Night Mares in the Hamptons (4 page)

No, stay calm
, I told myself mid-dream.
Look around. Find the door.

There was no door. No windows either, just rough wood plank walls with a bare light bulb shining overhead. Where the hell was my wheelchair? My pretty room with the ruffled bedspread and curtains? My computer and iPad, so I could call for help? I pulled myself over to the wall so I could lean against it, panting with the effort. I could feel my sides heaving, dampness on my skin. Why couldn't I get out?

A noise. The monster was coming!

Wake up, Hetty
, I tried to scream. As if I could warn my sleeping self or my character or my alter ego.
There are no monsters!

Oh, yes, there are,
she/I shrieked back. Somehow I knew it was a man, bearded, smelly, in dirty clothes. He'd come a couple of times, tossing me food that I didn't like, that made me ill. I don't know how I knew about the man or the food, because the other part of me, the one looking on, realized I hadn't written this scene.

No matter, I could overpower him, surprise him with my strength.

I had no strength. I could not stand.

Then I could trip him, hit him over the head with my two fists. Gouge at his eyes, bite his nose. Kick him in the balls. I took a self-defense course once.

I was calling for my mother in my dream? Wow, speak about nightmares, that was the worst.

Bad enough to wake me up. Or else Little Red's barking had done it. Susan must have come in, or maybe I'd shouted out loud, frightening the dog. I'd rather that, than having my cousin hear me yawp like a baby. What kind of village heroine calls for her mother in the night?

I untangled myself from the stranglehold of the sheets, turned on the bedside lamp, blew my nose, and petted Little Red until he was convinced we weren't under attack. I could still feel the adrenaline rush through my body, speeding my pulse rate, until the noise was so loud I couldn't tell if that was my heartbeat or Susan's headboard. I got up, went into the bathroom to pee and get a drink of water. I couldn't face Susan and her guest, not tonight.

I went back to bed, pulling Little Red closer for comfort. His and mine. “I'll get her out of the box,” I reassured both of us. “Without her mother.”

I made some notes on the pad that was always by my bed, then turned off the light again. I figured I was safe from more nightmares, so I turned on my side and pulled the sheet and the one light blanket up to my ear.

“Good night, Red.”

The clock dial said 2:15. The dog was snoring.

3:26. Susan was taking a shower.

4:01. I was going to kill someone. Maybe the clock. I threw an extra pillow at it, knocking it to the floor. One of the old dogs downstairs growled in a halfhearted, sleepy way, as if the second floor wasn't really his territory to guard. The steps were too rough on his arthritic joints. I was being protected by a six-pound Pomeranian with three legs, all of them in the air now as he slept.

I fell asleep, too, finally. And fell right back into that cold narrow room without furniture. I was terrified.

It's only a man. If I talk to him, maybe he'll let us go.
I figured he'd send a ransom note. Hetty's parents were rich. They hadn't been in my preliminary notes, but they sure as hell were going to be. My books were supposed to entertain kids, not terrorize them.

Then I heard footsteps. And singing. “On the Road Again.” Don't let it be Willie Nelson, I begged. That would be too weird, even for a nightmare.

Hetty whimpered.

I looked around for a weapon, for anything I could use on the kidnapper. The bare bulb showed every corner of the wooden room. It must be a closet, I thought. No, the ground beneath me was cold, like packed dirt. Maybe I was in a tool shed that had electricity.

But no tools were in sight, nothing but some straw on the ground. That made no sense, but dreams didn't have to follow any kind of logic, not like a book. So I decided I'd gather handfuls of straw, throw it at his eyes when he came in. I'd be able to see where the door was and make a dash for it.

With no wheelchair and no feeling in my legs.

Okay, I'd throw the straw in his eyes, grab him at the knees, topple him over, and stuff straw down his throat until he went unconscious. Hey, I was a writer. I could come up with a hundred ways to foil a villain.

Come on, Hetty, work with me.
I felt stupid arguing with one of my characters, who might or might not be myself working through a Freudian-based Electra complex. I did not like this dream any more than poor Hetty did. The longer we played Poor Pitiful Pearl, though, the longer we'd be stuck here, cold and waiting. Waiting.

“. . . Can't wait to get on the road again.”

The door creaked. Now I could see that the seam for the opening looked like just another plank. Of course the hinge would be on the outside, if this was a tool shed. Or a cell.

“Makin' music with my friends.”

Now I could feel the ice-cold terror seep through Hetty, through me. We were the same in our fear, and I could not divorce my rational mind from the small cowering figure on the ground, couldn't get myself in bed to wake up, or myself in the shed to move, to stand, to fight. What for? The monster would get me in the end. I was too young, too cold, too frightened to save myself. No one else was coming to help. My mother couldn't hear my cries. My father couldn't get here in time. I'd never get home, never see them again. Never. I'd die here, all alone.

I raised my head to wail out my despair. I opened my mouth . . . and whinnied.

Holy hell, I was a horse.

I
COULDN'T BREATHE. I WAS AWAKE, but I couldn't get enough air in my lungs. Either I was hyperventilating, or Red was standing on my chest.

My nightshirt was soaked with fear sweat, my hair was plastered against my head in damp Medusa curls, and every muscle in my body ached, as if I'd run from that shed, wherever it was, all the way back to the safety of my bedroom.

As soon as my throat opened enough for me to breathe and talk, and my fingers unclenched from the blanket, I picked up the phone and pushed Grant's speed dial number. I didn't care what time it was in England, or how busy he was, or that I was still in the dark, panting.

“Pick up, damn it.”

He did. There were voices in the background. I didn't care about that either.

“They won't go away! It's a baby! Hurry!”

“Willy? You're pregnant? Are you in pain? I thought we were careful. We'll get married as soon as I get—”

“Not my baby, you ass. The horses'. That's why they're so distressed. And we're not getting married either way. And the baby's terrified and in a cell and you have to get it free.” That wasn't at all what I meant to say, or how I wanted to say it, but he caught enough.

“Someone's captured one of the night mares' babies?”

“Yes, damn it! That's what I said. It's a small white horse with really, really vivid emotions that carry into my dreams.”

“Shite,” he said. Which was British stiff upper lip for we're going down the toilet. Sometimes he said “fook” which I used to think added to his charm. Charm wasn't going to help me now.

Nor was his doubting my word. “Are you sure?”

“Listen to me, Grant. I don't lie.” Except when I said I was coming to England. “I am as sure as a nightmare can be. I dreamed it, but the baby was there, crying for its mother. And I did not do it! I never put a baby horse into my book. Never drew it, never wrote it, only the mares.”

“Bloody hell! You visualized the mares, and that's why they came?”

“They came because there was an opening between our worlds. You said it yourself.” I did not want to discuss any further connection between me and the mares' appearance, no more than I took credit for the troll showing up in Paumanok Harbor. Coincidence, only. “I never mentioned a baby!”

“They're called foals. Boys are colts, girls are fillies. Which is it?”

“I don't know! I saw it in a dream, in a lighted cell. Maybe it was a stall, now that I think about it. The poor thing is terrified.”

“How big is it?”

“Are you listening to me? I was dreaming, not taking measurements! I was as frightened as the baby—and as helpless! I was here, in my bed. Do you even know what that is like, for crying out loud? I doubt you've ever felt weak and vulnerable with no way to change anything.” I know I was sobbing, making my words run together, but he had to understand the horror for the baby, for me, for anyone else who'd shared the nightmare.

“I'm feeling helpless right now. Willy, you have to get a hold of yourself, darling. I'm trying to understand.”

I could hear voices in the background, laughter. That made me madder. I'd bet they were all neatly dressed, cool and collected and smelling as sweet as his mother's frigging rose garden she was so proud of. Maybe he was in the frigging rose garden, drinking cocktails. Damn them all.

I took a deep breath, trying for rational composure. It didn't work. I was still crying. “I cannot get hold of myself, Grant. You said they project their emotions. Well, let me tell you, the baby did a fine job of nearly killing me. I don't know how anyone in Paumanok Harbor could survive that!”

“I doubt anyone but you is sensitive enough to pick up a foal's emotions, not if the mares haven't. They'd be at its side, otherwise. They'd find the young one in a second by following its outpourings. Maybe it's too young to project, but you fixed on it in your dream, so the emotions came through.”

“Maybe.” I
was
dreaming about Hetty from my book at first.

“The mother and the others will find a way to get the foal out of whatever enclosure it's in, then they'll race home and not bother anyone.”

“Unless the baby is injured. They might take revenge. Or if it dies. Their grief alone could send everyone on the East End into terminal depression.”

“That won't happen.”

“How do you know? The mares are frantic enough just looking for the lost baby, and their frenzy is driving people crazy. If the baby is hurt . . .”

“Let me think.”

I breathed deeply into the silence. Then I fumbled for the light switch to find the box of tissues and the clock on the floor. 5:14. I calculated five hours later for England, making their time perfect for 10:00 coffee break. I heard the clink of dishes, and more laughter. My world was falling apart, and Grant's world had their pinky fingers in the air. You'd think he would take the phone out of the room. You'd think he'd be booking a seat on the next flight if he had half an inkling of my anguish. You'd think—

“What did you mean, we aren't going to get married either way?”

Now? He wanted to have this conversation now? “I don't know. I'm just upset. The whole marriage thing is beginning to be another nightmare. It's not like being inside a poor infant horse's head, but it's tearing at me.”

“The wedding or the marriage? Be honest, Willy. Just say it.”

“The marriage.”

“I guess I'm sorry I asked.”

There was another silence. This one was too fraught for my jangled nerves. “I just . . . I can't. . . Can we talk about this after we find the baby?”

“The foal, Willy. It's not a baby. It's not our baby.”

The sadness in his voice was like a knife to my heart. He wanted our child. He'd thought for a minute that we were starting the family he always wanted. He'd thought that if I was pregnant, we'd rush the wedding, foiling his mother's plans but starting our life together soon.

“No, it is not our baby.”

Now he sighed.

I guess he finally realized there'd never be a baby. He was a para-linguist, after all, equally as good at interpreting what was said as what wasn't. I always believed he was a mind reader, too, even though he never admitted it. I knew he did have some of the original Royce-Harmon truth-sensing talent. “I'm sorry.”

“Me, too.”

“I know. And it hurts me, too. Truly. But right now, you're my only hope. You know more about these crazy things and the magic stuff from Unity than anyone in Paumanok Harbor. Maybe anyone in the world. You are the Department of Unexplained Events, and you're supposed to keep us all safe from things that go bump in the night.” I was crying again, half because the dreams, the sweet dreams, were gone, and I'd done so badly at love; half because I was hurting the person who loved me, who deserved so much more from me.