Nocturnal

Fade In, Fade Out

The musty dampness of rotting cloth.

The stench of rancid garbage.

The pulsing heat of the hunt.

Two conflicting emotions fighting for dominance — the overpowering, electric taste of hatred juxtaposed against the pinching, tingling sensation of creeping evil.

Even as he hunted, something hunted him.

Bryan stood motionless, using only his eyes to track the prey.

One womb.

They hurt him. Just like the other one had.

We have waited so long.

Even through the blurry, nonsensical images, he recognized the street: Van Ness. Shifty streaks of people with indiscernible, blurred faces; moving swaths of fuzzy color that were cars; headlights and streetlights that made the fog glow.

Bryan watched his target, a target made up of abstract impressions of hazy crimson and dull gold, of wide shoulders and floppy blond hair, of scowling eyes made of evil.

Not a man … a boy. Big, but still young. The boy had a certain walk, a certain … scent.

Bryan wanted this boy dead.

He wanted them all dead.

One womb.

Hunting, but also … hunted. Bryan searched the skyline, looking for movement. Even as he did, he felt a deep, cold knowledge that he probably wouldn’t see death coming. He needed to make the mark, the mark that kept the monster at bay.

Bryan felt a tap on his shoulder. He sighed in frustration, knowing he could take the prey if only there weren’t so many people around. But he had another job to do — this target would have to wait.

Turning now. Moving. Everything a blur. Fade in, fade out. Refocused. Looking down at an alley. Must be high up. Looking down at a beat-up blue dumpster. Something behind the dumpster, mostly hidden from view, but not hidden from smell.

Bryan recognized this scent as well. Not as good as the boy, not as healthy. More … worn-out, but still good enough to make his stomach rumble. Bryan looked closer — a bit of red and yellow behind the dumpster. A blanket. A red blanket. The yellow looked like something familiar … a little bird …

Fade out, fade in, fade out again. The dream slipped away.

In his bed, Bryan turned once, opened his eyes and wondered where he was. The room’s darkness seemed a living thing, ready to sting him with blackened barbs. Sweat dripped from his face, soaked into his sheets.

His sheets. His bed. He was in his own apartment.

He’d left the dream, but the fear of the monster that hunted him came along for the ride. His chest hurt, far worse than it had on the stairs. Was that ache from dream-terror, or from the flu that made him burn and sweat?

Bryan reached out and turned on his nightstand lamp. He winced at the sudden light, but not for long.

He had to find some paper, find a pen.

He had to draw.