Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep

9

Travis awoke from the most lifelike nightmare in his entire life of sleep, but his sheets were still dry. There was none of that screaming or cold sweat or shaking that usually accompanied such things. He found this even more unnerving.

That's 'cuz those are nightmares, you idiot. This one was real! You went somewhere...saw something...

He squeezed his eyes tighter, still not daring to open them, going by the sense of feeling. Besides, if he were still trapped in that world, then those things would be waiting for him to see them. They wouldn't attack him in his sleep, would they? Travis thought not. But still, he waited until he was sure the soft smoothness under him was sheets and his feather mattress before he turned around. He had still been facing his outside of the bed when he woke, if that meant anything. Eyes still closed, Travis scooted closer to Karen till he could feel the warmth from her back against him. Tentatively, with ever so much care and apprehension, he ran his hands over her body. First the head, then through her hair, only his hands and fingers coming into contact—yet he could still feel that awakening exciting warmth over all his body.

If you touch her like that, they'll know you're awake, Travis.

He blotted out those thoughts, continuing his exploration with cold enthusiasm.

The warmth was comforting. That was a start. He ran his finger tips over her front, just enough to confirm that the shape was truly hers. His eyes were still closed, but he felt his whole body jerk when he came to the arms. Slowly, dreadfully slowly, he crossed her elbows. Then to the hands.

Smooth, exactly how they felt after she'd treated them as she did every night.

The fingers. That is all it would take, really, to know. And he needed to know, but didn't want to really know, if all this was still an extension of the nightmare. A prologue, perhaps. He'd escaped them all in the end, hadn't he? But what if they followed him even until here? That was just silly, and he knew it. Travis reached down and grabbed all her fingers in his hand.

Travis exhaled a long held breath on the back of Karen's bare neck when he felt her fingernails outside his own hand. It was all right, then. Everything was all right. He opened his eyes.

The first thing he saw, an image that would remain etched into his mind forever, was the green digital display of the faithful Casio.

D:IE, it said, and Travis nearly screamed out loud. Had he told anyone about it, Travis would have sworn he saw the sticks of the digits shuffle themselves around like a toothpick game. When he blinked again, it said, 3:13.

Just sleepy eyes, he told himself. It's still early.

Karen's half-conscious body began to respond to the nearness of his own. She moaned quietly and backed up into him, rubbing herself against the rising tent in his shorts. Travis smiled and kissed her head.

Not a bad way to erase a nightmare, he thought.

Travis and Karen began to get worked up by this mid-sleep activity. Karen still had more than one foot in the land of dreams, but something told him that unlike his own, her dreams were pleasant. He draped one arm over her waist, and her hand slowly moved to stroke him in. He could feel her heart beating under his palm, and the sound and feel of her breathing was impossible to ignore. The room became considerably warmer. Travis moved slowly, kissing her neck, leaning over and watching her sleeping body.

Then it all stopped.

Travis shuddered when her breathing stopped and smiled to himself. Karen always held her breath when she came—even if she was asleep. But her heart had stopped too, and Travis was suddenly very afraid. The warmth of the body in front of him dropped to the temperature of a refrigerated side of beef. The purring moans from a moment ago were replaced with an icy silence. Everything was wrong. Everything was so, so wrong. Any trained professional would have immediately turned her over and begun life-saving procedures, but Travis was too petrified to do anything.

Karen turned over to face him.

Tavis grimaced as the pain from his groin shot up to his chest. It felt like she'd broken it when it pulled out. Then he saw her face and that pain was forgotten. A pale person standing under the eerie light of his nightmare's moon would have looked no different. Karen was normally tanned, but now her face was the blue color of death, the lips parted and purple, showing graying teeth. He looked down her body and saw that the rest of her skin was starting to fade too.

Travis could do nothing. His hand was still draped over her hips, the other nestled in her hair. He was starting to go into shock—breathing hard and erratic, heartrate risingn like a thermometer stuck in boiling water—but he could no more move away than he could get her body to respond. He was about to scream, he could feel it coming out from the pit of his stomach, building up like a tidal wave. He opened his mouth, then she opened her eyes and Travis choked on his scream.

"You have been warned, love," she said in a voice that was all hers, yet lacking intonation or tone. "I must go back to my mother."

Travis looked at the real-life corpse of his wife with a mixture of horror and disbelief. Never in all their years of intimacy had he heard a single word about her mother, and now, all of a sudden, it was the word of the century. Those eyes weren't blinking. They weren't even looking at him. They were glassy and open.

And then she dropped the hammer.

"Or else," Karen said, "she will come get me."

Karen turned back around, her body flushing back to that gorgeous brown of life and warmth. She was back asleep now, seemed to be even wanting to continue what they'd been interrupted from. Travis fled from the bed, leaving her asleep in frustrated dreams.

Mother. Her mother is coming for her.

3:13, something else reminded him.

Travis watched Karen toss and turn on the border of sleep and wakefulness for a few minutes (16 minutes in total, Mr. Casio told him) before she succumbed to the hour and fell back asleep. But there would be no more rest for Travis. When Karen woke late the next morning, he was still sitting in the chair by the windows, watching the town dive into their routine—blissfully unaware. She thought nothing of it, and said nothing. But she didn't greet him with a kiss or 'Good morning', which was highly irregular.

"I had a strange dream last night," she said with an impish smile—a smile that suggested pleasant detail—then it changed to a look of pure terror.

Travis saw that look—both looks—but said nothing.

"What was it about?" he asked with a dumb grin.

"I...I don't remember." She had the face of a woman who'd suddenly woken up the in woods and realized she'd lost all her clothes—or perhaps her mind. "Except that it was...was wonderful," that smile returned, hair mussed and beautiful, lips pouting, "and at the same time, terrible." Karen gasped and raised a hand to her mouth. She looked at Travis as if to ask if it all really happened, but his eyes said nothing. "It was...strange," she finished, then shook her head and got out of bed.

They never spoke again of that night. It had never happened, as far as the two of them were concerned.

Their marriage continued in a way considered normal for most middle-aged couples, but one that was abnormal for them. During the two years they'd spent in wedlock, Karen and Travis had been towards each other as two teenagers embarking on their first weekend of wild fun. Now, suddenly, over the period of one night, they'd grown into grandparents. They rarely spoke to each other—and that life and spark were gone. The bedroom life was normal—not bad or infrequent, but there was nothing special about it anymore. In fact, it was hard to say anything about anything anymore. There were no more individual moments; it had all rolled into sameness.

From the time Travis woke from his nightmare at 3:13 in the morning, it was only fourteen days till Karen disappeared.

Travis spent those two weeks in the office. Not working or really making milestones in his career, but just ticking the days away as if in a daze. If he happened to telephone home, she was rarely there. He found out from a mutual friend that she'd been taking the car for drives. Travis tried to pay less attention to her now, telling himself that it would all go away soon, she was just having a mid-life dilemma (not really a crisis, but a problem), and that she'd come to soon enough. He was lying to himself, he knew, but it made things easier. Things would never be the same again, and Travis knew that as much as he knew that Karen was aware of it as well. That was why when her car trips began to get longer and longer, Travis let her go.

Karen would come back from her drives with a visible glow about her, like a child first discovering the joys of chocolate. She would ramble on and on about where she'd gone, what she'd seen. Travis never knew so much could be done and seen from behind the wheel—he'd always thought of a car as a means of transport and a symbol of power. Nothing more. But the car was somehow adding that much needed spark to their dying lives. A few nights were even made more interesting as she insisted on having it in the car. It was small inside, but cozy. With the radio on, a blanket thrown over them both, things were starting to pick up a bit—or so he thought. They might actually ride this one out, though he doubted things would ever be really the same again...but it was nice to hope.

The fateful day came upon them—the day he'd known would ultimately descend and throw everything out the window. With one final, deciding stroke, it all came unraveling.

Travis had returned early from work. His marriage—his entire life—had been on the brink of shattering, and for no reason either. But it was starting to improve now, and he wanted to push that along faster if possible. Travis drove home, whistling, in the open seat of the Jag. He drove all the way up Moswich Hill in a single step, his foot never leaving the pedal.

Weather was great, really great. Bright, clear sky; lazy, floating clouds; hazy sun. Neighbors were overly friendly today, waving and calling cheerily about nothing.

He got to his gate, and then that feeling sank like a gem lost to the mud.

The front gate was open. Not ajar, but wide open, as if inviting in a marching parade.

Karen never did that. No matter how busy or preoccupied she was, she had a habit of closing things back—cupboards, doors, gates...

Travis sped in, his heart rate already doubling, sweat forming on his brow and under his armpits despite the dry coolness of the day. Sliding the car beside the covered body of the Bentley, he flipped the radio off, and realized for the first time how quiet everything was. He noticed the Lotus still parked.

Travis smiled, closed his eyes, then laughed at how silly he'd been.

Karen was just taking a late trip today. The car was still off, but the gate was open. It was obvious she was preparing to go out. He went over and felt the hood of the wine-mobile. Cold.

Yup, going out alright.

He was even happier now that he'd come home early today. He would join her, and who knows how much things might improve because of today? Whistling again, walking with a spring and visible skip in his step that would have probably turned a few heads had there been any heads to turn, Travis bounded up the stairs of his porch three at a time. Even if the door was ajar, so what? She was going out, right? Thinking of the surprise on her face when she saw him home early, Travis pushed the door in.

Why he'd been expecting to be ajar, he didn't know. It wasn't. Still excited as a kid on Christmas morning, Travis turned the knob. And that's when the cold rushed into his body.

The door was locked.

He turned it again to confirm, but it did not budge. All the curtains were pursed together, the windows in front of them locked. The gate was open, yet the front door was locked. Karen never locked the door when she was at home. This was a safe neighborhood, which was part of the reason why this house cost close to a million smackaroos, but—

But her car was still there, and the gate open.

What, you mean she decided to go for a walk, and opened the whole two gates to get out? And then left them open?

Not knowing what to think, Travis fumbled for his keys and burst into the living room. He combed quickly through the ground floor, even braving his fears and exploring the cellar. She wasn't hiding in a corner among the wine, nor was she hiding in the kitchen preparing ravioli and meat sauce. The main hall was empty, the sitting room. There was a spare room behind the kitchen—originally intended as the servants' quarters—that was locked, as usual. Travis broke out the keys and searched there. It took him a full five minutes of fumbling and dropping the keys and having to start again through the ring before he managed to get the door open. The single bed and table were there, all made out and neat, but empty. There was no sign that anything had been in here since they last cleaned the room. That's when he realized he'd really covered the whole property, and began to panic.

Travis gave himself a second running tour of his own home with a frantic madness, shouting her name. The yard was empty, and Travis had to force himself to look at the pool. He feared what he might find floating on its surface, drowned and bloated. Even more, he feared the water would be black. But it was not. There was no disturbance on the water to even suggest that the pool had anything in it. The only thing on its surface was a fallen leaf, no more bloated than his sweaty shirt. His face wretched into worry, Travis ran back in and dashed to the second floor.

In all his hurrying, Travis failed to see the thing sitting on his sofa.

He scoured through his bedroom, tearing curtains aside. When he got to the bathroom, that same swimming-pool feeling filled him. He ripped the showercurtain with a little scream, but the bathtub was empty and dry, no one purple and bloated floating. The beds all made. The cupboards were locked, which was strange in itself, but he was starting to give up now, starting to accept the truth, that she was gone. Really, really gone.

Karen, his wife, was gone.

Sweating, his heart rate and breathing rocketed up to a rate he hadn't known in some time, Travis stood at his wide windows, hands in his pockets. He thought he saw fog creeping in from the side, then realized it was only smoke. But the afternoon sun really was hiding somewhere now, wasn't it? Yes, he was sure that wasn't his imagination. He stood there, looking down over with a deepening sadness. Then he saw her car, and for some reason, that gave him the shivers. She'd loved that car, she really did. If she was going to leave him, he was surprised that she hadn't taken it with her. Well, she hadn't taken anything else from the house—not even a single change of clothes, from what he could tell—but how was she supposed to leave without a car?

A cab, silly!

But Travis remembered what the thing in her had said that night. Or else my mother will come take me. What? Was he supposed to have had told her to go back before her mother came? That's what it would seem like now.

Downstairs, the wind blew through the open back door, and something on the couch stirred.

It was still there when he came down, sitting on the sofa in perfect stillness.

He froze for a moment when he saw it, but then as if an overpowering curiosity took over, he stepped into the living room and stood about twenty feet behind the back of its chair.

Not much was visible other than the back that was dressed in a coarse, black robe. Ropy lengths of electrocuted dishwater hair frizzed all the way down to the floor—like it'd been cooked with a toaster or microwave. Travis stood for a moment before he realized he was prolonging the inevitable—giving his terror time enough to build up and explode. Travis sucked in his fears and went around it to see the front—to look that thing in the eye and scream.

There was a moment where Travis's heart felt like it had clamped up on itself and his lungs were trying to push themselves out of his throat. It was only a short moment, but it was the feeling that everything in the nightmare was coming real.

And then he realized the creature was just a giant stuffed doll—a farmer's scarecrow.

There was a smooth, painted face (with a spot of something red on its lips), straw spilling from through the openings in the black robe. There really weren't any feet or legs, just two broomsticks that stuck out from under the skirt-thing and didn't even reach the floor. Travis thought it odd that a scarecrow had legs at all—but, there was a scarecrow sitting on his living room couch. And every door and window in this place had been locked.

There was something clutched in those childish, stick-hands. A large, white envelope. Not large enough to hold unbent documents, but big enough to look childish and cartoony. Then he saw the hands.

Oh God it's real it's all real it's all going to happen like in the dream her hands look at her hands

Scarecrow hands are most commonly made from tufts of straw or wood, and rarely have fingers, but this one had individual fingers crafted from wood. They trailed on the ground.

That terror welled up in him for a moment, but Travis was more deeply filled with a sick feeling of boredom. Too much. All this was becoming too much. He knew what he would do. He would go there, take the envelope from those thing's monstrous, snake-like fingers, then he would drag it outside himself into the yard. There, after a generous washing of petrol from his wife's car, the scarecrow could join all its ancestors in the sky. He would burn it, then piss on it, perhaps throw the envelope into the fire for good measure. His wife ran out on him, left him with a terrifying toy to play with, but he was a grown man. He would get over it. And tonight, he would invite Greg and Louis and Steph, and they would have one swining bachelor party. Greg was the only married, but Travis knew things weren't wonderful between him and Celine.

It was a great plan—a noble effort, by any measure—but the only thing Travis really did was destroy the scarecrow.

But first:

Travis walked over to the couch, unaware of the booby trap that'd been set. As he neared the sofa, the Hush Puppies struck a thin, invisible string. It all happened so fast.

Travis was only aware he'd triggered something when the giant plasma screen on the wall came tumbling down. The cost of a good car exploded into chips of plastic and circuitboards and grey liquid as the crystal splattered all over the white carpet. Travis saw all this in slow motion, in horror, but had that moment of anger before a shadow swept past him, and he felt something rising up from the sofa in the corner of his vision. A part of his mind saw the string attached, but that part was too slow. When the scarecrow jumped up from the seat and fell against him, long fingers grabbing and reaching, the head lolling like a broken lollipop, Travis screamed.

Later, when the boogieman was nothing more than a smudge of wet ashes, Travis returned to the envelope. It sat on the table, inviting, so inviting. But now it was nighttime, and of late, Travis had become a man much more prone to Nyctophobia. Tucking the envelope under his arm, he trotted off to his first insomniac night.

Coward, something told him just before he drifted off. You should have burned the letter.

The next day, he awoke with Casio proclaiming unabashed that it was 4:30. He never got back to sleep. He thought of the letter sitting on his writing table, but it was still dark outside. Travis sat at the window instead.