Just go back outside. Get out of here. Now.

He finds he’s walking towards the sound on numb feet that seem to have a mind of their own.

“Elliot…” Macy’s voice.

“Elliot, please. Help.”

His footsteps are loud on the mahogany wood floor, echoing back to him.

“Macy?” He calls out to her.

“Elliot, please, don’t leave me. It’s so cold.”

Her voice sounds detached, disconnected, as if there is no corporal attribute holding it.

He’s walking straight forward, ignoring the door to his bedroom that he’s passing to his right, heading to the door at the end of the hall. It’s cracked open and he can hear her sobbing inside. It releases a slow creak as he pushes it open.

“Macy..?”

He opens the door and looks to his right, toward her bed. It’s dark, but the moonlight through the window does enough to illuminate the shape on the bed, shaking gently beneath the covers.

“I’m here Macy, it’s ok.”

He walks into the room and turns back the covers.

He’s underneath waiting. Smiling his sick, full smile, displaying his jagged, decaying teeth. A corpse smile.

“Elliot! I told you I’ll always find you!”

The hideous man from beneath reaches out and seizes his arm with a frozen, spidery hand. He feels his cold grip on his forearm and a strange draining sensation, as if he’s being zapped of his life force, pulled below.

“Don’t worry about the pain Elliot, we can be together.”

He pulls back and manages to slip free. Turning now, preparing to run full speed out the door, back down the hallway, back outside, anywhere away from this horrible apparition.

The door is gone. Elliot is enveloped in crushing, breathtaking fear as he realizes that his sister’s room has become a makeshift prison. The door is gone, even the windows have disappeared. Nothing remains but blank walls, a bed, and of course, his special friend.

The thing from beneath flops over and falls from the bed. He hears a sick crunching noise like thick branches being stepped on as it hits the floor. It’s crawling towards him now, groping out with one diseased hand, fingertips black with what looks to be frostbite.

“Elliot…” it pants as it struggles to pull closer to him, fingers dug deep into the carpet, fighting to move its misshapen body forward.

He backs up until he hits the wall behind him. He’s trapped, there’s nowhere else to go, no way out of this coffin built for two. And a coffin is exactly what it feels like; it seems as if he is deep underground, with a tremendous weight bearing down on top of the room. He can even hear what seems to be dirt being shoveled in on top of them, burying him underneath, enclosing him in his tomb. Through all this, the panic, the fear, the claustrophobia, one sensation stands above all the rest: he feels that he is beneath.

And it’s as if his counterpart can tell what he is feeling. He has the disturbing idea that the brief moment they touched, the quick instance in which they were connected, together, is what is allowing this thing to feel what he feels, to know what he knows. The grotesque man on the floor is smiling a triumphant smile, and he’s only inches away now, moving in for one more clutching grasp, and Elliot knows that this one will be the one that breaks him, the one that causes him to lose his mind. If he feels that pale, waxy hand on his skin again he will lose it forever; no more conscious thoughts, just screaming and screaming until time itself ends.

That’s when the man-thing on the floor freezes. It’s an unnatural pause; he does not stop what he is doing but literally freezes exactly where he is, one cold, dead hand reaching out, a sharkish, predator’s grin stuck on his face. Elliot almost has a moment to be thankful that his progress has been stopped, but somehow the stillness is worse. He’s anticipating when it will cease, when it will unfreeze and grab him, and something about his glossy, un-blinking, still eyes is more horrifying than any part of this entire ordeal.

He hears his name echoing through the room. The voice is familiar, but far away. So far away.

All of a sudden he feels he is being lifted. The blessed drawstring is pulling him up, pulling him back to reality as it has done so many times before. He realizes the voice belongs to Mardsten and he’s never been happier to hear it, never been more glad to leave the vast, vacant void that seems to exist in the mind of every human when they sleep, and join the waking world. He snaps awake violently and the bright fluorescent lights of the classroom are blinding for a moment.

“So nice of you to join us, Mr. Kilroy!” The large voice from the front of the classroom resonates.

“I hope it wasn’t too nice of a dream I’m pulling you from.”

Oh, what a fucking life, Elliot thinks. Happy to be here. Thank you, God, for creating me. This world is full of wonders and delights.

“But it’s your turn to present, my sleepy friend.”

He stands up and does his best to formulate something before he reaches the front of the classroom. He had something prepared about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., but he’s finding it hard to remember what he was going to say. Oh well, he tells himself. Get up there and wing it. It’s worked all year, I’m sure you have at least one more in you. Just gotta find a way to start, anything, cause once you get going you know you’ll be able to pull something out. The running river in his mind has not been without its own set of issues, but it sure comes in handy when bullshitting his way through another assignment.

He reaches the front of the classroom and turns to face his peers. They’re looking at him with mixed expressions; some with thin smiles at their lips, finding humor in the situation; others with a look of disdain for the slacker that’s being presented before them; most with that same wistful boredom that seems to be a permanent fixture on the faces of high school students.

He straightens his solid blue polo, clears his throat, and finds he has the perfect opening line: “I…have a dream…”

**********************************************************************************************

Day turns to night, as it does. People go about their daily lives. They move from place to place, carry out tasks and work their way through the mundane. Time keeps moving, even when we slow down. It is a constant, and we are temporary. Fleeting.

A mother hastily works her way down the aisle of a grocery store; she takes a moment to look up from her list to scold her restless child, reaching out for something colorful that sits just beyond his reach. A businessman in a suit lays on his horn in gridlocked traffic. He’s not moving. He can see the light ahead of him—it’s green—yet he sits in the same place. No progress is made. The Earth is moving, time is moving, but he is stationary. Can’t keep up, no matter what he does. He feels tired.

An old man stumbles toward the bus stop. His gray fatigue jacket is far too big for him, his beard patchy and wild, his eyes distant. He struggles to pull his cigarettes out of his coat with shaky hands and drops the first one he grabs. It rolls off the sidewalk into a puddle on the street, wetting the filter. Oh well.  

He puts it to his lips and chases the jittering flame of his lighter. The other people waiting for the bus pay him no mind. Is he invisible? A ghost, perhaps? But that doesn’t quite make sense, Elliot thinks, because they, the others, sitting within the enclosed shell of the bus stop, packed tightly to seek shelter from the falling rain, don’t see each other, either. Everyone does their best to withdraw within, to not acknowledge the people that are waiting with them.

Maybe we’re all ghosts, he thinks. Lost souls that have passed but don’t seem to know it yet. We’re all waiting, sure, but it’s not a bus that’s coming for us. It’s word that we’re waiting on. Word that our time is up. Waiting to hear that it’s too late; those plans and dreams and ambitions that we’ve never quite been able to find the time for will remain incomplete and unfulfilled. The people waiting for us to return home soon to be worried when the clock moves beyond its expected mark and continues onward, forever, without concern for the missing, the prematurely absent.

We’re not people anymore, he thinks, we’re specters in the shadows now. We are the uncomfortable, somehow incongruous feeling that sits in the darkness. We are the presence that people sometimes feel when they are alone in empty houses. We are memories, thoughts, alive in the imagination but not beyond that. Maybe that’s why it feels so lonely. That is why everyone is alone tonight; so close in proximity but completely isolated in any real sense.

Because death is a solitary activity. Every living creature dies alone. Hadn’t he read that somewhere? Maybe saw it in a movie. Regardless of where it originated, he knew it to be true, saw it with his own eyes when he was just eight years old. His dog, Champion, had passed away that year. It was his first encounter with death. Champ had been his best friend, his only friend; or so it seemed sometimes. He was a vivacious golden retriever that loved to sprint from end to end of their sprawling backyard, chasing squirrels if no one was around to throw his tennis ball. Champ had been ten years old the year he passed—a full life by golden retriever standards—and had predated Elliot by two years. Some of his earliest memories involved that happy-go-lucky dog: running after him down the long hallway of the first and only home he knew at the time, hearing the dog’s nails click on the hardwood floor as he scampered away from the shambling, sloppy gait of his toddler self; falling hard on his behind after his first (certainly not only) attempt to climb on top of the dog and ride him like a horse; and of course, his “smile.”

It was towards the end of Champion’s limited animal’s life that Elliot grasped the reality of the situation, that the dog was simply panting, doing what all dogs do when they are hot and need to cool off. But he never could lose the idea that the dog was genuinely smiling at him. He could tell by his eyes, he used to say, he could tell by the look in Champ’s eyes that he was smiling. He was smiling because he was happy. Genuinely happy to live in the nice house with the big yard and the warm family that was always willing to spend time playing with him. That honest, carefree, smile had been one of the best parts of his childhood; the way it asked for nothing in return, nothing besides an opportunity to share the abundant love that seems to be intrinsic, at the core of every dog but in the hearts of only special people.

It was for these reasons, and countless others, that he was despondent the day the dog disappeared. He wasn’t lying at the foot of the bed patiently waiting for his human to wake up as could be expected most days, nor was he asleep in the living room, curled up in a corner next to the radiator that ran along the baseboards as he sometimes was on these late fall mornings when the insidious chill first began to creep into the house. Elliot looked across the back porch through the sliding glass doors, expecting to see that his mother had let him out early before taking Macy to softball practice, hoping that the dog would be contentedly gliding across the yard, jumping in piles of dry, russet leaves, shaking himself clean before repeating the process. But the yard was empty, the trees were bare, the sky was gray, and he was alone.

He walked through the house calling the dog’s name, but found no response. After checking all of his favorite spots, he decided to head outside and continue the search. He looked in every corner of the vast backyard, circled around to the front, and when he was finally certain that Champion had run away, he decided to go back inside and call his mother. He knew something had to be done; Champ never left the yard on his own and it stood to reason that something was terribly wrong. He hoped against all reason that his mom had decided to take Champ with them to softball practice. It had never been done before, but there was a first time for everything, or so his mom had often said.

It was upon coming around the house clockwise that he saw the side of the porch that stood next to the swing-set for the first time that morning, and noticed that there was a section missing. Right where the porch connected to the house a section of the laced-wood skirting was broken and carelessly tossed aside. He felt a sick jolt of fear course through his body at the sight, for reasons unknown. Really there was nothing about it that should have frightened him; he was far too young to understand the ramifications of property damage, and it was a relatively small, out of sight piece of the bottom of the porch after all. But it was so unexpected and unnatural that it threw him completely out of whack. Today was not going the way it was supposed to; things were different, and this lack of accord in his world was upsetting. He heard the voice inside his head—always present, usually quiet, although persuasive—screaming at him, warning him to go inside and call his mother. It was telling him to forget about the stupid porch, it wasn’t his problem. Do not investigate. Go inside, call mom, and explain the situation. I’m sure she knows about the porch, Elliot, she might have even done it herself! And then she’ll tell you that Champ is with her. He’s happily running around the open field behind Grant Elementary, chasing his favorite tennis ball, smiling his big smile, counting the minutes inside his dog head until he can come back home and be with you.

Yeah, that sounded like a good plan. He turned away from the opening and started towards the stairs that would take him to the porch and then inside, and that’s when his heart sinks. He sees Champ’s chewed-up tennis ball, his favorite object, his prized possession, sitting beneath the tree where he had left it yesterday, looking lonely and discarded like a Halloween decoration exiled to the garage in mid-November. That’s when his plan crumbles and he knows that it is nothing more than wishful thinking.

“Don’t investigate,” he says to himself. His voice sounds distant and hollow, too far away to be his own. He tries to convince himself one last time that it might still be worth going inside to talk to his mom, but to no avail. He decides to investigate.

Walking slowly now towards the opening under the porch, he can feel his heart beating in his neck, he can feel the pulsating in his temples. His throat is dry and the sickening, wracking fear has returned. The leaves crunching beneath his boots sound too loud, the muted gray sky seems too bright, everything seems heightened and real. Too real.

He reaches the opening under the porch and pauses for a moment. He asks himself, Are you sure? Are you sure you want to look underneath there into the blackness? Are you sure you’re ready for what you might find?

He gets to his knees. He’s moving his hands towards the dirt beneath him, craning his neck to the right to peer under, but before he can fully commit, he hears it. A low growling noise comes from the opening in the porch and he jumps back, fearing the worst, knowing that some unspeakable creature is about to snatch him and pull him underneath, forever. He’s trying to push himself backwards, on his butt now, feet digging into the dirt and kicking up leaves as he tries to put distance between himself and the scaly, clawed hand that is sure to emerge from the hole at any moment. On the ground scrambling his eyes are level with the hole and he can’t help but to stare directly into the void, and he can see eyes! Glowing eyes in the darkness, and all of his worst fears are confirmed. The growl starts up again and he has time to make peace with his fate, to say his internal goodbyes and to accept his end, before the growl turns into a sad, mewling whimper.

All at once he knows. There is no monster underneath the porch except for the greatest monster of all—the only boogeyman that is real, the one true horror that has existed since the beginning of time and will come to haunt any and all men and women, regardless of their strength, or their bravery, or their beliefs. He’s staring into the eyes of death, and no matter how fast he stands up, no matter how hard he runs, no matter how viciously he fights, this is the one evil that cannot be escaped.

He thinks a thought he would have never believed he was capable of: he wishes that there really was a creature under there trying to take him. Because at least then it could be him and not his friend. At least he would have a fighting chance. He could punch, kick, scratch, scream, claw, anything. But not against this adversary. This is the inevitable. This is the invisible monster that turns friends into memories, love into bitterness, smiles into ghosts.

He crawls closer to the hole and reaches his hand into the blackness.

“Champ..? Buddy?”

The only response he gets is another one of those sad whimpers intertwined with a painful, low growl.

“It’s ok if you want to be alone…I understand. I’m just gonna miss you a lot.”

Champion musters enough energy to give his hand a single lick before closing his eyes for the last time. Now there is no light in the darkness, no eyes looking back at him. He is alone.

He lays there with his arm outstretched for a few minutes, crying his solitary tears that no one will see nor hear about, and eventually finds the strength to get up and go inside. He calls his mother’s cell phone three times, but each time it rings and rings and rings before reaching her voicemail.

Don’t know why she even has the thing if she never answers it, he thinks to himself. He decides to call the only other person he can think of, uncle Dave. He’s always home on Saturdays and he’ll know what to do. A strange man, yes, his mother’s brother, but a kind soul and a friendly face. Things he could use right about now. Uncle Dave understands immediately and says he’ll be over in a few.

Elliot lets him in and goes to his room; he doesn’t want to watch. Twenty minutes later when he decides to look out the back window, he sees uncle Dave standing in the far corner of the back yard, the blade end of the shovel in the dirt, leaning on it, wiping his brow, surely having worked up a sweat despite the chilly November air; Champ was a big dog. Elliot watches as he grabs two small sticks and wraps a piece of twine around them to form the shape of a cross. He sticks it into the ground above the lumpy pile of recently displaced dirt, stares for a moment longer, and then turns back toward the house.

“How you holding up, kid?” he asks as he stomps his feet on the porch before coming inside.

“I’m fine.” Not exactly the truth, but what’s the difference.

“You know…I was about your age when we lost our first dog too. He was a mean little son of a bitch sometimes, but we loved him. I’m sure your mom remembers, although she was a few years younger than you are now.”

“How’d he die?” he asks.

“Old age. Or so they said. He wasn’t really that old, but there was nothing wrong with him that the Vet could find. I guess one day he just decided that he’d had enough.”

“Oh.”

“Death is a strange thing sometimes, Elliot. Life is—I guess that’s a better way of putting it.”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“You’ll be ok, kid. Champ out there had a good run. He had a warm house to sleep in, food in his bowl, and he had a good friend like you to keep him company. There’s nothing else a dog can ask for.”

Elliot fought back the tears that wanted to return. He liked uncle Dave––odd as he was, he was one of the few adults who would keep things honest with him and not treat him like some vulnerable child––and he didn’t want to cry in front of him.

“You’ll see him again one day. Least that’s what I believe.”

“I really hope so. He was my best friend.”

“That’s why he went away, Elliot. He knew it was time and he didn’t want you to have to see that. He was thinking about you, even in the end. He dug his way underneath so that he could spare you the pain.”

“You really think so?”

“You bet, kid.”

Uncle Dave walked to the front door to leave, opened it, and was halfway out when he turned back to say, “You know….we all go someday, Elliot. Dogs, people, makes no difference. We all go someday.”

He stood there, halfway out, halfway in, and looked up towards the ceiling with an odd, thoughtful expression. He wasn’t waiting on a response, which was good, because Elliot had no words left in him.

“It’s a funny thing, ya know? That he went under there. Had to dig his way in and everything.”

He continued to stare with that odd, blank expression. Elliot was beginning to get uncomfortable, he didn’t like that look or the direction the conversation was going.

“Maybe they know something that we don’t, huh.” He barked a quick laugh. “Underneath.”

He turned and walked out the front door.

Reliving this memory on his bus ride home was not the best thing for his mood, but he allowed himself to get lost in it regardless. Getting lost in some memory or thought was never difficult for him, quite difficult to avoid in fact, and this was especially true if he was on the bus, headphones in, staring out the window as the dark emptiness zoomed by. It was difficult to see into the darkness outside; the damn interior lights were always on, shining brightly. He mostly just saw his reflection.

The bus stopped on the corner of Salmon and 21st and he debarked. He walked down the slight hill that led to the front of his building, which was nothing more than a hulking shadow in the darkness at this point in the evening. Feeling melancholy and nostalgic, he paid no attention to the rattling tin can sitting on the ledge underneath the covered walkway as he approached the front door. He rode the elevator to the seventh floor and entered his humble home.

His mother was sitting at the kitchen counter tapping her fingers impatiently. The tv was off, as were most of the lights, and once again he felt the image of a hapless robot waiting for a purpose to be designated rise to the top of his mind at the sight of her. Except this time she seemed more than disinterested—her thin lips were squeezed tightly together, her posture was rigid; she was radiating tension.

Sensing that she was not in the cheeriest of moods, Elliot decided to walk past her and head straight for his room. He had little desire to converse, and even less to argue. The same could not be said for his mother who looked as if she were ready for a twelve-hour filibuster on the senate floor.

He made it past without her even turning her head or making eye contact. Inches away from his bedroom door, finally allowing himself to lower his guard and consider himself home free, she calls out to him:

“So that’s it, huh?”

Should have known better than that, Elliot, he thinks.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.

“No ‘hi mom’? No ‘sorry I’m late’?” She turns to face him as she rattles off her questions in quick succession. “No explanation as to where the fuck you were or why your cell phone is turned off? Just gonna walk straight to your room and pretend you’re the only person in the world?”

“Late?” He asks. “You’re barely ever home by now anyway, how would you know if I was late?” 

“Barely ever home by now?!” she screams. He begins to feel worried by how intense she is. Surely something must be wrong to have her this upset. He looks down at the Citizen watch on his wrist that she gave him for his fifteenth birthday and is shocked to see that it’s 9:25 P.M.

“Elliot, what’s wrong with you? I’m always home by eight at the latest, you know this! Where have you been all day?”

He’s still staring down at his watch in disbelief. Almost 9:30? Where had he been all day? His confusion becomes severe alarm as he begins to realize he cannot remember. He can remember leaving school at 2:30, heading to the fields by Holcom Park to read for a bit as he does most weekdays, and then…then…what exactly? Waiting on the bus? But it was dark by then. Surely he didn’t spend almost five hours at the park reading. He can’t remember reading at all in fact, and his alarm is starting to become full blown panic. Why can’t he remember where he was all day?

“And your phone?” she asks. “Why the hell did I even buy you the damn thing if you’re just gonna turn it off when you’re not home?”

“What are you talking about?” he asks, “You never even called me.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. After pressing the home button a few times without any change to the black mirror in his hand, he thinks it must have died without him realizing it. He holds the power key and sees the phone begin to boot up. A few seconds later he’s staring at his home screen that shows he has seven missed calls. The battery is at 72%. But when had he turned it off?

“I uh..I was with Tony. I’m sorry I didn’t call. We walked to his place after school and my phone died, I guess. I didn’t realize what time it was.”

She’s still staring at him fixedly, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“This is unacceptable, Elliot. Completely unacceptable. You’re really starting to worry me again.”

“Mom, I’m fine. I didn’t mean to get home so late, we were working on our project for Mr. Mardsten and I guess I just lost track of the time. Really, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not just tonight, Elliot. You’re distant and cold all the time. You never talk to me. Don’t you know that I’m here for you? I want to know what’s on your mind.” Her pleading eyes were enough to make his heart sink, but her tone was grating and he found himself getting annoyed despite his best efforts.

“There’s nothing to talk about!” he burst out at her. He wished he could just go into his room and close the door and figure this whole thing out. He needed time to be alone, time to think about the day. Surely he would remember where he’d been and what he’d been doing. He just needed a moment to float in the stream with himself.

“I want you to make an appointment with Dr. Fleener.” She said this with immediacy and resolve. 

“Dr. Who? What are you talking about?”

“Dr. Fleener, Elliot. He comes highly recommended from Dr. Werdor and he’s in our network. I want to make an appointment for you. I’ve been thinking about it for a few weeks now, and after tonight I’m convinced.”

“Mom, Dr. Werdor hasn’t seen me since I was a kid. Why were you even talking to him anyway? He doesn’t know me anymore.”

“Because I’m worried Elliot! Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said!” She was crying now and this was worst of all. He could handle the accusations, the hysterics, but the tears, the tears always pierced his armor and went straight to his heart.

“I’m worried that you’re regressing and I told myself I wouldn’t let that happen! I can hear you, you know. At night.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“The nightmares, Elliot. They’re back, aren’t they?” She stood up from her spot at the kitchen counter and began to walk toward him. “I hear you in there at night lately, moaning, talking in your sleep. It’s just like when you were a kid. You promised you would tell me if the nightmares came back. You promised.”

“I’ve had a nightmare or two mom, but I barely even remember them, really. I promise. It’s nothing like when I was a kid.”

“Well I don’t care if you remember them or not because I hear you in there. I hear you in there and every time I do my heart breaks. We made such good progress when you were little! I’m not letting you throw that away. We’re seeing Dr. Fleener as soon as we can, and it’s not up to you.”

“Ok mom. Make the appointment. Whatever. I don’t care.” He took a step back, retreating from her. He couldn’t stand the crazed look in her eyes. All of this was too much. He needed some time to work through this on his own, alone.

“Can I go to bed now? I’m tired.” He turned and entered his room before she answered.

She stood staring at his door, fists tightly clenched, tears in her eyes, fear deep in her soul that she was losing her son again.

**********************************************************************************************

Alone again. Comfort in the solitude. He’s tried again and again to trace his steps, but he can’t account for the missing spot in his memory from when school lets out to when he gets to the bus stop. No luck. It’s in the void.

Dread begins to creep in and consume him. Not again, he thinks. I’m past this. I’ve beat this. Not again.

If only Macy was here. She would know what to do. She always knew what to do. He thinks about how he would go to her room, sit at the foot of her bed and tell her what was going on. He would talk and talk, go for minutes without interruption. She would sit there and listen patiently, and when he was done, she would know what to do. But he can’t do that. She’s gone now, and he’s alone. Talking to mom will get him nowhere. Not many friends to talk this through with besides Tony and he’s not exactly someone whose advice is highly valued.

Except, he had taken some advice from Tony. Not too long ago in fact. He glances to the nightstand, bare except for his small lamp, and of course, his dream journal. Only a few entries in it at this point and none of them particularly telling.

People even use it to work through some stuff.

Isn’t that what he said? If, after all, nightmares were at the root of all this, could lucid dreaming potentially be part of the solution?

Can’t hurt to try, he thinks, might as well talk to myself before I talk to a doctor.

Sleep doesn’t come easy that night. His head is full of ideas and possibilities. And questions. Yes, he has many questions that he’d like to ask. But to whom?

He drifts.

**********************************************************************************************

He opens his eyes and he’s not surprised to find himself in the small twin bed in his old room. He looks to his left and sees his old dresser set and the small tv kiddy-cornered next to his N64. The white panel walls, the double window to his right, the soft morning northern breeze blowing in; none of this surprises him. He is exactly where he thought he might end up.

What does shock him is the tickle at his foot. He jerks his leg back instinctively, fearing the groping hand that is surely reaching up from under his bed to drag him below, and his heart explodes with joy when he looks down to see his old pal Champion sitting at the foot of his bed, his tail slowly wagging back and forth, caressing his undersole, his face lit up by that warm smile of his.

“Champ!” He knows at once that he is in a dream, but that doesn’t stop him from embracing his old friend. He is excited and caught off guard to find that Champ still smells like he always used to, his fur feels the same way it always did. If this is a dream, it sure as hell is the most realistic one I’ve ever had, he thinks to himself. Must be the journal at work—thanks Tony.

After a few minutes of enjoying the embrace of his old pal, Champ sits up and closes his mouth. The smile is gone, from his eyes as much as it is from the rest of his face, and he moves quickly out of the bedroom and down the long, narrow hallway. Elliot gets up and follows.

Upon leaving his room and turning left he barely manages to catch the back end of Champ’s tail as he rounds the corner into the living room on the right. He hurries after him and sees his dog walk out of the open glass door onto the back porch. Champ turns back towards him as if he is waiting, beckoning him to come forward. The look of joy that seemed to be a permanent fixture on his face throughout Elliot’s youth is gone, replaced by a look of mourning. A look that seems too knowing to fit a dog’s face. Champ turns and runs down the steps of the porch and Elliot follows. He has yet another moment to recognize that this is the most life-like, intensely realistic dream he has ever experienced. He can hear the hollow sound his footsteps make on top of the wooden porch as he marches onward, goes down the stairs, and turns right to follow his dog.

Champ is facing the porch and he is barking. The barking is loud and incessant, but Elliot feels it is almost being drowned out by another sound. He can’t quite make out what that sound is, but it is loud and constant. He looks to his right to see what Champ is facing, what he’s barking at, and is not surprised to see that there is a portion of the skirting on the bottom of the porch that is missing. Right where the porch connects to the house, in fact. Champ is working himself into a frenzy, barking, growling, drool dripping from his mouth as he stares towards the empty hole, the darkness underneath the porch.

Elliot approaches. He feels hesitant, but he continues to remind himself that this is just a dream, that he’s not really here at the old house in New York. That he’s sleeping in his bed safely and that whatever might be underneath the porch can’t really hurt him.

He drops down to his knees and sees nothing. Nothing but black darkness underneath the porch. His mind has yet to fill in that empty void.

Champ is barking and barking and he wishes he would stop for a minute. He’s making it hard to think. The wind picks up and that sound, that damn sound increases, and…is that water? Running water that he hears? Yes, he’s sure of it. The loud wind, the dry, dead leaves being picked up and carried away, Champ’s constant barking—all of these sounds are being overpowered by the sound of running water. Roaring water as it is carried downstream, towards its eventual, inevitable end.

He’s staring into the blackness, trying to tune out the loud noises in his head working their way towards crescendo when the eyes appear. Cancerous, yellow eyes in the darkness, staring back at him. Champ rushes forward, growling and spitting, trying to put himself between Elliot and the thing underneath, and the roaring waterfall sound picks up even further, and he realizes he has made a grave mistake. He realizes everything at once. Whatever it is that is underneath the porch can hurt him, dream or not it is real and it is powerful and it wants him. He turns to run as the sounds increase until they are all one—the barking, the water, the wind, the leaves, the screaming that may be coming from him or God knows what is chasing him, and then…. nothing. Nothing at all. Just darkness, like a heavy blanket thrown over his head.

He wakes up to the sound of his alarm.

He’s surprised to see the morning’s first drink of light shining through his window. It is 5:15 A.M, time to wake up and start the day. He has a vague recollection of a dream; it is more of a silhouette than a real image in his mind, something like the after effect of a bright flash burned into his retina. He remembers barking, and screaming and…and….something else. Almost there, but not quite. His face is wet and so is his pillow. Was he crying in his sleep?

He remembers the journal by his bedside. He can almost remember writing something in it in the middle of the night, so he decides to check it in hopes that it will jog his memory and help him remember the elusive dream.

The past few weeks had been full of ups and downs, widely ranging peaks and valleys, a litany of emotions, so seeing what was sitting on his nightstand should not have elicited such a visceral reaction. Should have, should not have—what did it really matter in the end? Things happen to us and we accept them. Or we lose our mind. Those are the choices.

Looking down at his dream journal, Elliot found that he was correct in his obscure memory; he had awoken in the middle of the night to jot down the details of his dream. But someone or something had decided that this was not a dream to remember. Whatever he had written was buried underneath heavy-handed, violent scribbling, as if he had taken his pen and slashed from side to side across the page, like a murderer trying to silence his victim. No words were legible beneath. Nothing was to be gained from this entry.

He sat in the early morning’s light crying, harder than he had since he was a young boy, vulnerable and exposed to all the terrible offerings of the world. It was all he could think to do.

**********************************************************************************************

Getting out of bed and starting the day after that morning’s discovery was one of the hardest things Elliot had done in his short, turbulent life. He felt heavy, weighed down, like his legs were made of lead, his chest filled with dead weight, his head a cinder block. Walking to class now at Jefferson High he felt more numb than anything else. I’m like a stubbed toe, he thought. Or a finger that got slammed in the car door. The pain earlier was immediate and jarring—overwhelming for a moment. After the adrenaline had worn off he felt himself retreating into that familiar zone of unfeeling. The memory of the pain was there, throbbing softly in the background, but mostly he felt nothing. Nothing at all.

He had awoken with the impression that he was on the verge of some great discovery, the answers to his questions seemed to dance on the tip of his tongue like a momentarily forgotten word; that is, until he saw the blackened page of his journal. He felt despondent while staring at its ruin. The work of unfamiliar hands that had pushed the truth even farther from his reach. What was written underneath? What was there to hide? And, let us not forget the real question that was begging to be examined—just who exactly had made the decision to hide it?

Elliot couldn’t remember scratching deep blank ink across the page over his own words. The rational side of his brain tried to remind him that he also didn’t remember waking in the middle of the night after each dream to make an entry; didn’t remember making any of the entries aside from maybe the first one or two, in fact. It had become automatic, something he did with no conscious thought. Wasn’t that the point? Didn’t Tony say the dream journal was meant to build new habits? Rewire his brain to some degree?

Sure, he answered that small voice in his head. I guess that makes sense. But tell me then, why would I pick up this new habit out of nowhere? Not a particularly helpful one either. Great technique, yes. Excellent dream journaling. Write down what you remember and then violently fucking remove it from existence with a black pen. Gash and attack the page with such intensity that scratch marks would be embedded ten sheets deep beneath it. Makes sense.

Conversing with himself again, this only added to the sense of dread that was building inside his chest. He felt haunted. Had he been here before? Why did this all seem so familiar? He had gone to bed looking for answers but had awoken with more questions.

Time jumped and he was in school once more, walking through the sprawling concrete courtyard by the front entranceway, settling into that familiar numbness. He didn’t exactly remember how he got here, but that seemed unimportant now. He felt far away. Reality seemed thin this morning.

He was late, and by more than a few minutes if the emptiness of the courtyard was any indication. At seven A.M., the time he should have been walking through the gates at the front of Jefferson High, the courtyard would have been overflowing with students; kids pushing eagerly past one another to reach the glass-encased cafeteria on the west side of the school, congregations of friends sluggishly talking to each other, trying to wake up before the bell for first period rang, peppy theatre students filing out of the four-story-tall auditorium that sat directly across from the cafeteria.

He glanced up at the wall of the auditorium that faced the courtyard as he crossed towards the vending machine that sat outside of the cafeteria. This wall which sat above the doors that lead into the auditorium stretched upward toward the sky and it had been blank his freshman year, but recently a tacky, exaggerated mural of an eagle—a Jefferson High Eagle, mind you—had been painted on. The bird was in flight and its mouth was open in what appeared to be a battle cry. Its face looked fierce, or it looked as if it was supposed to look fierce, Elliot thought. To him it looked stupid and cheap, much like the rest of the school. But it did have a way of making him uncomfortable, the way it sat up there above the entire school, its blazing eyes staring down as if it was keeping watch of all the students.

He crossed the open expanse of concrete to where the snack machine stood. Most of the options inside were unappealing. Chips, cookies, candy, the run of the mill garbage you could expect to find in a vending machine. He decided that he didn’t have much of an appetite anyway and turned to leave. He wondered what time it was and considered himself lucky that he had yet to run into any administrator or teacher. They would ask him why he was out of class, maybe force him to go to the front office to get a late slip, and there were few things he wanted less at that moment than to have to talk to someone.

God forbid they’d send him to see Principal Decker, a.k.a. The Biggest Prick in South Florida.

Walking now towards the long corridor that would lead him to Building 2, where his first period Geometry I class was (if it even was first period), he saw that he might just make it after all. The corridor up ahead was completely deserted as it tended to be during class. The courtyard behind him was clear, save Mr. Riley, the decrepit old janitor who couldn’t care less about which student was skipping class, or who was smoking pot in the bathroom. He was hunched over, sweeping up the morning’s trash, whistling some old forgotten tune under his breath.

As Elliot turned his head back from his quick glance behind him, he thought he noticed movement somewhere above, in the corner of his peripheral vision. He stopped walking and froze where he was. He urged himself not to turn around and look because he was suddenly certain that the giant eagle from the mural would be gone. He could see it playing out in his head perfectly: he would turn around; the big, ugly wall that led to the roof of the auditorium would be empty, just as it was during his freshman year, nothing but a blank wall painted that hideous orange-red mud brick color like the rest of the school. There’d be no eagle on that wall because the eagle had finally broken free. Had finally escaped its two-dimensional existence and had entered our world because this morning reality was thin, oh yes, reality was barely hanging on by a thread and anything went this morning. All bets were off, the rules were made up, and giant eagles made of paint were free to roam among us. That’s when the shadow would fall over him, and his hair would get blown back by the rush of air created by the flapping of a thirty-foot wing, and he’d have just enough time to look up and see those insane, fiery eyes descending upon him before being scooped up by a talon the size of a man, and being flown into the sky higher than human eyes could discern.

So of course he turned around to check, and was more than mildly surprised to see that the mural was still intact, the proud eagle still flying high above the school. He was about to turn back and continue his walk to first period when his eyes caught what had originally attracted them in the first place: standing above Jefferson’s Eagle at the very top of the auditorium’s rooftop was a student. There was a kid on the roof, standing on the ledge. Elliot felt a dropping shock cut through his anesthetized exterior and had a brief moment to think that maybe feeling numb and senseless wasn’t so bad after all—it wasn’t much when compared to the ill feeling that was currently overtaking his entire body.

The kid on the roof was dressed in all black, hands behind their back as if they were handcuffed or tied together, and there was what appeared to be black rags wrapped around their head. To Elliot the person up there looked like a prisoner being led to the gallows. The Prisoner stood motionless with his toes sticking out over the ledge, and Elliot screamed, he couldn’t help but to shout at him and tell him not to jump.

Mr. Riley, temporarily broken from his trance, looked up to see a lone student screaming and running forward toward the auditorium. He had never seen a student at Jefferson High that looked so abject in his thirty-three-year career, and worst of all, he couldn’t understand why. Here was a lanky kid in those tight-fitting jeans all the boys seemed to be wearing these days, with his long black hair that hung down to his shoulders, running towards the auditorium, screaming at seemingly nothing when the kid should have been in sixth period.

Elliot continued screaming, ignoring the inquiries of the old janitor that was now approaching him, amazingly broken from his usual mode of cleaning and ignoring. He had to stop this person, this kid, from jumping from the roof. He shouted as loud as he could, “Don’t do it! Stop! Someone help this kid!”

“What the hell are you on about, son?” Mr. Riley asked through his heavy southern drawl. He had never been one to interfere with the weird kids at the school he had worked at for so many years, but this kid’s freakout was starting to scare him. Not that he’d admit that to a single soul.

“That kid!” Elliot replied, pointing to the sky. “We have to stop him. We have to get up there or something, call the police, I don’t know, we can’t let him jump.”

Nathaniel Riley, sixty-two years old, of Fort Pierce, Florida, was well aware of the deterioration of his eye sight. Each passing year it became harder and harder for him to read the paper, or distinguish the faces of the many kids he saw day in and day out, but there was not a single doubt in his mind that there was no kid on the roof of the auditorium. That should have made him feel better, but it did quite the opposite, because it made him realize that the kid standing before him, the kid that certainly was real, was crazy to the core. Had lost his damn mind entirely.

“Kid, you better stop messing around right now,” he said to the strange, shrieking boy. “There ain’t a damn thing funny about crying wolf like that.”

Elliot was in disbelief. He had learned quite quickly, as most JHS students do, that old Mr. Riley wasn’t too keen on the powers of observation, but he couldn’t comprehend how the old man didn’t seem to care about the masked student that was on the verge of committing suicide.

“Are you fucking blind?” he screamed at the old man. “We have to stop him! What’s wrong with you?”

He looked from the disbelieving and bewildered face of Mr. Riley back to the roof and almost collapsed when he saw that the lone prisoner had been joined by dozens of other students, all standing on the ledge in their all-black outfits, hands behind their backs, faces concealed by mummy wraps darker than obsidian. And more were joining, too. A new prisoner was stepping onto the ledge on either side of the original one until the entire ledge was filled with thirty or forty masked students.

“I’m warning you boy, you better knock it off right now.” Riley was starting to get freaked out and he couldn’t believe it, but for the first time in his three-decade career he was thinking about going to the front office to grab the principal. He wasn’t a big believer in discipline or “the system,” being a product of the sixties himself, but if there was ever a kid who needed help, it was the one standing in front of him right now.

Elliot ignored the old man, realizing that no help was coming from him, no help was coming from anywhere actually, because how was he supposed to stop forty people from jumping to their deaths? There was nothing he could do besides watch. He was resigned to his fate. He stared, mouth open, at the roof as the first kid stuck his foot over the ledge and jumped. He was followed by another and another until every kid on the roof leaped over the ledge. They were falling now, all of them, falling down directly where he stood, and he crouched down and braced himself and covered his head and waited for impact.

Nate Riley, shocked and dumbfounded and genuinely confused for the first time in his career, stood and watched as the crazy kid in front of him ducked down and protected himself from the invisible threat.

After not getting crushed by the multiple bodies he expected to come crashing down on his head, Elliot unlocked his arms and looked up. There was no one on the roof, no one on the ground except for him and Mr. Riley, who looked perplexed and distraught. He stood up slowly and looked around the courtyard to confirm that what he was seeing, or not seeing, was real.

There really was no one there. He felt sick, confused, unable to accept what was going on. Had he imagined everything? But it felt so real. Not again, he thought, not again.

He uttered a quick apology to Mr. Riley and left quickly in the other direction, back toward his class.

“You’re lucky I don’t report you to Decker, boy!” Mr. Riley yelled at the fleeing boy. He was still shocked by what he had seen, wracked for the first time in his career, maybe even his life. He tried to tell himself that the kid must have been one of those weird drama kids that always seem to be coming from the auditorium; just a weird kid with dreams of being an actor one day who decided to play a prank on the old janitor. But he didn’t think that was acting. He had seen the boy’s eyes. Whatever it was that kid was seeing, it was real to him. Probably better to just let it go and mind my own business, he thought. They don’t pay me to deal with these kids and their problems, let the counselors or the principal deal with that.

Elliot, walking quickly now, burst into building 2 and found his way to Geometry. He opened the door loudly and all the students as well as Mr. Richfield turned to face the unexpected intruder. Elliot froze where he was, locked in place by the gaze of students he didn’t recognize and wasn’t expecting.

“Ah, Elliot, we missed you this morning.” Mr. Richfield said. “I assume you’re coming by to collect your classwork.” Richfield reached into his desk to pull out a stack of papers bound together by a loose rubber band. Elliot glanced up at the clock and noticed it was 1:12 in the afternoon.

Where the fuck have I been all day, he thought to himself.

“We can talk tomorrow about the assignment if it’s giving you trouble, Elliot. You missed a pretty important lesson earlier today. Feeling any better?”

He was stuck for a moment, all the thoughts racing through his head, he almost couldn’t answer.

“Uh…yeah, feeling much better, thanks,” he replied, feeling worse than ever before.

“You don’t look so great. I’m impressed you even made it in.”

“I’m fine,” Elliot answered. It seemed to be the easiest lie to tell these days. He almost felt bad lying to Mr. Richfield. He was a good guy. Geometry wasn’t his fondest subject, but Richfield was the type of guy to go out of his way to help you understand the lesson, and he always offered extra credit to anyone willing to take it.  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

He turned and left the classroom, unaware that those were the last words he’d ever say to his geometry teacher. He exited quickly and went to building 3, where he was supposed to be, considering that it was somehow sixth period.

**********************************************************************************************

The walk to building 3 was short, no more than fifty yards from door to door, but in that short time Elliot’s growing panic reached a pressure point. It was building up inside of him, had been for the past few days, although sometimes it felt as though the fear had been festering and growing inside of him for all sixteen years of his life. It was beginning to boil over and he could feel it, could feel that hot, gripping panic climbing up his throat, begging to be released. He wanted to scream, or cry, just throw it up in any way that he could.

But he still had enough of his mind left to realize what would happen if he had a nervous breakdown in the long, empty corridor of Jefferson High School. He imagined the School Resource Officer being called over by a staff member. “Hey, we got a crazy kid losing his mind in between 2 and 3! He’s probably on something, so bring the cuffs.”

He’d be wrestled to the ground by the SRO, taken out in chains, probably thrown into the back of a white van with a straitjacket on. Then his mother would come see him at the institution and cry—she’d cry for her lost son, the one who was always on the edge, always on the verge of falling over, into the void—finally swallowed by the blackness underneath.

She’d beg to God for her boy and wonder what she had done so wrong in life to bring such a horrible reckoning down on her family. She would say, “Why? Why didn’t I stop this? How could I not see this coming?” And then––this last part he saw with agonizing clarity––she’d blame herself. She would put his failings on herself as she was so apt to do, and she would drive herself mad with guilt until she was left alone in their sullen apartment, rocking herself back and forth in some dark corner.

So he swallowed the anxiety, forced it back down into his gut as he had done so many times, and forced himself to carry on. Despite her flaws, he would not allow his actions to bring suffering to his mother, one of the few people who had ever made any effort to understand him. He made every effort to shove the fear and the hurt as deep into that well that sits inside of every person as he could, and he opened the doors to building 3 and found Mr. Mardsten’s classroom.

He walked in with his head down, mumbled a quick apology for being late, and found his seat in the back of the white brick room.

After a few minutes, Mardsten finished his lecture on the section of the book they were studying, a rather lengthy chapter about JFK and his abilities as an orator, and suggested that the class break into small groups to discuss the day’s topic.

Tony turned around and immediately asked, “Are you okay dude? You look like shit.”

Elliot thought about lying, thought about how easy it was for him to say, “I’m fine. Doing great, thanks for asking. No worries,” and decided that would be too much effort. He found that he no longer cared about keeping up appearances, especially in front of Tony.

“Not really, man. Not really.”

“What’s going on with you lately? I tried to call you the other day to see if you wanted to come over to Tom’s to watch a movie. We were watching one of those gory old Carpenter films that you love. But it went straight to voicemail.”

“I don’t know. I wish I could tell you. Really.”

“The fuck does that mean, dude? You ignore my calls, you’re skipping school now—don’t think I didn’t notice you weren’t in Brenner’s earlier—and on top of all that you look like a zombie? Are you on something, man? You can tell me.”

Elliot laughed. It was a small, rueful laugh, but he couldn’t help appreciate the concern. Tony was a good enough friend, but never someone you would exactly describe as “compassionate” or “paternal,” yet here he was, acting like a worried father.

“It means I don’t know, man. I feel like I’m losing my mind. Is that what you want to hear? That your friend is off his rocker?”

Now it was Tony’s turn to let out an empty laugh.

“No, what I want to hear is that my friend isn’t purposely ignoring me to go take pills or whatever the hell it is most of the people at this school seem to be on.”

“I’m not on drugs, man. I don’t even smoke pot. I don’t like the way any of that shit makes me feel, never have.”

“What do you mean you never have? You used to mess around with that stuff, man? How come you never told me?”

“No, I never messed around with anything.” Elliot lowered his voice and moved closer to Tony. “My mom used to make me take these little blue pills when I was a kid, but I hated them. I haven’t taken anything since then. I don’t even like taking Tylenol unless I really have to.”

“Your mom used to give you blues? What the fuck, man?”

Elliot was confused by Tony’s reaction for a moment, and then he remembered the popular vernacular he had heard a few times since moving to South Florida.

“No, not ‘blues,’ not Oxy, man. These pills were blue, but they weren’t to get me high. I think it was called Abilify or something like that. I used to get these really bad headaches sometimes. They’d usually come after a night of really bad nightmares. You remember I told you about the nightmares?”

Tony nodded, he was listening closely.

“I used to get them really bad. Some days I would wake up with a headache and I would feel really foggy all day. I wouldn’t like to talk those days. Not out loud at least.”

Elliot shot a furtive glance around the classroom to make sure no one was listening to their conversation.

“My mom got all worried because I told her that I used to talk to myself in my head, you know, kid stuff. She freaked out one day because I wouldn’t respond to her. But, the thing is, I didn’t think she was real.”

He paused for a moment to gauge Tony’s reaction. He had never told anyone this before, but Tony’s face didn’t give any insight as to how he was taking the news.

“Not in a crazy way, I just thought that I was dreaming. And she was yelling at me about something, and I just decided to ignore her, because I thought none of it was real.

“So then she made me see this doctor, and I didn’t like the guy, because all he did was ask me questions about how I felt, and he would sit there and stroke his beard and stare at me through these narrow glasses like I was some kind of fuckin freak.”

Elliot stopped again to make sure there were no eavesdroppers. He leaned closer to Tony before continuing.

“I told him that I was fine, that there was nothing wrong. He asked me if I had that feeling a lot, you know, that weird fogginess and that feeling like nothing was real. I told him it happened a few times. But he didn’t really care about that, he wanted to know more about what I did when I was alone in my room. I guess my mom mentioned to him that I used to have conversations with myself in my head, but it wasn’t anything weird man, I was just hanging out with me, you know?”

Once again he tried to read Tony’s face and saw nothing but a blank wall.

“The doctor asked me why I liked to have these talks in my head, who I was talking to, that kind of thing. I told him the truth; I didn’t really feel like I was talking to anyone in particular, I felt like I was talking to me. Just telling myself things, talking about the day I had, making sense of things. And then I told him about my place.”

Tony broke his silence to ask, “What’s your place?”

“It’s just this place I go in my head sometimes. It’s like….” he struggled to find the right words. “I don’t know man, it’s like this roaring stream cutting through the woods. I don’t know why, but sometimes when I get kind of lost in my head, that’s where I imagine myself. In these kind of living woods.

“I don’t know if it was the place, or the conversations in my head, or the weird temporary lapse I had that day, but he diagnosed me with BPD and gave me those pills.”

“What’s BPD?” Tony asked.

“Borderline Personality Disorder. It means that my mood can change rapidly, or that my thoughts can get distorted or I can have trouble understanding who I am. It’s worse when my situation is unstable, but I really haven’t had any problems since I was a kid. It’s not a big deal.” This last part was added rapidly, as if to qualify everything he had said before it.

Tony’s face, which had been solid and unchanging throughout the conversation, was morphing into an almost comical expression of dismay. He looked shocked, distraught, terrified.

Elliot didn’t like the way Tony was looking at him and immediately regretted sharing his story with him.

“Dude…” That seemed to be the only word Tony could force out of his mouth. He was staring at Elliot with his mouth hanging down to his chest.

“Oh shit. Oh shit. Dude. Shit.”

“Really?” Elliot was seething and struggling to keep his voice down. “You want to accuse me of being a junkie, ask what’s up with me, and then when I tell you all that, you act like I’m some kind of freak. What’s your fuckin deal man?”

Tony was still staring with that caricature expression on his face. His mouth was a perfect O of surprise, his eyes were wide and vacant.

“Oh shit dude….oh shit.”

“Whatever, man. See if anyone wants to be your friend if you’re gonna act like that. A guy opens up to you and you treat him like he’s a mental patient. You got some nerve, especially considering all the weird shit you do.”

Elliot went to get up from his desk. He didn’t know where he was going, didn’t care that Mardsten would probably write him up and call the front office if he left class in the middle of sixth period, he just needed to be away from Tony, that judgmental asshole, away from this whole damn school full of small minds and simple people. Then Tony gripped his arm hard and sat him back down in his desk.

“Let me go, man, I don’t need to take your shit.”

“Sit down and shut the fuck up, Elliot. You need to listen to me.”

The grave look on Tony’s face left him momentarily unable to move. He felt glued to his seat.

“You said you have BPD? They had you taking medicine for it?”

“Yeah but that doesn’t give you the right to judge me. You’re not exactly normal your-”

“Just be quiet for a goddamn second and listen to me would you?”

He stared at Tony, his one friend in possibly the whole state, and noticed that the vacant, empty look was gone from his face, instead replaced by the greatest concern he had ever seen in the face of anyone, save his mother.

“Are you still using that dream journal?”

“Dream journal? Are you seriously going to tell me about your stupid fucking dream journal after everything I just told you? I don’t care about your perverted fantasies.”

“Answer the question, Elliot. Have you been using it?”

“Yes, Tony, I’m using the stupid dream journal. Not that it matters anyway, didn’t do me any favors this morning.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I woke up and wanted to read my entry to see what I dreamed about last night, I couldn’t remember for some reason, but whatever I wrote was scribbled out and illegible. I don’t remember doing that but I must have covered it up for some reason.”

“Oh shit. We’re even farther along than I feared.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, man? What does anything I just told you have to do with a dream journal?”

“Because, asshole, you’re not supposed to lucid dream if you have BPD. It can be dangerous.”

“What do you mean dangerous?”

“When I was first getting into lucid dreaming I read all about the risks. One thing that all the research was in agreement on was that it might be dangerous for people with BPD or any sort of psychological disorder to try it. There are all sorts of risks and you’re supposed to talk to a doctor before trying. Do you even have a doctor down here?”

“No…my mom wants me to see one, but I don’t need it.”

Tony barked a short, curt laugh.

“Don’t need it, yeah. So you’re off your meds and not seeing a doctor and you’re dream journaling? Great.”

“Why? What risks are you talking about?”

“Dude, if you have BPD you ARE NOT supposed to mess with this kind of stuff. Lucid dreaming can cause derealization, dissociation, negative dream content—that’s one you’re familiar with—cognitive disturbances, thin boundaries. All sorts of stuff you don’t want to mess with.”

“Thin boundaries? Dissociation? What do you mean?” The sick feeling from earlier was starting to build back up in his chest. He had a feeling that what Tony was saying was important, dire even.

“Basically, if you have any sort of psychological issue, lucid dreaming can exacerbate that. It can cause you to lose track of reality, get confused more often, have trouble discerning the waking world from your dreams, even allow other parts of your personality to grow stronger and start to overtake your conscious mind.”

At this last part Elliot felt faint and thought he might pass out. Other parts of his personality to grow stronger? Overtake his conscious mind?

He had a sick image flash in his mind of a badly crippled man in a striped sweater crawling towards him, grinning his devil grin. He felt he might throw up.

“Oh fuck..Oh fuck.” It was his turn to mutter and stare off vacantly.

“Yeah man, you need to stop right now. Like right now. You should probably see a doctor too and see if you can get back on that medicine.”

Elliot thought about the meds he had taken as a kid, the way they made him feel hollow and vapid. He didn’t want to return to that state, that dead, empty feeling those little blue pills had put inside of him.

“No.”

“What? No what?”

“No. I’m not taking those fucking pills again. I’m not doing any of this again. I’ve had enough.”

“You can’t be serious, Elliot. I’m really worried man. If you keep going down this path, you might lose your mind entirely.”

Elliot stood up and walked to the front of the classroom, no large brown hand sat him back down this time, and marched through the front door. He ignored Mardsten’s calls and felt slightly bad about doing so; here was another good teacher, one of the few that existed in this school, trying his best to help a student. But he couldn’t be slowed down, couldn’t be stopped.

He got out of the classroom and started running, slamming open the doors to building 3, and didn’t stop until he was off school property.

Had he known what lay ahead of him––what fate sat waiting for him in the dark expanse of the future, farther than the naked eye could see––he might have gone back to thank Tony for being such a good friend while he still had the chance.

**********************************************************************************************

The walk home was strangely cathartic. The surprise in Richfield’s room had been upsetting, as hard as it was for Elliot to believe that anything could surprise him at this point. He had woken up to an unexpected omen, lost half of his day somewhere between his front door and the school courtyard, but still felt a jolt of terror shoot from his gut when he opened that classroom door and saw a sea of unfamiliar faces looking at him like he was some sort of science experiment.

Things had gone from bad to worse when he found his way to Mardsten’s, where he belonged. The hideous feeling that something was wrong, something was out of alignment inside of him, had ballooned up and threatened to swallow him whole on his walk there, and had only become stronger and more certain after his conversation with Tony.

It can cause you to lose track of reality, Elliot. Overtake your conscious mind.

Is that what had happened earlier, in the courtyard? Surely that would qualify as a loss of reality. He had seen those kids on the roof with his own eyes, he saw them line up, one by one, like guilty conspirators being walked to their execution. Hell, he had felt the wind of their weight rushing down toward him when they jumped.

And what about all the lost time, Elliot? his mind spoke up. Yeah, Elliot, old buddy, old pal, where have you been lately? Not at home—mom can attest to that. Ignoring your friends too. We both know you’re not off getting high, so just what have you been up to these days?

He tried to push that thought from his mind. The hallucinations he could accept; somehow those made sense to him. He had been stressed, that much was undeniable, and the human mind does crazy things when pushed to its limits. Yes, the hallucinations weren’t dire, but the missing time that he couldn’t account for—that felt different. It hung over him like a harbinger of anarchy. It signaled the loss of what he knew to be true. Reality decaying.

Overtake your conscious mind.

All of these thoughts had been in his mind as he sprinted off campus. They were jumbled and chaotic, no one thought fully in command of his attention. This mental bedlam had pushed him to run harder and faster than he thought himself capable of. By the time he slowed down his face was drenched in sweat, his lungs a screaming pit of fire, and a stabbing pain was intimately claiming the entire left side of his abdomen. He was over a mile from Jefferson High.

Now, walking along, closing the last few hundred yards of the three-mile journey home, he felt almost peaceful. It had been a tough day, tough couple of weeks; hey, why not call it for what it was? A tough life. But that was behind him now; by less than a half hour, sure, but he felt light again. Relieved. Unburdened, almost.

He knew what had to be done.

So why not take a load off? No sense in stressing. He had a plan, and when you have a plan it’s ok to relax. It’s acceptable to put a slight skip in your step. Maybe even crack a smile.

Lucid dreaming. Those words were back on his mind. They still felt distant and lightweight, the way he saw them in his mind when Tony first spoke then.

Could it really be used to work some things out as Tony had suggested? Dream journaling, the pursuit of this elusive dreamlike state is what had caused all this trouble to begin with. Everything seemed to lead back to that day, to the idea that one could be asleep and awake at the same time, like a man possessed. Could it really be done? Could he take control and put an end to all of this, right now?

It was closing in on two o’clock and he had a good feeling that he would find their apartment empty. Was counting on it, in fact. If his mom was home she would try to interfere. She would want to talk, she would wonder what he was doing home early. She would probably force him to meet the doctor she had been talking about. None of these things were in his future if he could help it.

Elliot made a quick left as he walked up the hill on 21st and began down the slightly curved walkway to his building’s front doors. It was immediately cooler when he stepped into the covered walkway and out of the sun’s direct line of sight. He was practically jogging to the bulky wooden doors, itching with excitement to get upstairs and to his room. On his right a young blond-haired boy with a ragged, homemade bowl cut was smacking the top of a tin can, shrieking and dancing up and down with excitement. His piercing laugh should have been childish and carefree but instead it had a dour quality that would have likely given Elliot chills, had he been paying attention. It sounded more like screaming than laughter.

But Elliot didn’t hear the child’s noises; he heard water, rushing forward at breakneck speed. He was swimming again. Back where he belonged. Except it was much less like swimming now, much more like drowning. Had he not been overflowing with anticipation and exploding with ideas he may have noticed that the river in his head was stronger now, foaming, spilling over the banks. No more cresting and receding—it was violently alive, carrying him towards his destination.

It carried him upstairs and around the corner of the seventh floor. He opened the door to 712 and stepped inside. It was quiet, dark, and most importantly, empty. He closed the bulky front door behind him, slid the lock into place, and went directly to his room. As he shut the door behind him he thought, Sometimes things really do work out.

He sat staring blankly at the journal sitting atop his night stand. It had a discarded look, as if it had been tossed aside for good, which, in a way, was exactly what he had done after this morning’s discovery. Seeing those horrible black slashes that consumed the entire page and whatever entry lay beneath had turned him off of the entire concept, but he found now that the only solution he really had was inside of it. Except, maybe that wasn’t exactly true.

The solution wasn’t inside of the journal, the solution was inside of him. His dreams were at the center of everything. Going back to the beginning of his troubles, back to his childhood and the ugly nightmares which haunted him for so long, the answer became clearer and clearer. He had but one place left to go.

So why are you just sitting there, he asked himself. Hoping that mommy comes up and interrupts you? This way you’ll have an excuse to put this off even further?

No, he answered in his head. He felt the strangest mixture of comfort and anguish to be so fluidly conversing with himself again. It was like receiving news that you were desperately hoping against, yet were entirely certain was coming. It was familiar like an old face; not the face of a friend, but certainly no stranger. The face of someone you had seen in passing many times before, someone you never said hi to, never spoke with or learned about, but someone whose eyes said, I know you, I’ve known you for so long. 

Besides, he added, I’ve barely been home ten minutes. I’m not delaying.

Oh really, this emboldened new voice called back, why don’t you check your watch, pal? Tell me again how long you’ve been home.

Elliot begrudgingly lifted his wrist—he didn’t like answering to the voice as much as he liked conversing with it—and was only mildly surprised to see that it was four forty-five. Almost three hours had passed since he first entered his room and sat down on his bed. He would’ve been shocked, should’ve been, but he was losing his ability to feel that emotion. Come to think of it, he was losing his ability to feel any emotion.

Besides fear, that is.

Fear, as it turns out, is primeval. Emotion isn’t even the right word to describe what fear really is. No, not right at all, he was finding out. Fear runs deeper than emotions do. Fear can’t be placated by the slowly crawling, insidious numbness that has been deepening its hooks since this morning. Fear is the oldest companion of humanity; the one feeling that gets us moving when danger is near, the primary culprit responsible for humanity’s slow, tedious evolution.

But fear knows no motivation. Fear attacks with empty, idiot strength, and pushes us in whatever direction is open with no care, no concern for how things end. Yes, it is fear that gets the deer moving when it smells a bear closing in on its home, and it is fear that pushes that deer to run faster and farther than it should be able to when it hears that bear barreling towards it from behind, but it is also fear that causes the deer to run off a cliff to avoid being eaten. To avoid being consumed. Fear knows no motivation.

Have I just been sitting here, staring blankly at my desk—eyes vacant, mouth open—for three hours?

The thought caused him to shudder. Something about the idea of his body sitting motionless on his bed, unaware, with absolutely no conscious thought, was disturbing.

But were you, Elliot? Were you just sitting there? Or did you get up and do something maybe, hmm? Maybe you opened the window and sat on the ledge. Maybe you looked down at the 70-foot fall and thought about what it would feel like to rush towards the cement.

Or, or, maybe you went into the living room and set a trap for mommy dearest. Did you string a wire in front of the door so that when she comes home tonight she trips and smashes her skull on the tile floor? Maybe you poured some bleach into her eye drops!

The voice in his head was taking on a childish, mocking tone. He wanted it to shut up but it was growing stronger, more persistent.

Yeah, maybe that’s what you do when you’re “gone,” Elliot. I wonder what Tony’s face will look like when he’s flying down Stedham Hill and he realizes you cut his breaks. Probably better than it’ll look when they peel his corpse out of his wrecked Buick.

Shut up, just shut up already, he answered back.

I wonder if maybe you took a trip to Gainesville to see Macy. Have you heard mommy talking to her on the phone lately?

This particular jab struck a nerve.

She’s probably busy! College is hard, she doesn’t have time to talk to mom every day.

That’s true, the hideous, alien voice responded, or maybe you haven’t heard her on the phone because she’s in ten pieces buried in some field in Alachua County? Maybe the last thing she saw before she was hacked up was the invalid, lunatic face of her baby brother. I guess we’ll never know where Elliot goes when he’s away!

Shut up, just shut up, JUST SHUT UP he was no longer just talking in his head––he had his hands clamped over his ears and was moaning and rocking back and forth on his bed.

He looked around the darkening room––his window faced the east side of the building and most of the daylight had disappeared, and whatever he had done during his empty time, he hadn’t turned the lights on––no longer trusting what he saw. How could he know what he had done while he was away? Every shadow was menacing. The room felt ominous and suffocating, the darkness seemed to be sentient; he could feel it crawling around, trying to reach out and grab him. Trying to pull him under.

Whatever doubt had remained about his plan was gone entirely. He had no choices left, nowhere to run. He knew he likely still had a few hours left alone because it was Wednesday, so he lay down, pulled the covers over his head, and waited for sleep to take him.

**********************************************************************************************

The darkness was deep and thick. It was so heavy that it had a texture; he felt he could reach out and touch it. He was falling now. That familiar sensation of crossing over was electrifying his body.

It’s happening, he thought to himself, I’m going under.

And then he was swinging, as always. The sky was overcast and darkening, the leaves autumn fire.

Up and down. Up and down. He swings forward and back and feels the cold wind of October in New York turn his face red and his hands numb. He’s looking at the backyard of his old home, the one that contains memories pleasant and tumultuous.

The gentle hill curving upward in front of him is littered with leaves of various shades; red, orange, yellow, purple—he sees an agglomeration of nature’s cyclical existence. Life and death, on display. Rebirth. There’s beauty in its simplicity.

He is alone. He knows he’s alone without having to verify the fact, but if he were to turn around, perhaps at the apogee of his swing, he would notice that the house behind him is empty. It is vacant, like the stare of a person caught in an absorbing day dream. Blackness breathes out of the windows and glass doors; it seeps out into the yard with a purpose, as if it exists purely to sour the hearts of young boys with dark futures.

He enters the scene halfway through a thought. It’s lost, of course, when he joins. Fleeting. It disappears before he has a moment to recognize that it’s there. Left behind in its place is the melancholy happy-sadness that seems to accompany fall. He was born in October; perhaps this is why the feeling is so familiar. Perhaps this is why that very feeling is a permanent fixture in his life, a constant, one of the few that he can claim. It’s an old friend that he unconsciously misses when it is absent.

The wind picks up and the trees shake in its force. Leaves are blown from the ground and they swirl amongst each other as if they are dancing. He can feel life in his surroundings.

Up and down…..up and down.

He gazes up at the steel-colored sky as he swings and wonders why he is here. It’s getting dark now, and he knows he should head in soon. The cold air nips at the few inches of exposed skin to remind him.

His mind is young. He feels like a boy; wonder is around him, questions supplant answers, mysteries supersede responsibilities.

This is how it’s supposed to be, Elliot. This is right.

Then why, he wonders, does it feel wrong? He’s only been here a moment, swinging back and forth, up and down, but a moment is all he needs to know something is wrong, very wrong.

He looks down at his legs and he sees tight skinny jeans that end at bright, multi-colored skateboarding shoes. He feels like a six-year-old, but these legs are ten years older at least. That’s when he realizes he’s dreaming.

He puts his feet down as the swing arches forward for another half rotation and kicks up wood chips as he slows his momentum.

None of this is right, he thinks. I’m not supposed to be here, not like this at least.

Finally he loses enough speed to disembark from the swing. He gets off and looks to his left, toward the porch. He sees that there’s an opening where the porch meets the house. He can see into the blackness underneath.

He remembers why he’s here.

“Show yourself,” he says to the darkness underneath the porch.

The wind picks up again; the leaves swirl.

He pulls his coat closer around his body to protect himself from the cold air but is unable to completely shut out the frigid wind.

To his left sits the dark house that seems to beckon him inside. He can almost hear it saying, Come on in, Elliot. Take a walk down the hall. Stay for a bit, it’s so cold outside. He ignores its calls and focuses on the porch instead. This is why he came here. 

“I said show yourself!” He yells towards the darkness now. He can feel the growing energy in the air, building towards some final confrontation.

He realizes that he doesn’t have a plan, but he doesn’t care. Whatever happens will happen. He needs to see the hideous creature that has been haunting him, following him through life. He wants answers.

But the thing refuses to show itself.

The sky continues to darken as the temperature drops another few degrees. Elliot gets the idea that the thing is waiting for the dark. Waiting for it to be darker and colder before it comes out, because it feeds off the darkness. He gets the first sharp pang of fear he’s felt since entering the dream.

He doesn’t want to be out here in the backyard once it gets dark. He begins to doubt his plan and wonders why he came here at all. Part of him, the small, dim part of him that is still conscious throughout this ordeal, wishes he could curse Tony.

Why did he have to tell me about his dream journal? None of this would have ever happened if not for his suggestion. If only I could go back and shut him up about his damn lucid dreaming.

And that’s when it hits him. It comes crashing down with such belligerent force that he’s nearly knocked off his feet.

Lucid dreaming. The cause. The solution.

He realizes for the first time since stepping off the swing that he is fully conscious and fully aware that he is in a dream. So he takes charge.

He closes his eyes and breathes slowly. He can feel himself calming immediately and he concentrates all of his effort on changing the sky. At first nothing happens. He feels like he is standing still wishing for the sky to clear, for the sun to poke through the clouds and illuminate the scene. With no immediate response he can feel his panic trying to take over again, trying to suffocate him.

But he persists; instead of wishing for clear skies he envisions clear skies. He simply sees his surroundings bathed in sunlight and does not accept anything else. When he opens his eyes, he’s amazed to see that it’s no longer sunset, it’s no longer fall—the sun is shining and his backyard is illuminated. The trees are lush and green. The air is warm. He is in control.

He looks to his left and the previously ominous house appears benign. The windows no longer ooze blackness, the house no longer calls to him in a soft voice; it is simply a house.

He focuses his attention on the black spot underneath the porch. The man from beneath does not want to appear, this much he can feel. But he is in control now, so he focuses all of his efforts on pulling him through.

The eyes are the first to materialize—yellow and sickly. Elliot feels fear try to establish a hold in his gut, but he pushes it away and forces the man to appear. The eyes approach the hole and slowly he sees the face attached to them begin to emerge. The sick, pallid face that has haunted him since childhood is coming out of the darkness and he has a brief moment to doubt himself, to wonder why on Earth he is forcing this abomination from its lair, but he stifles that thought and reminds himself that this is just a dream, he is in control.

He sees the red and gray striped sweater appear below the head and slowly, painfully, the man from underneath pulls himself out from beneath the porch. The creature is grimacing and fighting, trying to resist Elliot’s pull, but he can’t, because Elliot is in control here. He steps out into the light, his pale, ashen face glowing beneath the hot scorn of the sun.

Elliot bites back another bout of fear that tries to consume him as the man from beneath shambles toward him on uneven legs. He can’t believe that he is pulling this horrid creature toward him, but he is exhilarated nonetheless.

Despite being in control, despite the backyard now being his territory, Elliot knows to keep his distance from the man. He feels that the man’s horrid touch would be enough to erase his sanity. He knows he is still dangerous and he treats him like a wild animal. He ceases his efforts when the man is still a few feet away and instead concentrates on keeping him there.

For a moment, Elliot is speechless. He is unsure if it is the sheer concentration and effort he is expending to keep control of the dream, or just how surreal the situation is, but the moment has left him dumbfounded; he finds himself unable to address the creature.

Elliot stares at the man from underneath in the preternatural sunlight he has painted on this dream in disbelief. For the first time in his life he takes him in fully and wholly.

He confirms what he always believed—that the man has misshapen, uneven legs which cause his unnatural gait. He is wearing a decrepit striped sweater, black pants, and blocky, black shoes. His face is vacuous and his eyes show no emotion; they are an off-putting shade of yellow that Elliot has never seen in a living person. His hair is black and stringy and hangs down on his face. His skin is a sickly shade of white; it shines brightly in the light as if in defiance of the sun’s very existence.

And he’s smiling.

Despite the situation, despite being dragged from its pit into the blinding sunlight Elliot has created in his dream, the thing from underneath is still smiling its repulsive, corpse smile. It has black, rotted, crooked teeth, and it bears them in a flashy grin that says, I’m not scared. I know who’s in control here.

He feels another quick shot of fear shoot through his body and decides that he’s seen enough: it’s time to get the show going.

“What do you want with me?” He asks.

The thing stares at him and continues its deranged smile.

“I said, what do you want with me? Why are you here?”

The thing continues to stare at him, its grin growing wider, overtaking its face.

Elliot feels the first real stir of fear move through him, one that he can’t entirely control. Did that thing just move, ever so slightly towards me? he thinks. He’s unsure if the movement was real or imagined, but he’s beginning to question just how much control he has. Before he can fully work his way through the thought, the creature answers:

“Why, I’m here because you put me here, Elliot, remember?” Its horrific corpse grin continues to grow.

Elliot has a brief flash, a memory he can’t fully process. It zooms by his mind, but he’s scared to chase it lest he lose control of the volatile dream.

“What the fuck does that mean? I don’t have time for your shit.” Elliot is growing more uncomfortable with each passing minute. His doubt has more than begun to plant seeds, it is blossoming uncontrollably.

The thing across from him continues to grin its inhuman corpse grin. He notices now that yes, no doubt anymore, the thing is closer to him.

“Tell me who you are.” He says this with conviction, trying to will himself back into control. He is becoming desperately afraid of what might happen should he lose control of the dream. He wishes Tony was here to help him; he knows how to lucid dream now—he never learned how to wake up from one.

The thing from underneath continues to smile at him wider still. “Elliot…Elliot. You know who I am, don’t act like you don’t know me.” Its voice is choked and bizarre, like its vocal cords have been rusting away for eons.

“We’re friends, remember?”

Closer still. Elliot hasn’t taken his eyes off the thing once, yet somehow it has closed the distance. It is close enough to reach out and grab him now, so he focuses all his attention on keeping it still, keeping control of the environment. He knows that above all else, he mustn’t let the creature touch him.

“What do you want from me!” He screams. “I demand that you tell me. I am in control here, this is my dream, now tell me what you want with me!”

For a moment he is certain that his demands will be answered. The creature shrinks back as if it has been struck and its face contorts into a grimace. Elliot has another surreal moment to observe the thing in the blazing sunlight, how its features seem so familiar, its face a reflection of something he knows so well.

Then its skin dulls; it transforms from a waxy, bright white to a dull, ashy gray. Its eyes––blazing yellow just a moment ago––become a pale, mellow orange. It looks around, rolling its eyes from left to right, observing the entire yard, before looking up, and….smiling. The grotesque corpse grin returns and spreads across its face as it looks down, directly into Elliot’s eyes.

Elliot looks up and realizes with dreadful horror that the thing is smiling because the sun is gone. The sky is gray. He has a flash in his mind, it’s Tony speaking to him in Mardsten’s classroom, telling him that it’s important to not change too much too fast, to let the dream run its natural course, otherwise it might fall apart. His heart sinks into his stomach, which is a shriveling pit. He looks down—

The thing is right in his face, grinning its carnivorous grin, sharp black teeth jutting in every direction. It grabs hold of Elliot’s arm with its cold dead man’s hands.

“Let me show you, Elliot!” It screams into his face as it grabs him. “Let me help you remember! It’ll be quick. I’ll make it quick.”

Elliot feels his vitality being drained. He looks to his right and sees the green leaves on the spring trees turn brown before dropping off in unison. The wind picks up as the trees die and he feels so cold. It is October again, the sun has disappeared from the sky and darkness is taking over.

He can feel himself falling, falling. He tries to fight the creature off of him, but he is too weak to resist. He buckles to his knees and the last thing he sees before fading to gray is the hideous man-thing’s face leering down at him, yellow eyes blazing.

He wakes up an unknown amount of time later, still in the dream. At least, he thinks he is in a dream. His head is foggy and aching viciously. He realizes his face is planted in a pile of crispy, dead leaves, and he rolls over and stares into a sky with no moon, no stars, darker than the deepest black.

Elliot tries to stand but he can’t seem to find his balance; he tumbles over and face plants in the pile of leaves he woke up in. He stands again, finds a tentative equilibrium and looks around.

He is still in his backyard, his cold backyard, and it is darker than the dead of night. His fingers are useless stumps attached to his hands, the cold has numbed them with immobility. He feels weak and scared. He doesn’t know how to wake up from this horrible dream and he wants nothing more than to be back in his apartment in Florida.

He remembers summoning the thing from underneath the porch and trying to talk with it, but he can’t remember anything beyond that. Elliot closes his eyes and tries to envision himself back in his room, tries to force himself awake. When he opens his eyes he sees his desolate backyard, his hollow house, and the porch. He can’t seem to wake himself up.

I know, he thinks with sudden inspiration. Just gotta shock myself awake.

Elliot hobbles toward the porch on uneven legs. Before reaching the shadowy opening where the porch meets the house he bends down and picks up a baseball sized rock.

Easy, it’s just a dream. You’ll be fine. It can’t hurt you.

He slams the rough, pointy rock down on his right foot and is immediately struck with fierce pain. He screams and falls to the ground, surprised by the furious agony shooting up his leg.

I’ve never felt pain like this in a dream, he thinks. Is this just a dream? Something is wrong here, very, very wrong.

Elliot opens his shoe and slides it from his misshapen foot. The foot is screaming at him with white hot immediacy, begging him to cut it off, amputate the damn thing, anything to stop the pain. His big toe is slumped and caved in; the nail is gone. The two toes directly next to it are broken, twisted into shapes that are entirely wrong. He can see white bone protruding from the middle toe at the top where the nail bed should be. His numb hands are shaking and covered with warm blood.

No no no this is not right, you’re not supposed to bleed in your dreams you’re not supposed to smell your own blood and FEEL it you’re not supposed to feel your dislocated bones stabbing through your skin this is not right not right this is bad very bad.

He tries to compose himself but his racing mind won’t slow down. Everything has gone wrong—he shouldn’t be out past dark, shouldn’t be in the yard, in the cold, nothing is right. He looks behind him to the expanse of the yard and he can no longer see the fence. He can barely see beyond the first line of trees. The blackness is moving in, eating the dream as it goes, closing him in tighter and tighter and pushing him toward the house. He knows that he cannot let it reach him or it will swallow him alive—pull him under into some inescapable pit. The encroaching darkness is alive and he can almost see just beyond it; into the void where writhing abominations slither and scream.

No other choices left, he says to himself, I have to find him before it’s too late. I came here for a reason.

He stands and turns to face the house. The dark hole underneath the porch seems to stare back at him. He doesn’t want to go under there, but feels this is his last chance. That is where the thing he came to see lives. He knows there is nothing for him inside the house, and he is tired, so tired, and he just wants this to end. Once and for all.

He limps toward the porch, his gait strange and uncomfortable. He can’t walk right and struggles to stay upright. Whatever happened to him that knocked him out has left him exhausted, hurting, and off-balance. Elliot tries to shamble towards the porch and falls over. He tries to stand and loses his balance again, so he resorts to crawling.

He mutters to himself as he drags his body through the dirt and wood chips and dead leaves, “Coming for you…you bastard.”

Elliot reaches the hole in the skirt of the porch and peers into the darkness.

“You in there?” he screams.

He is answered by silence.

“Fuck it.”

He pulls himself into the blackness, into the void.

His first reaction is that it is cold, so cold underneath the porch. The sun is long gone so he doesn’t understand why it would be so much colder under here, but he pulls himself in further anyway, groping out in the darkness, hoping to find his nemesis.

He’d like to have a word with him. Or choke him out. Whichever, really.

Elliot crawls farther and farther into the darkness, looking for the man-thing that lives underneath. It is bitter and wintry down here. He smells yellow decay, the smell of choked leaves and mildew. As he crawls he first pushes a path in front of him, brushing away the crunchy leaves before sinking his nails into the dirt and dragging his weight forward. The darkness is smothering him and he can no longer tell which direction is which; he is disoriented and he can hear things moving all around him, sliding under the leaves, reaching out.

From a dark corner, something growls. The growl builds then tapers, turning into a mewling whimper.

After fighting his way through dead leaves and dust for a few minutes and coming up empty, he decides to turn around. There is no way the porch is this big, he thinks, I’ve been crawling for minutes, I should have hit the other side by now. He decides to crawl back out and go into the house. If he can find his way, that is.

He turns and crawls back in the direction he came. It is darker now and hard to tell where he came from; he can’t get out of a prone position because the wood above him—the bottom of the porch—is barely two feet above the ground. He manages to turn himself around and moves aimlessly in the darkness in what he believes to be the direction he came from.

Something skitters quickly across one of his hands and he retracts it with disgust. At first he is certain that it’s a tentacle: one of the monsters he can sense just beyond the boundary, groping out for him. Then he realizes that it is a bloated, palm-sized spider, covered with coarse hair. It continues its movement to his right uninterrupted by the temporary contact they just shared. Elliot is thankful for that.

He can see the faintest light up ahead, and moves towards it. It is the lattice pattern of the skirting that runs along the bottom of the porch. He crawls to it and touches it.

“Just have to go right towards the house until I reach the broken section,” he says to himself aloud.

Elliot crawls towards the house, moving through the blinding blackness. He shuffles and pulls himself along, his right leg aching terribly the whole way. He moves along the ground for what feels like an unnatural amount of time, wondering how the area underneath got stretched, how he possibly still has room in front of him to move. He should have made it to the house by now, the opening he crawled through should be gaping to his left. His pace increases as he becomes frantic, scratching and clawing at the dirt, lurching forward, dragging his belly across the ground like a serpent. The panic is starting to rise again, horrifying thoughts of crawling in the darkness for eternity start to seep into his mind and then—

He hits the house.

He’s reached the end of the porch and hit the foundation of the house. Elliot looks to his left, where the hole should be, and sees that the lattice wood pattern of the skirt that runs along the bottom of the porch is unbroken.

There is no hole. He’s trapped underneath the porch.

Elliot grabs at the wood in front of him and tries to rip it off. He first pulls toward him with all of his strength, his fingers turning whiter yet as he clutches with all the energy he has left. When it doesn’t give under his effort he punches out and strikes it. This accomplishes nothing besides stoking a barely perceptible pain in his numb fists. He tries to bash his way through the wood and create a new hole, but his efforts are for naught. Nothing he does makes any difference. He is stuck underneath the porch and he is so cold. He can feel the darkness inching toward him from behind.

He tries a last-ditch effort; Elliot closes his eyes, concentrates as hard as he can on the fact that he is in a dream and envisions a hole in the wood that is imprisoning him. He opens his eyes, and through the criss-cross pattern of the wood lacing he sees a pair of blocky, black shoes.

Elliot looks up and sees the man-thing from beneath standing outside the porch, beside the swing-set.

“Hey buddy!” The thing does an exaggerated stretch and yawn. Elliot notices that his legs are no longer as misshapen, but he still has a slight limp as he staggers toward the porch and crouches down.

“It feels so good to be out!” He smiles his empty dead grin full of black, rotted teeth at Elliot.

“A little cramped down there, I know.” It winks one yellow eye as it says this, “But you’ll get used to it. Promise.”

The man-thing stands up and begins to walk away.

Elliot screams at him, “Let me out! Let me out of here!”

He punches and smacks the wood skirting that holds him in but it does nothing, it’s like concrete, and the cold has turned his hands weak, turned his whole body weak.

“Get back here you bastard! Let me out!” Elliot screams. His panic has overtaken him and he continues to lash out and smash at the wood as hard as he can. He can see the creature from beneath walking away from him. He screams and screams as loud as he can, but gradually he loses his voice, he loses his strength, and the cold begins to overwhelm him. The blackness outside of the porch gets darker and swallows him alive. He can feel the void consuming him; he thinks of his mother, his sister, and the thing he’s let out.

**********************************************************************************************

Tired from a long day of work, Marcia Kilroy steps out of the elevator and makes a left turn before rounding the corner and finding the door marked 712. She planned to talk to Elliot tonight about seeing that doctor, but she’s so tired she thinks she might as well wait until tomorrow. She knows how he’ll react after all, and she doesn’t think she has the patience to deal with that now.

No, the effort required for that particular conversation is borderline Herculean, and right now she feels more like a tired slave than a god.

Rather than talk to her moody son she thinks she’d prefer to take off her makeup, remove her contacts, take those medicated eye drops the doctor gave her, and maybe open a bottle of wine.

I think I deserve a little relaxation after today, she says to herself. Judge me if you want, I don’t care. You try to pay the bills on your own in this economy while dealing with an absent son who seems to float further away from reality every day and a daughter who has recently taken up the bad habit of not answering her mother’s calls.

She turns her key and walks into the apartment, expecting to see the kitchen light glowing and her son’s door closed.

Instead it is dark and Elliot is sitting at the counter, looking down at his crossed hands.

“Oh, Elliot, didn’t expect to see you out here.”

Maybe no wine tonight after all, she thinks. I don’t know if I’m ready to have this talk, but if he is I might as well strike while the iron’s hot.

Elliot says nothing, only continues to stare down.

“Are you all right, Elliot? How was school?”

Silence from him, he’s not moving. She is not even sure that he is breathing. She can’t see his face through the dark hair that hangs over it and she suddenly feels very uncomfortable looking at her son.

Don’t be ridiculous, she says to herself, afraid of your own son.

“Elliot, what’s wrong? Why won’t you answer me?”

She finds herself frozen in the doorway, unable to move closer to whatever it is that’s sitting at her counter. The darkness in the apartment slyly slips closer to where she stands. She feels a sickly presence in it, a weight behind it.

“Enough is enough Elliot, you answer me when I’m speaking to you!” She is surprised by her sudden outburst as she feels hot tears stinging her eyes.

Not ready for this at all, she tells herself. A distant son, a distant daughter; these things I can take, but I will not be afraid of my own child. Never again.

“You’ve been acting so different again and I’m really worried,” she says through a choked sob. “I feel like I hardly know you anymore!”

He slowly lifts his head and looks at her. He’s smiling. But the smile has no joy, there’s something different about his eyes. Despite the grin that consumes half his face, he seems dead inside. It’s a corpse grin.

“Mom…” his voice a gentle whisper, carried by the wind, “…don’t pretend you don’t know me. I’m waiting for you. I’ve been waiting for so long.”