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She only got the hard cases. The others dealt with the creampuffs, the fools who were afraid of their own shadows, the twitchy, what-if-something-bad-happens worry-warts that take all the fun out of things. Does the hunter like the buck that neither charges nor runs, but just waits in his sights for the heart shot? The predator will take an easy kill - after all, it eats just the same as a hard kill - but she knew that the easy kill didn't taste as sweet, wasn't as satisfying and didn't satiate for nearly as long.
Tonight's case hasn't had a nightmare since he was a child. The history wasn't much help. His biggest nightmare was some crude stick figure people on a pale yellow background running from a volcanic eruption and not making it, followed by a quick cut to a predatory big cat in the house and a losing scramble up the stairs to imagined safety. The interesting part was that he had this dream twice and each time he dreamt it, he woke with a fever and ended up being sick for days. Premonition or causation? She could just suggest a return engagement, but that reeked of unoriginality. The other problem was that some of the others had tried it without effect. She supposed childhood nightmares were called that because they were often outgrown.
His room was small, not even half again as large as the full-size mattress he slept on. The covers were crumpled at the foot of the bed. The sleeper wore briefs, t-shirt, and a wedding band. There was one pillow on the bed, not two. Had the wife left him? Were there children? The band itself was gold and was pretty dinged up; probably been wearing it a long time. For the millionth time she wished she could leave the room she'd been summoned to, to wander around and try to learn what she could to reach her subject. Dreams, after all, could not be imposed. They had to be suggested - nightmares, especially so. One person's nightmare was often another's joke, or worst of all, another's fantasy. Nothing ruined the mood quite like a seminal emission when you were trying to provoke a violent awakening and a horrified scream.
The bedside table held a cell phone, a set of keys, a pair of glasses, a lamp, and books. No Bible. She checked the drawer. No Bible. Shame. There was nothing quite like twisting beliefs to leave a believer twisting in the wind. She was starting to understand why this case had been passed to her. The other books were a motley mix of thrillers, sci-fi, and two books on heraldry, of all things. An interest in heraldry might imply a companion interest in genealogy - more family stuff. Boy, this guy must be the life of the party.
Almost on cue, he started snoring. Not wimpy deep breathing or mere raspiness, but shake-the-window-panes snoring. She looked in his open mouth. She couldn't see any fillings, so the usual rich dental terror vein was probably closed to her. He might go for a mushy teeth freak, but that would be a fall back position at best. He was a big guy, maybe a cardiac fright would do it. Trouble is, the others would have tried that. It was almost insultingly obvious. How was she going to reach him? She examined him more closely. His left forearm has a small scar, no more than a quarter inch long, most likely from a mole removal. Skin cancer might be worthwhile. He rolled onto his side and the snoring subsided.
A receding hairline - appeals to vanity were often useful or, more accurately, suggested threats to vanity. She wondered why so many people with obvious physical concerns often tended to focus on more trivial details: the woman with horribly crooked teeth obsessing over colored contact lenses or the grotesquely obese man who obsessed over the finest tailored clothes.
She hadn't noticed the light switch on the wall. Someone had taken off the normal plastic plate and changed to one that featured a brightly colored clown's face, with the switch serving as the clown's nose. That pretty much locked that he had at least one kid, although this really wasn't a kid's room. Maybe it had been once and the use of the room had been changed, but the switch had not. Why had the use of the room changed? The loss of a child is the most powerful fear for a parent, whether or not he had lost a child, the whole topic area was useful.
There was a faint light visible under the closed door. A nightlight, most likely. Adults usually don't use nightlights - children seemed even more probable.
So what did she know?
She had a snoring, balding, wedding-band-wearing fat man alone in a bed, next to a table full of typical male reading material (excepting the heraldry stuff) in a room that looked like it once might have been a child's room with what looked like light from a nightlight coming visible from the door.
She thought she had enough to begin. Now she just had to weave the tapestry of fear. She bent closer to him and began whispering in the ancient tongue:
What is that ahead? Fear of the unknown, our stock in trade. The rapid movement of his eyes betrayed her early success.
Is the child all right? The rate of his breathing increased.
There is something in the road! I'm going to hit it! Loss of control, another goodie.
Why can't I turn? Agonizing failure at something so common, yet so important. He started to turn back and forth in the bed.
It's not human! Its eyes are red! Look at its teeth! It's through the windshield! He thrashed harder and started to moan a deep, animal moan.
No, not the child! Take me instead! The moan transformed into a wail.
Where are you taking the child? Listen to the screams! The sleeper flailed wildly.
She stepped back into the shadows and started her fade.
He yelled "Oh My God!" and scrambled up and out of bed so rapidly that he fell taking the lamp crashing to the floor with him. Eyes wide, he clawed his way to his feet, flung the door open and ran down the hall crying, "Kyle! Kyle!"
Success.
About the Author: Stephen Sarrica is one of the legion of English Literature majors slaving away on the Great American Novel. When not writing, thinking about writing, or participating in a writers' group (Argus Scribes rule!), he keeps busy managing an information technology group at a major research university. He welcomes correspondence at thakk@mac.com.
© Stephen Sarrica
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