LuckSon woke with a start. He was sweating and cold. It was pitch black in the room. He had heard the crash coming from the front of the house. Something had tipped over the bottle and was trying to get in. His dream and the sense of danger he had felt came flooding back to him.
Then there were loud banging noises beating on the front door. The slow mutie must be trying to get in, but the lock and the chair were holding. Luckily slow muties weren’t very smart or it would have gone for a window, but something in their brains was convinced they had to go through doors like a normal human would. That was the good news. On the other hand, the bad news was that it knew he was in there. If that thing started howling he was a goner.
LuckSon rolled out of bed and reached for his pack. He pulled out his hunting knife and hoped the slow mutie wouldn’t make it in. He hadn’t ever had to fight with his hunting knife. Up until this point he had relied on guns to fight off the slow muties. His mother had spent many days teaching him how to shoot and he had gotten very good at it. It was thanks to his mother’s instructions and the firearms he had used in the past that he had survived as long as he had.
Unfortunately, ammunition had gotten harder and harder to find. He used the last of his shells a few days ago making the old gun he had been carrying around worthless. It was in such bad shape he had ended up throwing it away, leaving him with only his hunting knife to defend himself with.
He wondered if a knife would even work against a slow mutie. He knew deep inside if that thing got in and found him he was dead. He could barely see in the darkness. That thing would come after him by smelling him he was sure. His best bet was to crawl under the bed and hide, but he couldn’t get himself to do that. Under the bed he would be a sitting duck.
With each smash of a fist against the door, he felt his heart leap. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. He felt like a clock that had been wound too tight and now the slightest touch would cause it to burst. He tried to look around the room for something to block the door with or fight with, but it was hopeless. He could barely make out the outline of the window in the dark moonless night.
“Easy there,” he whispered to himself. “It can’t get in.”
After what seemed like forever the banging stopped. The slow mutie must have given up. Still, LuckSon wasn’t about to relax. He waited in the dark crouched on the floor, his ears straining to hear any noise. After what felt like forever, he finally breathed a sigh and put his knife back in his pack. He silently swore to himself. How was he ever going to get out of this place alive? He crawled back into the bed, but sleep had fled from him. He doubted he would be able to sleep again that night.
As he lay in bed, his mind slowly remembered the dream he had and how real the young lady had seemed. “Stacy,” he whispered into the darkness, “Thanks for the warning, but what am I supposed to do now?”
Wow, he was really starting to lose it, he thought. It had taken several years, but now he was talking to a picture, and worse, it was talking back in his dreams.
Stacy sat straight up in bed and opened her eyes. She was cold and sweating. The dream had been so real. She glanced over at her alarm clock. It was five in the morning. She didn’t have to get up for another hour, but she was too wound up and scared to go back to sleep.
That was the weirdest dream. She tried to think if she had ever dreamt about a stranger two nights in a row. Shaking her head, she said to herself “This is what happens when all you do is work and study for days and days. You start to lose your grip on reality.”
She turned on the light and reached for her laptop. At least she could work on her essay. As she pulled her laptop out of her bag, it caught on her diary and both came out onto her bed. She reached over and opened up her diary. Her last entry had been a few days after she had moved in. It talked about how she had painted her room and how happy she was not to have to pay the security deposit.
On a whim, she grabbed a pen from her nightstand and started to write.
November 12 – Last night I had the strangest dream. I can’t remember much about it, except this really scary sense of doom and dread. And there was a feeling of urgency, like time was running out. There was also this guy. I’ve dreamed about him the past two nights in a row. He had the coolest blue eyes. In my dream his name was Luck Some. What a strange name. Oh wait, he also told me he was the Last. Then there was this loud crash and I woke up scared to death. What a crazy dream!
Anyways, I better get working on my essay. It’s due today.
She put down her pen and diary on her night stand. “There” she said out loud. “I may not have finished my essay yet, but at least I finally wrote in my diary.”
She paused, again thinking of the dream and the twelve stones standing in a circle. It had all seemed so real. Even now, when she thought about it, the image of the first stone easily came back to her mind, along with the engraved word: nibaa. How could she remember such a strange word so clearly? And yet, in her mind, if she tried, she could easily remember all twelve stones and words.
Shaking her head to clear her mind, she reached for her laptop. There wasn’t time to think about strange dreams. If she concentrated she could make a dent in this essay and maybe, with a little luck she would have a draft ready to turn in that afternoon.
She got up and quickly pulled on some clothes. She then carried her laptop to the kitchen and plopped herself down at the kitchen table.
Mrs. Whitting walked in from her bedroom. She was wearing another of her crazy T-Shirts. This one said “Problem? Take it up with the heads of my complaint department: Smith and Wesson.” Her grey hair was sticking up in all directions. In her hand she carried her bible. She didn’t seem to go anywhere without it.
“Good morning, Mrs. Whitting.” Stacy said cheerfully.
“Humph,” came the grunted reply. This was normal for the old woman. She could substitute that word for just about any response. She walked over to the stove to start making coffee. “You’re up early. You usually don’t wake up for another hour or so,” the old woman commented.
“Yeah. I just had a bad dream. Woke up and thought I would try and finish my English paper to get my mind off it.”
“Bad dream huh? Hmm. That’s odd. Me too. You know, I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” the old woman mumbled as she reached for her coffee mug.
“Sure” Stacy said. “What’s up?”
After a moment, the old woman whispered “I get these premonitions. These feelings. They sometimes keep me up at night when they get real bad. Got one before the Soviets tried to park a hundred cruise missiles in Cuba. Got another one the week before 9/11.” She paused for a moment.
Stacy wasn’t sure how to respond so she just waited. Mrs. Whitting finished pouring her coffee, and came and sat down across from her at the kitchen table. The seriousness of the old woman’s expression gave her the chills.
“Somethin’ bad is comin’ for you child. It’s not the big one. Oh no, that is still a little ways out. No, I mean you specifically. You be extra careful these next few days.”
“What do you mean?” Stacy asked.
“I’m not exactly sure. I just know that last night, I kept feeling a sense of dread, a sense of danger, and it was comin’ from your room. Somethin’ bad is out there. I just want you to be extra careful, is all.” As the old woman talked, Stacy felt chills on her arms and her neck.
The sense of doom and danger from her dreams came back to her as she stared into the old woman’s eyes. “I’m - sure I’m just fine Mrs. Whitting,” she stuttered trying to assure both the old woman as well as herself.
“Stacy,” Mrs. Whitting continued seriously. “Really. I’m serious. Be careful over the next few days.”
Stacy felt like the air seemed tense and stifling in the small kitchen. Suddenly she really wanted to get out of there. “I have to go get ready for class. Sorry.”
She quickly got up and headed back to her room. Could this day get any stranger? She thought to herself. First her crazy dreams, now Mrs. Whitting was going all spooky on her. What was going on, something in the water?
The old woman watched her leave with a concerned look in her eyes. “Somethin’ bad is coming,” she mumbled. “Sure as gas follows beans.”
Dream Walker Novels