“Wrong,” the voice laughs, coming from a spot behind me.
I whirl and squint, but I can’t see anyone.
“Over here,” the voice whispers. This time it’s coming from my right.
Still squinting, I edge closer, towards the source of the voice. This feels wrong, like it’s a trap. But I can’t back away from it. I’m drawn on by curiosity, but also something else. It’s a girl’s voice and I think I know whose it is.
Movement to my left, just as I’m about to round a tree. Eight long, pale arms wave in the light of the moon. Dozens of tiny snakes hiss and slither. I cry out with fear and slam into the tree, shielding my eyes from the horror. Seconds pass but nothing attacks. Lowering my arms, I realise the arms were just branches of a couple of neighbouring trees. The snakes were vines, blowing in the wind.
I feel sick but I force a weak chuckle, then slide around the tree in search of the person who called to me.
I’m at the edge of a pond. I frown at it. I know this forest and there should be no pond here. But there it lies regardless, the full moon reflected in its still surface. I’m thirsty. The blood has dried on my tongue, leaving a nasty copper-like taste. I crouch to drink from the pond, going down on all fours and lowering my head to the water like a wolf.
I see my face in the mirror-like water before I drink. Blood everywhere, caked into my flesh and hair. My eyes widen and fill with fear. Not because of the blood, but because I can see the shadow of somebody behind me.
I start to turn, but it’s too late. The girl pushes my head down hard and I go under. Water fills my mouth and I gag. I try to fight but the girl is strong. She holds me down and my lungs fill. The coppery taste is still there and I realise, as I blink with horrified fascination, that the pond is actually a pool of blood.
As my body goes limp, the girl pulls me up by my hair and laughs shrilly as I draw a hasty, terrified breath. “You always were a useless coward, Grubitsch,” she sneers.
“Gret?” I moan, staring up at the mocking smile of my sister. “I thought you were dead.”
“No,” she croaks, eyes narrowing and snout lengthening. “You are.”
I weep as her face transforms into that of a mutant wolf. I want to run or hit her, but I can only sit and stare. Then, as the transformation ends, she opens her mouth wide and howls. Her head shoots forward. Her fangs fasten around my throat. She bites.
→ I wake choking. I want to scream but in my imagination Gret’s teeth are locked around my throat. I lash out at my dead sister, still half in the dream world. When my arm fails to connect, I rub at my eyes and my bedroom swims back into sight around me.
Groaning softly, I sit up and dangle my legs over the edge of the bed. Covering my face with my hands, I recall the worst parts of the dream, then shiver and get up to go to the toilet. No point trying to sleep again tonight. I know from past experience that the nightmares will be even worse if I do.
I pause in the doorway of the bathroom, suddenly certain that demons are lurking in the shadows. If I turn on the light, they’ll attack. I know it’s ridiculous, a ripple from the nightmare, but despite that my finger trembles in the air by the switch, refusing to press.
“The hell with it,” I finally sigh, stepping forward. Letting my fear have its way on this night, as on so many others, I go about my business in the dark.
MISERY
→ “Of course I have nightmares — who doesn’t?”
“Every night?”
“No.”
“Most nights?”
A pause. “No.”
“But a lot?”
I shrug and look away. I’m in Mr Mauch’s office. Misery Mauch — the school counsellor. He holds court a few times a week. Chats with students who are struggling with homework, peer pressure, pushy parents. Normal kids with normal problems.
And then there’s me.
Misery loves sitting down for a warts’n’all session with me.
Why wouldn’t he? Everyone here knows the Grubbs Grady story — parents and sister slaughtered in front of him… long months locked up in a nuthouse (“incarcerated in a facility for the temporarily disturbed,” Misery puts it)… came to Carcery Vale to live in a spooky old house with his uncle Dervish… that uncle lost his marbles soon after… Grubbs played nurse for a year until he recovered… went to a movie set with Dervish and his friend Bill-E Spleen months later… witnessed the tragic deaths of hundreds of people when a disastrous fire burnt the set to the ground.
With a history like that, I’m a dinosaur-sized bone for every psychiatric dog within a hundred kilometre radius!
“Would you like to tell me about your dreams, Grubitsch?” Misery asks.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
I feel like laughing but don’t. Misery’s harmless. It can’t be much fun, trekking around his small cache of schools, dealing with the same boring teenage problems day after day, year after year. If I was in his shoes, I’d be itching to get my hands on a juicily messed-up student like me too. “Grubitsch?” Misery prods after a few seconds of silence.
“Hmm?”
“Telling me about your dreams might help. A problem shared is a problem halved.”
I almost respond with, “What’s a cliché shared?” but again I hold my tongue. I’d ruin Misery’s day if I cut him down like that. Might reduce him to tears.
“They’re not much of a problem, sir,” I say instead, trying to wind the session down. I’m missing physics and I quite like that subject.
“Please, Grubitsch, call me William.”
“Sorry, sir — I mean, William.”
Misery smiles big, as if he’s made a breakthrough. “The nightmares must be a problem if they’re not going away,” he presses gently. “If you told me, perhaps we could find a way to stop them.”
“I don’t think so,” I respond, a bit sharper than I meant. He’s talking about stuff which is way over his head. I don’t mind a school counsellor showing interest in me but I dislike the way he’s acting like a second-rate mind-sleuth, clumsily trying to draw out my secrets.
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Grubitsch,” Misery says quickly, realising he’s overstepped the mark.
“To be honest, sir,” I say stiffly, “I don’t think you’re qualified to discuss matters like this.”
“No, no, of course not,” Misery agrees, his features sorrowing up. “I don’t want to pretend to be something I’m not. I apologise if I gave that impression. I only thought, if you were in the mood to talk, it might help. It might be a beginning. Of course it’s not my… I’m under no illusion… as you say, I’m not qualified to…” He mutters to a halt.
“Don’t have a breakdown,” I laugh, feeling guilty. “It’s no biggie. I just don’t want to talk about my dreams to anyone. Not right now.”
Misery gulps, nods briskly, then says I can go. Tells me he’ll be back next week but won’t ask to see me. He’ll give me some breathing space. Maybe in a month or two he’ll call me in again, to “shoot the breeze”.
I hesitate at the door, not wanting to leave him on such a down note — his head’s bowed over his notes and he looks like he’s fighting back sniffles.
“Mr Mau – William.” He looks up curiously.