Yeah, that felt right. She did feel preyed upon. She did feel used and abused come morning.
And the more she read the book, the more pissed-off she became.
This fucking devil had ruined her life.
No more, she decided. Never again.
She would follow James Randall’s steps to the T. Even more so, she was determined to once and for all destroy the wicked thing. Granted, the destroying part she wasn’t so sure about. The destroying part turned her bowels to water. But she would try, dammit. She would try.
The book had been clear: she had to feign sleep. And there was only one way to feign sleep. To enter into a deep meditation. A trance. The author, God bless his soul, had also detailed how to do this.
And so she had memorized the steps as best as she could, going through them one after another, and felt herself entering a deep meditation, a trance unlike anything she had ever experienced.
And this is where she found herself, hovering somewhere between sleep and wakefulness—when she felt a cold chill that made her skin tighten in self-defense.
Nightmare was near.
The chill was followed by a faint but pungent smell. She had never noticed the smell before, but now that she was mostly awake, she was aware of it.
It was all she could do to remain calm, to remain in a deeply meditative state, so she did her best to ignore the rotten-meat smell of Nightmare.
Bile rose in the back of her throat.
Her hands rested at her sides. She breathed easily through her nose. Her hair was still wet from the shower. She had delayed this confrontation as long as possible by wasting time in her apartment, first by taking out the trash at eleven p.m., and then by taking a midnight shower. Finally, after applying far too much lotion to her body, she tossed aside the nearly-empty tube and told herself that enough was enough.
It was time to face down a monster.
She wished she could have had someone by her side right about now. Anyone. A boyfriend or a husband would have been nice. She had neither. A friend would have done the trick, too, but she could not bring herself to ask if they’d stay the night with her. She was both ashamed and terrified. In the end, she realized this was a very private affair. She had found the book today, and she would finish it tonight.
Alone.
At the back of her mind, exactly where Randall said the feeling would be, something touched her softly, almost hesitantly. It was the place, according to Randall, where Nightmare penetrates into your private dreams, enters them like a thief in the night.
He’s here, she thought.
* * *
She felt a caressing in her mind—a disturbing feeling really, like someone running a spider web over her exposed brain, sticky, delicate, and clinging. She fought the urge to shudder in revulsion.
He’s going to know you’re not dreaming! Panic surged through her.
The coolness in her brain—his probing, according to the book—stopped. And then the coolness was slipping across her forehead—actually just underneath it.
He’s running! Christ!
She lashed out with her right hand, striking like a cobra, striking where Randall told her to strike, just above her face.
Her fingers sank into damp muck. She dug in her nails with a fierceness that surprised even her.
* * *
Nightmare’s screeching reached only my ears.
He threw back his horse head and emitted a truly horrible sound. It went from a high-pitched, jaw-rattler to a low, warbling moan.
Hang on, girl! I thought.
I only wished I could help her. But how?