Lair of Dreams

Gaspard barked happily and trotted up to Henry, his tail wagging like a flyswatter, and poked his wet nose into Henry’s hand. Henry rubbed at the dog’s floppy ears, enjoying the familiar softness of them. Gaspard’s slobbery tongue slicked Henry’s cheek.

“Everybody wants to kiss you,” Louis said, laughing, and Henry’s throat tightened again. It was just like Louis to dream of his dog.

Gaspard tore away, sniffing ahead of them on the path. The hound tensed near a climbing wall of flowering morning glories, growling and barking at the purplish buds.

“Gaspard! C’mon, boy! Come away from there,” Louis said sharply.

“What’s the matter?” Henry asked.

“I don’t want him in those flowers. Don’t like ’em.”

Henry thought perhaps Louis was joking, but one look at his face said he wasn’t.

“They’re just flowers,” Henry said.

“Gaspard, c’mon, boy!” Louis whistled, and the dog came running. Louis dropped down and nuzzled his face into the dog’s fur. “Good boy.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Henry asked.

Louis replaced his frown with a smile. “Fine as morning. Kiss me once for luck, cher. And twice for love. And three times means we’ll meet again.”

Henry kissed him till he lost count.





In her bed, Ling groaned with pain and exhaustion. Her eyes fluttered open long enough for her to feel the terrible ache deep in her bones. She slid her hand under her pillow, her fingers just touching the cold edge of George’s track medal as she fell into a deep sleep.

Ling stood in Columbus Park. Clouds roiled overhead in anticipation of some storm.

A heartbeat thrummed in her ears, insistent as a drum.

Every post and tree she saw had the same sign: MISSING. MISSING. MISSING.

George Huang pulsed in the gloom, a ghostly heartbeat. His pale skin was fissured like broken pottery glued back together, and red blisters shone on his neck. When he lifted his threadbare hand, his bones showed through like an X-ray. George spread his arms, and the scene shifted back and forth, as if they were cards being pushed and pulled quickly through a stereoscope. One minute, it was the familiar pathways, trees, and pavilion of the park; the next, the park was gone, and in its place were ominous tenements, shacks with rotting shutters, and filthy streets piled with garbage.

The dream changed. Now Ling found herself in City Hall Park. George floated just above a metal grate beside a drinking fountain. He pointed to a row of buildings behind her. Ling turned back to George, and he fell like rain through the bars of the grate. She crawled onto the grate to look for him and it gave way, plunging her down and down into the darkness.

She was inside the train station. The old sign was there—BEACH PNEUMATIC TRANSIT COMPANY—but rot raced along the walls, the decay taking over, devouring the dream’s beauty. Light trembled against the velvety dark of the tunnel like a handful of firecrackers tossed up on Chinese New Year, and in those brief flashes, Ling saw pale blots of form. Eyes. Ravenous mouths. Sharp teeth. There was an ominous insectlike chorus, growing louder.

George’s glow was unsteady now, as if he were a Christmas light winking out. He moved his lips as if trying to speak. It seemed to require a tremendous effort. Each time he tried, more sores appeared on his body. Behind him, the dark crackled and crawled with faulty radiance, and the filthy hole filled with animalistic shrieks and growls and broken ends of words, a great roaring wave of terrifying sound curling up into an obliterating crest.

Ling’s legs shook with terror. She could not move. In a strobe of light, the veiled woman appeared, her dress dripping with blood as she walked. She was coming up behind George, and Ling wanted to warn him about the things in the dark and the woman, but she could only choke on her fear. George Huang stood his ground even as the sores multiplied, spreading across his chest and up his neck, burning his skin down to the bone in spots. He fought the pain.

And just before the crawling, hungry wave reached him, George choked out his words at last: “Ling Chan—Wake. Up.”

Ling woke in her bed. Desperately, she swallowed down air. On the other side of her window, the winter moon was full and bright. The only sound she heard now was her pulse thumping wildly in her head. She was safe. She was fine. It had just been a bad dream.

Only when Ling settled back against the pillow did she realize that she clutched George’s prized track medal.





The crowded bus was standing room only as it lurched down Fifth Avenue across steaming manhole covers, dodging New Yorkers bundled up against the stiff winter wind, but Henry was jolly. He gripped the hand loop and whistled “Rivière Rouge” to the amusement of two young girls giggling in the seats below him, and to the annoyance of the driver, who barked that he could either whistle or walk, his choice.

“I can hum it, if you’d prefer,” Henry answered merrily.

“Out!” the driver said, stopping the bus ten blocks shy of Henry’s destination.