She set the empty beer bottle on the small round table beside the armchair and closed her eyes. Fatigued to the point at which the mere idea of lifting her arms from the arms of the chair was itself physically tiring, she nevertheless doubted that she would sleep. Her tumbling thoughts had no capacity for exhaustion. From as far back as she could remember, she had been the girl whose mind was always spinning. In sleep, of course, that mental wheel still turned, and it spun forth a thread of dreams….
If the tall robed-and-hooded figures appeared in her dreams that night, they were among presences and occurrences that she didn’t later remember. The sheet-wrapped corpse that played supporting roles in her occasional nightmares, that clearly wanted to be center stage, sat now in several scenes in different places, prevented by its bound condition from a more active performance. Its immobility was curious, considering that anything should be possible in a dream; the cadaver could have split out of its cocoon at the whim of the dreamer’s mind, could have shown its face and wounds as it capered or threatened or strode the stage in a solemn soliloquy. Instead, it appeared in her hospital room as it had been before, in a chair near the window, its shroud colored by a blazing sunset, and it spoke through its fabric mask: “The forms…the forms…things unknown.” Or it sat beside her on the wicker sofa, on the bungalow porch, struggling unsuccessfully to press a hand through the cotton sheeting to touch her, whispering, “…supreme master…” and “…must be truth…” and “…nothing…nothing at all….” Or she opened a door and found the wrapped corpse standing at the threshold as it said, “…forces of nature….”
As weary as Bibi was, slumped there in the office armchair, her encounters with the corpse were not fearsome enough to break the hold of sleep. But later, a more harrowing nightmare had its way with her, more harrowing because it was more than just a dream….
She is young, not quite six, alone in her bed, where night presses at the bungalow windows. The only light is dim and largely confined to that farther corner of the room where a Mickey Mouse night-light has been plugged in to a wall outlet. Bibi is a small child, but not afraid of the dark. She has been as much embarrassed as amused by Mickey glowing over there in his yellow shoes and red pants, with his big silly smile. Her parents bought the little five-watt lamp a week earlier because they decided that all children needed reassurance in the dark. Well, Bibi is a child, but not a baby. She is so done with being a baby. Stupid Mickey watching over her is like being told she is still a baby and always will be a baby. Some nights she gets out of bed and unplugs the stupid glowing mouse. She doesn’t want to hurt her parents’ feelings. They mean well. Which is why she hasn’t thrown Mickey away or put him in the bathroom where maybe he wouldn’t upset her so much. She really, really, really doesn’t want him here. Until this night. Now she is grateful that she is not in total darkness.
She lies on her back in bed, the covers pulled up to her chin, listening intently, waiting for the thing to move. From time to time, it crawls or creeps, or slides, or does whatever the heck it does to get around. But then it goes quiet for a while, as if it’s thinking what to do next, thinking about what it wants and how to get it. This has been going on for more than an hour.
Earlier, before the bad thing started to happen, there were the voices and music of the TV, turned low in the living room, which had been nice. If there were those sounds now, Bibi would feel much braver than she does. But the house is quiet, so that when the thing decides to start moving again, there is nothing else she can listen to other than the little noises it makes. This wouldn’t be so bad if it were a mouse like Mickey, scurrying around, making mouse sounds. Then she would get out of bed and try to win its trust, catch it gently and carry it outside to let it go free. Mouse sounds were cute, and a mouse would be scared, not dangerous, just frightened. This is not a mouse, however, and she doesn’t think it is afraid.
She doesn’t want to scream or call for help. That is total baby behavior. And if her mom and dad come running, maybe they won’t find anything. Then they will tease her forever and ever. Something is here in the bedroom with her, for sure, but maybe only she can see and hear it. That’s how it sometimes is in stories and on TV. And there is another worry. Maybe her parents will see and hear it. And maybe it will hurt them. If it hurts them, that will be Bibi’s fault. Instead of screaming, she wishes the thing away, and every time it becomes quiet, she thinks it is gone. But it is not gone. Aunt Edith, who sometimes visits from Arizona, says if wishes were fishes, no one would go hungry, but Bibi wishes anyway, uselessly, hopelessly.