28. In My Sleep

I haven’t forgotten.

Not in the least.

It wakes up with me like a hangover. It’s in the mirror like a black eye. It walks with me like a pulled muscle. It hears the same silence I hear. It sees the same glances I see. It comes home to an empty house. It needs answers like an unfinished crossword puzzle. It kisses me to sleep like the bite of a spider hiding under the covers.

I have not forgotten.

What I’m trying to do is make sure I have a plan and make sure I have my sanity. Maybe just not in that order.

My hope lies in this stranger named Jared. Not Newt or Ray or my mom or my uncle or, God forbid, Poe.

It’s in someone I don’t know and can’t find but who’s out there.

I just have to bide my time.

But I haven’t forgotten you, Jocelyn.

I’ll never forget.

The sound downstairs doesn’t awaken me because I’m not asleep.

It’s the middle of night, and I’m thinking of Jocelyn. Mom got home before I went to bed, and she was in a decent enough mood. Everything seemed normal. She asked me if I’d finished my homework and asked about school and seemed genuinely interested to see if anything out of the ordinary was happening at Harrington High. Of course I said little, but we still managed to have a halfway normal conversation.

So the screams coming from downstairs really freak me out.

I jerk out of bed and topple over Midnight as I open my door and practically tumble down the stairs.

I don’t need to ask who these screams are coming from.

Tonight they’re louder than usual.

I go to Mom’s bedroom and shout her name and turn on the light.

She’s in the corner on her knees, clawing at the wall. Clawing like she’s trying to get out, clawing like she’s trying to get something off of her.

“Mom, Mom, come on, Mom, it’s me, Mom!”

She waves her hands around her head as if she’s fighting off mosquitoes. Her hair is messy, and she’s wearing a long T-shirt. Her white arms and legs look skinnier than I remember.

“Mom,” I keep saying.

Finally the glazed, possessed eyes blink a few times and come back to reality. She’s breathing heavily, as if she’s been running.

“You’re just dreaming, Mom.”

She puts a shaking hand over her eyes and nose as if she wants to hide underneath it. The bed next to her is a mess of wadded-up sheets and blankets.

“It’s okay, Mom.”

“No,” she says.

“You’re awake now.”

“He comes to me in my sleep.”

“What?”

She looks around the room as if someone might still be there. I can feel the cold bumps crackling over my skin. I realize how cold I am, standing there in only boxer shorts.

“He comes into my room in the middle of the night. He crawls into my bed.”

I don’t want to hear this.

“Mom, you’re just dreaming.”

“He’s real, Chris. He’s real, and he’s been coming ever since we got here.”

I shiver and shove the fear away. One of us needs to be sane and strong. It’s gotta be me.

“It’s just a nightmare, Mom.”

“No.”

“Remember when I found you outside that one night?”

“This is different.”

“What do you mean? How is it different?”

She tightens her mouth and seems to try and swallow but can’t. I go into her bathroom and get her a glass of water. I hand it to her as she sits on the edge of her bed, looking at the wall across from her. A bare and empty wall. No pictures, no art, nothing.

She takes a sip. A little bit of water is still on her lips and dribbles down the side of her chin.

She’s like a child. I swear this is ridiculous.

“He’s real and I feel him.”

“Come on.”

“I’m not trying to frighten you, Chris.”

“You’re not frightening me. At least not with what you’re describing.”

Your insanity’s freaking me out.

“I wasn’t drinking tonight.”

“I know.”

“I swear, Chris.”

“Mom, I know.”

“I saw him. I felt him. He’s real. He’s real and he has red eyes that glow in the night under the covers and he came for me. He wants me, Chris.”

I go to open my mouth, but then I feel it tighten. I feel my eyes water up and my soul get showered on, and I feel like I’m about ready to just unleash a really seriously embarrassing bout of tears. I slide my hand over my mouth and then bite my skin to get some reality back.

Mom rubs her arms like they’re dirty, like she’s cold.

“Can I make you something? Something warm?”

She only shakes her head. She leans back on her bed, and I try to uncoil the blanket to put it over her. I see her profile on the edge of the pillow. Her eyes are still wide open, once again looking at the wall.

Can you see something I can’t?

I want to ask her what I should do. I don’t know.

You gotta call Dad.

“Mom—”

“Lock your door, Chris. And keep that dog by your side.”

For a second I look back through the door. I can’t see anything outside it.

But I wonder.

“He’s real, Chris. He’s real.”

I wait for a while and watch as her eyes close. Then I shut the door and make sure our front and back doors are locked. I stand in the family room in the pitch black, and I wait. I listen. I stand still to see if I can hear anything. Something moving in our house. Outside our house. In Mom’s bedroom. Maybe even below us.

But I don’t hear anything.

I only feel cold and creeped out.

I go upstairs and do what Mom told me to do. I lock the door. Then I bring Midnight up by my chest and stroke her with my hand as I wait for the night to be over.

Sunrise always takes too long to come.