Books 1–4 Read online

  The local man was Archie Kalish.

  I am drowning in the dreams of madmen.

  I can feel them pressing against my brain, a dozen insistent ghosts with empty eyes and prying fingers. For the first time since I’ve reclaimed my flesh, I realize the extent of The Other’s evolution. If I had remained doped any longer, it would have been too late. I would never have regained control, and everything would be lost. I do not have the strength or the knowledge to block their dreams. The Other knows I can’t— won’t—let it surface long enough to control the problem. Now I’m being pulled down by the undertow.

  A smiling young man with the face of a bible student and the eyes of a reptile puts out a cigarette on the naked crotch of a four-year-old boy. The child’s screams are warped and swallowed by the vacuum of dreamtime.

  I am surrounded by twisted mountains and weirdly sculpted buttes; the earth is a cracked spider web of baked red clay, where animals and people are staked out on the desert’s floor. Horses, pregnant women, men in business suits, dogs, old ladies—they’re all doused in kerosene. A man stands in the middle and laughs as he clicks his Zippo over and over and over.

  Walking through an empty house, I can see things crouching in the dimness, crouching behind half-opened doors, waiting for me to make the mistake of entering.

  I’m tied to an iron bedstead, hands manacled above my head. There is a demon made of leather standing at the foot of the bed, covered in zippers and spikes. As it lifts a hand to caress my face, I see the scalpels growing from its knuckles. And I start to laugh because I know I’m in a dream, but it’s not me who is laughing; it’s The Other.

  I try to run away because The Other is coming and I need to escape the dreamtime before it gains full control, but I get lost... Explosions of lava... animals that speak ... letters in wax melt into walls of blood ... the sound of the Second Angel crying like a hungry child... cadavers smeared with quicklime and cinders... burning dogs hanging from lamp posts...

  Suddenly I’m standing in a barren room, staring at a tall, thin man dressed in institutional pajamas. He looks pissed.

  “Get out of my head, bitch,” the dreamer growls.

  I’ve got to get out of here and back into my body. The Other is free.

  How pathetic. Minor-league monsters strutting and performing in their private Grand Guignols. How fucking lame. You want fear? You want terror? You want to see what it’s really like to be a monster?

  You used to know, before they caught you and threw you in this playpen. Now you have to dream about blood and pain instead of living it out. You’re no longer free to actualize the perfection of your private hells on the flesh of your victims. But that’s the way life is. Once you’re caught, assholes, you’re at the mercy of others. Welcome to your nightmares.

  The leather demon moved to strike the woman manacled to the bed frame. Laughing was not allowed. Screaming and begging for mercy, yes, but laughing was strictly forbidden.

  It raised its bristling fist in anticipation of slicing through unresisting flesh. The woman shrugged, indifferent to the threat, and the manacles abruptly fell away like cheap plastic toys. The leather demon faltered, realizing for the first time that the course of the dream had been altered.

  The woman was suddenly on her feet, clawing at the demon’s shiny black leather shell. The face mask was a mass of fetish zippers. She ignored them, digging her fingers instead into the top of the leather demon’s skull, peeling it as she would a fresh orange. The leather demon started to struggle as its head was ripped open, the husk parting to reveal empty air. There was no blood, no flesh, only dream. The leather demon raised a groping hand to where its face should have been. The scalpels and bits of jagged metal grafted to its knuckles began to rust away, turning into oxidized flakes of corrosion. Its body jerked crazily as the dreamstuff was drained from it in invisible spurts.

  Chuckling, The Other strolled into the next dreamscape.

  At first there was only fire, then the inferno lessened and The Other could see the things that were burning. A wino dressed in rags and doused in kerosene rolled on the ground, clawing at the flames that ate his hair and skin, his face a riot of heat blisters and broken capillaries. A dog, its tail alight, raced madly from place to place, howling in dumb, uncomprehending pain. A curtain of flame parted to reveal Puerto Rican family crouching against the red earth. The parents had the children clustered around them, and although their mouths never opened, The Other could hear the wailing of frightened infants and the futile prayers of the adults.

  The Other found the dreamer squatting in the heart of the fire. He was dressed in white and there wasn’t a drop of sweat marring his linen suit. The Other smiled at him and laughed even louder when he recoiled. He tried to squirm away by shifting dreams, but the Other was too fast for him to escape so easily. She clamped her hands around his wrists, pulling him to his feet. She felt him shiver in revulsion as she pressed her mouth to his.

  The dreamer began to sweat, the beads breaking out on his forehead and upper lip. Within seconds he was soaked in perspiration, his lips cracking from dehydration. A wisp of smoke rose from his collar. His pant leg ignited with a polite cough. He struggled desperately to free himself, but The Other shook her head as if admonishing an unruly child and continued to hold fast. The dreamer’s hair ignited with a dry crackle as blisters rose on his face with the speed of time-lapse photography. By the time his eyes boiled in their sockets, the Other had grown bored and went looking for fresher game.

  The Other walked into Malcolm’s dream, trailing shreds of black leather and the acrid odor of smoke in her wake. She knew what she’d find Malcolm doing, as he’d become The Other’s favorite over the past few weeks.

  Malcolm was putting alligator clips on a nine-year-old girl’s nipples. She was sitting upright, her Girl Scout uniform hanging in tatters about her waist. He’d bound her hands behind her back with the badge sash and stuffed the beret in her mouth. Her face was made up like a model’s. Malcolm towered over his victim, his dimensions stretched to those of a fairytale giant.

  The Other placed a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, easing herself into the rhythm of his dream. Suddenly he began to dwindle, like a sugar cube in the rain. He whimpered, trying to shield himself, and prayed he would wake up soon. The Other’s laughter grew deeper as her features flowed into coarser, far more masculine contours, looming over the dreamer like a mountain.

  “Come, Malcolm,” The Other said in a voice like thunder. “Time to play with Daddy.”

  Claude was still sitting at the dreamtime diner, staring at the report of Kalish’s death in the newspaper, when a teen-aged girl popped into existence in the chair opposite him. She had long blonde hair and was dressed in clothing decades out of style. Hagerty thought she was beautiful, in that well-scrubbed girl-next-door kind of way.

  “Are you awake?” the girl asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Claude replied honestly.

  “Then I’m still dream-walking, damn it! I need to get back before The Other gains control.” The girl got to her feet and began to pace the confines of Hagerty’s dreamscape. She turned and glared at him. “You’re not one of the patients, are you?”.

  “No, I work here... I mean, at Elysian Fields. Hell! Why should I bother explaining myself to a dream?

  “Am I a dream?.”

  “What else could you be? At least you’re not that god-awful nightmare, though...”

  The girl stopped smiling. “She’s been here? In your dreams?”

  Claude felt his conscious mind starting to rebel. He didn’t want to dream anymore, but his subconscious was forcing the issue. The walls of the club began to melt. The girl drew her legs under herself and floated in midair, hands locked across her knees. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t quite place it.

  “Pretend you never saw us. Pretend we never existed. Leave this place and go somewhere nice and peaceful, Claude Hagerty...”

  “How do you know my nam
e?”

  “You created me, didn’t you?” she replied. “I’m your dream, aren’t I?” She fell silent, as if listening to something far away. “I’m afraid I can’t stay. She’s in control now. And she’s decided it’s time to go.” The girl unwrapped herself and kicked upward, soaring through layers of dream with the ease of a championship swimmer.

  Claude moved to follow her, but his feet were mired in syrup. “Wait! Tell me who you are! Are you the woman in Room Seven?”

  She did not pause in her ascent, but her voice sounded as if she was standing beside him. Or in him. “My name is Denise Thorne. Her name is Sonja Blue.”

  Time to go.

  She’d had enough of this place, with its endless drugs and intravenous feedings. Her defenses against the narcotics were complete. The madhouse was not without diversions, but they did not justify delaying her departure.

  She stood up, tossing matted hair out of her eye, as the drugs in her system were purged from her bloodstream. Her mind was clear and her body her own. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders once. Twice. The canvas fabric fell away, revealing naked white flesh. She lifted her arms, studying the scars studding the inner forearms. She noticed that they had not bothered to trim her fingernails during her imprisonment. Good. She’d need them.

  Moonlight limned her in silver and shadow, beckoning her to leave. Lizard-like, she scaled the wall of her prison until she was level with the window. It was three inches thick, interwoven with wire mesh, designed to withstand repeated blows from a sledgehammer. It took four blows from her right fist for it to break, although every finger in her hand had shattered by the third try. She pulled herself through the narrow window into the darkness, midwife to her own rebirth. Her ribs groaned then snapped as she forced herself through the opening, spearing her left lung. She spat a streamer of blood into the night air.

  She clung to the brick face of the building, luxuriating in the feel of cold air rushing past her naked flesh. For the first time in months, she was alive. The wind caught her laughter, sending it across Elysian Fields’ grounds. Behind her she could hear the Danger Ward’s inmates shrieking and wailing as their nightmares dumped them back into the reality of their madness. Her right hand was beginning to burn, but she was used to pain. It would pass.

  Sonja Blue began to crawl, headfirst, down the wall of the madhouse.

  Claude Hagerty woke to find himself standing outside Room Seven, the keys clutched in his hands. A wave of disorientation struck him and he reached for the doorframe to steady himself. Looking down the corridor, he could see the security gate standing open. Then he heard the cacophony from the patients. How could he have slept through that, much less sleepwalk?

  The dream was still with him. He could see the young girl with the honey- blonde hair, dressed in clothes that were just coming back into style. He saw the sadness in her eyes and heard the weariness in her voice. What was it she had said?

  ‘She’s decided it’s time to go now.’

  Hagerty unlocked Room Seven. He wasn’t concerned about the patient escaping or worried about getting hurt. He already knew what he’d find.

  The straitjacket lay on the floor like an empty snakeskin. He tracked the vertical rips in the canvas wall padding, the cotton ticking oozing from the rents. Cool air gusted into the room, dispelling the closeness. Even in the half-dark he could make out the jagged teeth of the broken safety glass lining the window. The blood drying on the wall was the color of shadow.

  Chapter Three

  Transcript of Police Interview of William Burdette, Night Manager of Hit-n-Git #321:

  Burdette: Look, I told you guys this shit five times already. If you don’t believe me, why don’t you give me one of them lie-detector tests?

  Officer Golden: It’s standard procedure, Mr. Burdette. We have no reason to doubt your account of what happened. We just simply need to have it transcribed by a departmental steno, that’s all. It’ll save you from coming back downtown should we have any further questions...

  Burdette: Okay. So where do you want me to start?

  Officer Golden: Just start from the beginning, Mr. Burdette.

  Burdette: Uh, my name is William Burdette; I work at the Hit-n-Git over on Claypool. I’m the night manager there. I work the graveyard shift—that’s from eleven at night to seven in the morning. I’m there by myself. It’s a rough part of town. I get a lot of street people and junkies, you know? I’ve been held up a couple of times before. Never like this, though. This morning, I guess it was around 4 a.m., I was in the back of the store, near the canned-food section, when she comes in. We’ve got one of them chimes that goes off when someone opens the front door. So I look up and see this bag lady come in. I think, oh, great! That’s all I need is some old skank coming in and tracking up my store! So I put up my mop and go behind the counter so I can keep an eye on her, right? But when I get up front, I sees she’s no bag lady. She’s real young—early twenties, maybe—and she’s wearing these grungy clothes that look like she took them off a wino or something.

  Officer Golden: Could you describe what she was wearing in more detail, Mr. Burdette?

  Burdette: Oh, sure. The shirt was a long-sleeved flannel jobbie, like they give out at the mission. It was three sizes too big for her and she had the sleeves rolled up over her elbows. That’s how I seen them marks up and down her arms.

  Officer Golden: You mean tattoos?

  Burdette: Nah—more like needle tracks, like you see on junkies. I didn’t get too good a look. And she was wearing a pair of tan workpants a size too big for her. They were seriously gross ... smeared with mud and God knows what else. I noticed she weren’t wearing no shoes, neither. Her hair was hanging down in her face and it was real long and dirty, like it she hadn’t washed it in a month of Sundays. I’m used to the junkies wandering in at all hours, and a figured that’s what she was. But what was weird about this chick was what she didn’t do. Most junkies head straight for the snacks and load up on junk food. But this one went to the back of the store, where we got this carousel rack full of sunglasses, and started trying on shades. She had her back to me, so I never got a real good look at her head-on, but she moved kind of jerky. Real weird. I knew she was going to try to steal a pair of shades. Didn’t have to be Sherlock to figure that one out. But I was so busy watching her; I didn’t pay that much attention to the white dude who walked in a couple minutes later. The next thing I know there’s this sawed-off staring me right in the face. The white guy says: ‘Give it up.’ So I fucking forgot all about the girl. All I could see was that damned shotgun. So’s I open the till. I got forty bucks in there, and that’s about it. I give it to the holdup man and he says: ‘That’s all you got?’ I know right then he’s going to snuff me. I can hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes. He was going to blow me away because I didn’t have enough money. I could already see my brains getting splattered all over the cigarette display and dripping off the funny-book rack.

  Then I hear this . . . noise. It sounded like cats being boiled alive. Then I realize it’s coming from inside the store, where the junkie was standing. I don’t think the holdup guy even knew she was in the store. He turns around and shoots blind, blowing hell out of my Dr. Pepper display. He must have missed, because the junkie chick runs at the dude like she’s going to tackle him, and all I can think is that she’s going to get us both killed. She’s screaming her head off when she plows into him. This guy was big, mind you. He had to be some kind of biker or something. And she takes him out! She drove her shoulder blade into his gut while grabbing his gun hand at the same time! That’s when the second barrel went off, knocking that hole in the ceiling. Damn thing went off inches from my head. Felt like someone up and hit me with a two-by-four! That’s when I dived for cover behind the counter and stayed there. Next thing I know there’s a cop looking down at me, asking me if I’m hurt. My ears were still ringing pretty good, and it took me a while before I could hear enough to understand what people were asking me. I guess I
was in shock or something, because I kept asking about the girl. The cops who answered the silent alarm didn’t know what the fuck I was talking about.

  When I got up off the floor, all I saw was a bunch of shot-to-hell Dr. Pepper two-liters. There was no girl, dead or alive. Not even any blood. The dude’s sawed-off was on top of the check-out counter, sealed up in an evidence bag. The cop that found me said it was lying on the floor when he came in. I couldn’t figure it out. Then I saw the doors. You see, the store’s got these double glass doors. During the day both of them are unlocked, but after midnight I lock one side so I can keep better track of who’s coming in and going, see? Both of them doors were hanging off their hinges and there was busted glass all over the parking lot! Looked like someone rode a motorcycle through them ... from inside the store! I don’t know what the hell that junkie chick was on, but I’m glad I didn’t get in her way! Like I said, I never seen her before and I hope I’ll never see her again.

  Officer Golden: Mr. Burdette, what exactly was stolen from your store?

  Burdette: Well, the money the holdup guy took from the till was found scattered across the parking lot. So the only thing I know for sure was taken from the store was a pair of sunglasses. The mirrored kind. And that’s only because I saw her wearing them just before she plowed into the asshole.

  Officer Golden: That’s all that was stolen? A pair of mirrored sunglasses?

  Burdette: You got it.

  Officer Golden: Are you sure of that?

  Burdette: Yeah. And I’m also sure as fuck quitting my chicken-shit job.

  Irma Clesi opened the door to her apartment. She was dressed in a shapeless housecoat and fluffy house shoes, her head lumpy with rollers. Five-thirty in the god-damned morning! Every day for the last twenty years she woke up at five-thirty so she could fix that lazy slob’s breakfast. And what thanks did she get for sending him off to work with something beside cold cereal in his gut? A kiss? A hug? A simple ‘Thanks, honey?’ No fucking way. The bastard didn’t even have the common decency to offer to take out the garbage.