Free The Darkening Dream by Andy Gavin Page B

trudged up her front walk, arms crossed to fight the chill. The hot spell had finally broken and dark clouds churned the morning sky.
    Once in her room, she stripped off her clothes — they reeked of death and smoke — and shoved them under the bed. She fell asleep the second her face sank into the pillow.
    Charles haunted her dreams. Smiling, teeth overwhelming his pinched pale face, dressed in his best Sunday suit, he held her hand and tugged her up a grassy hill. Sharp nails and cold fingers pressed against her palm. She heard the baying of wolves, and a dark bird of prey circled the sky.
    At the crest of the hill, Charles paused before a lone sycamore, gnarled and bare of leaves. The sun just touched the horizon, throwing dark branches into relief against the heavens.
    He gave me the dark gift, and you took it away. Charles’ reddish mouth didn’t move, so packed with teeth speech hardly seemed possible.
    “What’s the dark gift?” she asked.
    He gestured to the east, where black clouds roiled across the valley. A tremendous horn blast sounded, a single note free from any notion of beginning or end. The frenzied howl of the wolves played counterpoint. Overhead, the ugly bird shrieked in response.
    The horn has sounded, and I have opened the gates .
    “What gates?”
    Charles shrugged, sharp blades shifting under dark wool.
    The passage is unblocked. What is lost will be found .
    “Passage to where?”
    The dead boy pointed to something behind her. She turned. Before the great tree, the green earth was scarred with a neat brown wound. Terror lofted from her belly into her throat.
    “I pray that’s your grave,” she said.
    The bloodless mask of his face was unreadable. His hair, slicked with animal fat, parted neatly in the center.
    Only you can stop us .
    She locked eyes with him, but the lifeless black orbs offered nothing. The horn was still blaring. A young woman with brilliant orange-red hair in braids stood beside the grave. She was dressed in a burgundy velvet gown, her breast emblazoned with a white doe cavorting amidst red tulips.
    “Is this your grave?” Sarah asked.
    The doe-woman gestured at the hole like a hostess offering a seat at a dinner table—
    Charles shoved Sarah hard from behind, and she stumbled into the woman, dragging them both down into the pit.

    Sarah lifted her face from the pillow.
    Papa knelt beside her, his hand resting between her shoulder blades. Outside the window the sky was gray-white, rivulets of rain streaking the glass.
    She jerked up. “Am I late for school?”
    He picked up her hand and examined her nails, caked with blood-soaked dirt.
    “Digging ditches?” He was smiling. “A night job, I take it.”
    “I slipped in the mud by the water ride.”
    “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
    A tempting offer, but on balance she thought not. He had his secrets, too, plenty of them. They’d long respected those private spaces in each other’s lives, each trusting the other would confide if and when the time was right.
    She shook her head.
    “When did you come home? After midnight, wasn’t it?” Sometimes he seemed aware of things only God should’ve known.
    “I’m sorry, Papa.” He really wasn’t being unreasonable.
    He rose and pressed his fingers to the mezuzah at her door, then kissed them.
    “You’ll be in the house by ten o’clock, Sarah, not a moment later.”
    “Yes, Papa.”
    The long-case clock in the hall began to chime. She counted the bells. Seven.
    “You should get ready for school. I’ll see you at shul for Shabbos services.”
    Friday again. The week had steamed past. The last thing she felt like was an evening in synagogue. Then again, maybe she could use a little extra credit with the Lord.
    Papa gave her three quick kisses on the forehead and left.
    Sarah threw back the covers. If he’d seen the scrapes her roof-climbing had left on her feet, she’d have more than a curfew from him. She peeked under the bandages. Much