Page 21 of Whispers From The Dark

Not only can she function despite such lucid and realistic dreams, but this borders on torture, even with no demonic influence.

Naked on a stage, she trembles as she sings something out of tune. I do not avert my gaze, though I’m certain she would prefer that. Her hair is longer in this dream, dusting the tops of her freckled shoulders. Pierced nipples are decadent delights at the tips of her small, pert breasts. She’s thinner than what would suit her best, the product of malnutrition, I’m sure, but her thighs are still thick with muscle.

When someone from the audience shouts a lewd word at her, my attention is pulled away from the delightfully naked woman standing beneath the stage lights to the audience full of different versions of her mother, all leering.

Eventually, a child cries. Petra can’t see where the sound is coming from, and her panic grows more and more visible. Meanwhile, she tries to cover her nudity as her mother jeers. Shouting obscene things about her daughter, calling her everything but her name, I can see why this woman is off-limits to me.

I should kill her and be done with it already.

I know I am from below, but I do not revel in such uncouth behavior. Lazy and unrefined, Petra’s mother excels in vicious words that strike her daughter like dull blades. Yet Petra stands tall, even as she tries to cover herself. She doesn’t react to her mother, won’t give her the satisfaction even in sleep, I suppose.

Petra stands behind the stage curtain, pulling it in front of her, as she continues the insecure warble of a song about a girl who used to be hers. I recognize it, but I’m not sure from what.

When the demented woman who gave birth to her throws a cigarette at Petra, the stage curtain drops. Petra is covered entirely by the thick, velvet cloth, nearly dropping to the ground, and the whole thing bursts into flames. Horrific screams echo in the silent auditorium, and I decide I’ve had enough.

Wiping her mind blank, I retreat from Petra’s body as she drifts into a dreamless sleep.

It would be far easier on her if her mother wasn’t around.

This bedroom is so devoid of warmth, I’m surprised the human hasn’t frozen to death. She tried to sleep in her mother’s bed, but couldn’t get comfortable because of the smell. Empty bottles and discarded food debris stacked haphazardly near the radiator made the stench unbearable.

Instead, Petra slipped into the child’s room with a broken window, in the dead of winter, much to my distaste.

I am not eager to show her the depths of my abilities, but since she isn’t conscious, I form a wall of air in front of the window, keeping in what little heat remains in the room. The comforter rolls up to tuck under Petra’s chin without the slightest touch from me.

There is no reason for me to be so delicate with her, and yet, a strange feeling overcomes me when she wriggles farther into the blanket. It feels like satisfaction.

Or perhaps pleasure.

But I prefer pleasure of the sexual variety, of which Petra gave me very little. It was hard-earned, and while delicious, is not enough to sustain me. It’s as if she were afraid to partake in it fully.

I catch myself watching her for far too long before I realize I’m wasting my time here. Moving through the small apartment as nothing more than a shadow, I don’t plan to squander my unimpeded access. But there’s very little here to parse through.

Her mother’s room is strewn with rotten garbage. An ashtray balances precariously on the window ledge, and I’m momentarily shocked the wretch even bothers when she could just ash on the floor instead. I assume it’s Petra’s doing, trying to keep them from getting evicted. There’s a dartboard mounted next to the television, darts littering the surrounding wall. A true drunk, I suppose, reminiscing about her years at the bars. Sure enough, there’s dusty picture frames scattered across the top of a chest of drawers, showing Petra’s mother a couple decades younger, arms around the type of men who don’t go home to their families until after last call. Her smile is bright and wide, matching the shining liquor bottles on glass shelves behind her.

Not a single picture of her children.

My brothers will have fun with her once her time comes.

I glide through the door and slide the hallway closet open quietly.

I think most of Petra’s belongings are within these few square feet. Tucked away behind and beneath towels and cleaning supplies is the sum of what she owns. A jewelry box, a few books, and a meager pile of clothes. That’s it.

That cannot possibly be all there is.

She’s still asleep in her brother’s bed, so I wander out to the living room. Beneath the futon, all I see are shoes. Not a small number of shoes either, for such a small space, but still. Her entire life could fit into a couple of boxes. While the child’s room had far more things in it—toys and clothes and a couple of musical instruments—between the two of them, it won’t take more than one trip to move out.

Lucifer only knows why I want to move her out now. But I banish the thought as the child snores loudly on Petra’s futon. He sounds congested, and I’d frown if I had a form right now. How much snot can one being hold? I wonder, shuddering.

Children are noxious, virulent creatures.

But they’re also observant.

Now, while I can’t possess the child without copious effort, slipping into his dreams will be quite easy. The veil between the mortal realm and my own is quite thin within dreams, and I am a Prince of Hell, after all.

There is no resistance, just as I expected, as I slither into the boy’s dreamless mind.

That won’t do, I decide, conjuring an image of his sister. Clothed, despite my most recent image of her, knowing the trauma that would bring the brother she so desperately wants to protect. Ordinarily, I would not be so worried about compliance with the wishes of anyone I inhabit, but this deal is different. Petra is different.