Chapter One

The Nightmares

Mid-October, Dani

When I awakened at three a.m., my sweat laden pajamas clung to my cold and clammy skin. I was tired of this crap. Every single night for the past two weeks, I had these terrible nightmares. They started with my walking through a neglected orange grove. The pitch-black sky enveloped the grove, but apparently, I had a flashlight because I could see in front of me. The distant, live oak trees shivered in the howling wind while a steady rain soaked my T-shirt, which gripped uncomfortably to my trembling body. The dry, brittle branches of the dead orange trees surrounding me jutted out in all directions, scratching my arms and face as I passed. Overgrown, tangled weeds creeped up my legs like a thousand dancing spiders. Sand spurs burrowed into my socks, painfully pricking my ankles.

Suddenly, I was gazing at a huge, abandoned house. The window shutters faltered on their hinges, and the house looked as if it hadn’t seen paint in a lifetime. Leading up to the expansive porch were broken stairs with rusty nails sticking out the edges.

As I stared at the structure, wide eyed and breathing heavily, a sweaty hand grabbed my shoulder. I stood perfectly still, expecting a knife to stab my rib cage or a gunshot to shatter my skull. In a movement more stupid than courageous, I turned around to confront a grimy, old man, his face blackened with soot.

He whispered, “Y’all lookin’ for somethin’? Kin I hep y’all?”

Then abruptly, I was inside the decrepit house, following the old man down a long corridor whose walls were covered with blood. “What is this place? Where are you taking me?”

The stagnant, smoky air made it difficult to see and breathe. I was so terrified I moved closer to the old man, his rancid body odor pervading my nose.

“Come along, now.” He led me into the kitchen, where a myriad of knives, hatchets, and daggers hung precariously from heavy chains attached to the ceiling. As I walked beneath them, blood dripped and seeped into my wet hair and T-shirt. The old man shone a flashlight around the room, casting light and shadows on the broken cupboards, the cracked ceiling, and the rusty appliances.

I covered my eyes. “Why are you showing me this?”

Suddenly, I heard horrid screams. The old man shone the light in the direction of the noise. “Lookie there, lookie there!” The beam focused on a maniacal man wielding a large ax, hacking away at a mangled captive tied to a chair. Blood splattered wide as the sharp blade severed bone and flesh.

Thankfully, I woke up.

The nightmares aren’t always the same. Sometimes the old man cries. Sometimes he laughs hysterically. We always end up in the battered house. Then the scenario changes. Tonight, he led me into the kitchen. Last night, I was in the living room where a raging fire leaped from the fireplace, scorching everything in its path. Portraits of malformed children hung on the wall, their twisted and maimed bodies covered in blood. A woman draped over the arm of a high-back chair lay with her scalp severed and her brain seeping through her fractured skull.

My name is Danielle Reynolds. Since nothing horrible ever happened to me, I don’t know why I have these nightmares. I’ve had tragedy in my life, but nothing to warrant enduring horrid visions night after night. I’m a normal, young woman living an unexciting life. I work part time as a sales clerk at the Sea and Surf Shop in the attractions area on Route 535. My boss looks at me strangely because I’m forever yawning.

This lack of sleep also affects my class work at Valencia College, where I major in criminal justice. I had all A’s and B’s, but my grades have slipped lately. I haven’t told my dad yet. He pays for most of my tuition, but I help with what I earn at work. I live with my dad Andrew and my brother Frankie. My dad owns an auto body shop in Nawinah. My mom Michelle died of breast cancer when I was ten and Frankie was two. Dad and I still miss her very much. Frankie is too young to remember her. I wish she were here to talk about these nightmares.

One thing is strange about my family, although I’m not sure if strange is the correct word. On Halloween night in 1971, my grandfather, Daniel Reynolds, killed his boss and his boss’ entire family, pregnant wife, six children, and a grandmother. The whole country tried to locate him. He was even on the FBI’s most wanted list, but he was never apprehended.

Dad had told me what he remembered. “I was a kid when it happened. My best friend, Travis, was one of the murdered children. After your grandfather disappeared, Grandma Anna raised me. She was only a secretary for Matthew Plimpton, a lawyer in Nawinah at the time. We struggled financially while I was growing up. As soon as I turned fifteen, I got a job at Spencer’s Auto Body Shop. When Mr. Spencer got very ill, he sold me the shop.”

So sure, according to what Dad knew, I had a monster for a grandfather, but I didn’t even know him.

I finally got back to sleep about five a.m. I went to work that day and then to my best friend Emily’s house to spend the night. We watched television for a few hours, but I was so tired I could hardly hold my eyes open. We went to bed, hoping I’d sleep through the night. I fell asleep immediately, but after a couple of hours the nightmare began.

Same old thing—in the orange grove getting soaked in the rain. This time the old man’s skin was charred and his hair singed as if he’d been set on fire. He was covered in blood, dripping it on me as he touched my shoulder. I guess I screamed because I woke up with Emily shaking me and calling my name. “Dani! Wake up. You’re having another nightmare.”

I sat up in the bed, sweating, sobbing, and trying to catch my breath. Emily grabbed a handful of tissues. “Dry your eyes, and wipe your nose. Let’s talk about this.”

Probably louder than I should have, I hastily responded, “No! I don’t want to talk about it. I just want these nightmares to stop.”

“I don’t mean to talk about the nightmares. Let’s try to come up with some solution.”

She made us hot, herbal tea and settled next to me while we both silently sipped our drinks. Five minutes later, she advised, “Here’s how I see it. These nightmares are not going away by themselves. They even seem worse. Has anything happened at college or at your job lately that might cause them?”

“Everything has happened because of these nightmares. Nothing happened before them. That’s what’s so confusing. I didn’t get the D in psychology until after the nightmares started. My boss didn’t call me into her office because I was always yawning until after the nightmares started!”

“Since you’re sure nothing in your life has happened or changed, you must get some help. Talk to your college counselor. He’d definitely be more knowledgeable about what’s happening to you than we are.”

The next morning, I went on Emily’s computer and made an appointment to see Mr. Beatty on Monday morning after class.