Free The Cure for Dreaming by Cat Winters

let loose a nervous giggle. “You’ve read
Dracula
at least four times in the past year.”
    â€œYes, I know that.”
    â€œAnd now you’re telling me your father looks like a vampire?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDon’t you think that’s a little . . . peculiar?”
    â€œYes, it is peculiar, but I was hypnotized, Frannie. You sawthe power Henri Reverie had over me last night. He’s like a sorcerer who changed the world for my eyes alone, and I can’t bear the thought of going out there and seeing my father—or any other man—with fangs and bloodless skin and—”
    â€œAll right.” She sprang off the bed. “I believe you’re truly seeing something troubling, but perhaps Mr. Reverie simply stirred up your imagination.”
    â€œHe’s supposed to be
killing off
my imagination. Father hired him to cure me of my dreams.”
    She winced. “But if these aren’t dreams or imaginings . . . what are they?”
    â€œThey seem real. They seem true. How can I go home to Father when he looks like that?”
    My nose itched as if it required either a cry or a good sneeze. I scratched the tip with the back of one hand.
    Frannie walked over to me and coaxed my hand between her palms. “Have supper with us tonight.”
    I shook my head. “Father will worry when he sees I’m not home.”
    â€œWe’ll ask Carl to run over to his office and tell him we’ve invited you to stay. And then Carl and I will take you home after supper so I can see for myself if anything looks different about your father. I’ll even give you a little sign if he appears to be normal.”
    â€œWhat type of sign?”
    â€œWell . . .” She scraped her teeth over her bottom lip. “I’ll say, ‘I still can’t believe how many times you’ve read
Dracula
,Livie. One too many times, that’s for sure.’ If you hear that, it means what you’re seeing is truly just in your mind, and so it must be the work of that malicious, selfish, conniving hypnotist— Oh, wait.” She squeezed my hand and looked me straight in the eye. “You didn’t tell me how Henri Reverie appeared after the hypnosis.”
    I groaned and hunched my shoulders.
    â€œWhat?” She squeezed my hand again. “Was he even worse than your father?”
    I shook my head. “That would have made everything far less confusing.”
    â€œWhat did he look like?”
    I sighed. “He looked like . . . I can’t even bring myself to say it. It almost hurts to admit what he made me feel.”
    â€œWhat?” Her face paled. “What did he make you feel?”
    â€œHe looked . . .” I swallowed. “He looked like someone I should trust utterly.”

t supper that evening, the noisy passel of Harrisons chatted and joked about school escapades and camping trips while they stuffed me full of stew and potatoes. Every now and again I caught Mr. and Mrs. Harrison glancing at me with worried expressions, as if they couldn’t quite shake the memory of my emotional entrance earlier that afternoon.
    After supper, I slid my arms into the thick sleeves of my coat, which, along with my book bag, had been fetched by Frannie’s fourteen-year-old brother, Carl, when he went to tell Father I’d be home late. The woolen collar snuggled upto my neck and pervaded my nostrils with the dental office’s distinctive odor—a sweet, antiseptic, and metallic potpourri that now flooded me with memories of Henri’s hands on my head.
    I buttoned up for the outside chill. “How did my father look when you saw him, Carl?”
    Carl smiled. “Bloody.”
    â€œBloody?” I asked with a gasp.
    â€œHe was leeching some woman, and he had her head locked into a metal contraption to keep her still.” Carl tilted his head back to demonstrate, his hands clamped around his