Lair of Dreams

Henry came to on the floor of his room in the Bennington, the sheets tangled around his ankles, his heart pounding. He’d fallen out of bed, and it had been enough to wake him. Ling was still there in that terrible place. From where he lay, he could see the telephone on the side table in the hall, but the post-dream paralysis kept him anchored to the floor, counting down the seconds until he could move again.





The swarm in the dark grew louder.

Ling tried to run but stumbled, putting a hand to the wall to steady herself. The picture inside the stone was disrupted. One by one, the bricks showed the same image of the veiled woman’s face. Serrated teeth glinted beneath the netting. But it was the ghost’s dark eyes that unsettled her most—they were fixed on Ling’s.

A soft ringing sounded in the tunnel, but it was drowned out by the hideous guttural whine. Glowing fingers pushed through the walls as if the tunnel were giving birth to a dozen nightmares at once.

“Who dares disturb my dream?” The veiled woman drew closer. In her hand, a knife shone.

Ling shook. She wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn’t tear them away from the things slithering out of the tunnel walls, and the queen leading them.

Wake up, Ling thought. Please let me wake up.

The soft ringing was mingled with the bestial noise. And then it rose above the din, becoming a brash, insistent alarm that surrounded Ling, capturing her full attention. Her body went heavy as the dream faded into a gray blankness.

“Ohhh,” Ling moaned in her bed. Her body ached horribly, but she didn’t care. She had never before been so grateful to be awake.

Through her closed bedroom door, she heard her mother complaining angrily. “A wrong number. I’d like to see whoever that was have his sleep ruined.…”

Ling managed a weak smile. The telephone. That’s what had brought her back. Henry. Henry hadn’t left her.

She looked down at her hand.

The angry burn was still there.





The sedan carrying the two men crept steadily along rain-drenched roads. Both men were of roughly the same height, neither too tall nor too short, too fat nor too slim. They were dressed in the same dark suits, pressed white shirts with starched collars, and deep gray fedoras pulled down snugly on heads of closely cropped hair that fell on the color spectrum somewhere between dun and dirt. They were unremarkable in appearance, men meant to disappear into their surroundings, leaving no trace of their ever having been. When they stepped into a store or a roadside cafe, the owners of these establishments would be hard-pressed to remember any details about them. The men were courteous. Kept to themselves. Paid the tab, left a tip, and did not make a mess. For the men were well acquainted with messes and the cleaning thereof.

The men drove. Sometimes their drives took them to small towns in the middle of the country, to houses where anxious mothers listened to their questions and patted the hems of aprons gone gray with the years and from a lack of coins in the cookie tin.

We’re simply following up on this article in the local paper about your neighbor’s son, the Diviner? When did he first exhibit these Diviner talents, as you say?

Did you or anyone else see these ghosts?

Have you ever heard him make mention of seeing a funny gray man in a stovepipe hat?

No, I’m sure you’re not in any danger, but such people should be watched. You needn’t worry. We’ll take care of that. Just go on and live your normal life.

But remain alert.

Report anything suspicious.

The windows of a roadside cafe smiled a golden welcome into the night.

“Pie sounds good, Mr. Adams,” the driver said, angling off the road.

“I do like pie, Mr. Jefferson,” the passenger replied.

Inside, it was warm. A few locals bent their heads over plates of eggs and sandwiches, just a few islands of humanity, together in their aloneness. The men took their seats and blended in. The waitress poured two cups of hot black coffee and brought out plates of apple pie, and the men finished both. The cafe had a radio. A program burbled from the speakers, some girl preacher leading sinners to Jesus: “Let the Holy Ghost be your senator and your congressman.…”

“You fellas from around here?” the waitress asked, clearing the empty plates and leaving the bill.

“Not far.”

“What line of work you in?”

“We’re salesmen…” Mr. Adams glanced at the waitress’s name tag. “Hazel.”

“Oh? Whatcha selling?”

He smiled. “America.”

“Would you fellas like more coffee for the road?” Hazel the waitress asked.

Mr. Adams gave an apologetic smile. “I expect we should be moving on,” he said, taking on the vocal inflections of the locals in the cafe. Even speech patterns could give one away. “Thanks for the pie.”