The Nightmare People

2.

When he awoke it took him a long moment to remember where he was.

The blinds were drawn and the room was dim, all faded pink and soft grey shadows. He lay atop a high four-poster, on a quilted pink comforter, still in his sweat-stained, soiled, and stinking clothes. Around the edges of old-fashioned roller shades light seeped in through layered pink gauze curtains, but failed to really illuminate the room.

The furniture was imitation French Empire, in cream and gilt, while the throw rugs and lampshades and upholstery were dusty rose. A chair stood in each corner, a nightstand on either side of the bed, a vanity table with a triple mirror against one wall.

He sat up, and realized that he felt better than he had in days. He remembered the morning’s discussion around Annie’s breakfast table, and he wondered how long he had slept.

He was still wearing his watch; he looked at it, and saw 5:40.

That was late. He’d slept the whole day away!

He swung his feet off the bed and stood up, and it seemed as if he had those feet planted more firmly than he had in days. A good long sleep, without interruption, had been what he needed.

A shower and a shave and a change of clothes wouldn’t hurt, either, he thought, as he felt his shirt stick to his back.

He wasn’t going to get any of those here, though; his clothes and razor were back at the motel, or in his apartment, and he didn’t want to take a shower and then put the same smelly old clothes back on again.

He wandered out into the hallway and looked down the stairs.

He saw no one, but he thought he heard someone moving quietly about.

“Hello,” he called, “Anybody home?”

A moment later Annie’s head appeared in the archway to the living room.

“Hello, Mr. Smith,” she called. “Feeling any better?”

He nodded. “Much better, thanks.” He started down the stairs.

“I was just trying to decide what to do about dinner,” she said. “I had thought that Mr. Niklasen and Mr. Saad might be here by now, and I didn’t know if they’d have eaten or not – and of course, I didn’t know when you’d be waking up.”

Smith’s stomach growled. “I don’t know about dinner,” he said, “I mean, I don’t want to put you to any trouble, but I could use something to eat.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” Annie said, hurrying into the kitchen. “I’ll just make something for the two of us, and if anyone else turns up… well, I’ll worry about that if it happens.”

Smith knew that the polite thing to do would be to protest further, but his stomach let him know that it wasn’t interested in being polite. “Is there anything I can help with?” he asked.

“Oh, you might start the coffee, if you’ll want any – I’ll be having tea.” Annie was bustling about, closing the oven door and turning knobs, throwing something green in a saucepan and plopping it onto the stove.

“Where’s Maggie?” Smith asked, as he located the coffeemaker.

While he looked about for the coffee, Annie said, “Oh, she went home first thing this morning.”

“Ah,” Smith said. “Where’s the coffee?”

Annie pointed to the cabinet directly above the coffeemaker; he opened it, and a packet of coffee filters fell out onto the counter, revealing a can of Folger’s.

The doorbell chimed.

“I’ll get it,” Annie said, hurrying past him.

Smith busied himself with the coffeemaker, but looked up a moment later to see Khalil and Sandy standing in the hallway. They both wore fresh clothes, reminding him that he did not. Sandy was looking about as if he had never seen the place before.

Smith slid the coffeepot into place and ambled toward the hall.

“I just now started dinner cooking,” Annie was saying as he approached, “And I can throw a couple more in the oven if you like.”

“That’s all right,” Sandy said, “I already ate.”

“And you, Mr. Saad?”

“I would be pleased to eat with you,” Khalil replied.

“Well, that’s fine, then. It’s nothing fancy, just chicken filets, from a frozen package, you know, I didn’t make it myself. Let me put another in the oven.” She marched into the kitchen, past Smith, and headed for the freezer.

“Hi,” Smith said to the two new arrivals. “I thought you’d be here sooner than this.”

“I thought so, too,” Khalil said. “Sandy said this morning he would come and fetch me, so I waited, but he did not come. So I went and fetched him, and here we are.”

Startled, Smith looked at Sandy.

“I forgot,” Sandy said defensively, “All right? I overslept and I forgot. We’re here now, right? So what does it matter?”

Smith shrugged. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, “You’re right. So what’s on for tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Sandy said.

“Are we going back for the other two at the Samaan house?” Smith asked.

Then Sandy’s reply penetrated, and he looked at Sandy more closely.

Up until now, Sandy had always known what he was doing, even when it was entirely the wrong thing. Forgetfulness and oversleeping seemed out of character.

“Are you feeling okay, Sandy?” Smith asked.

“Sure,” Sandy said, “I’m fine.”

Smith’s uneasiness was not allayed.

Sandy had been bitten by the things twice – or actually, by the same one twice, in two separate fights, once on the hand and once inside his mouth. In the discussion after they had killed the creature, Sandy had said it felt as if it had sunk a row of huge needles into the bottom of his mouth, in the soft part just below the gums; the three men had theorized that the things had extensible fangs that gave them a firm grip on their victims while they did whatever it was they did that allowed them to eat their way in.

Did they have some sort of venom, perhaps? Was Sandy poisoned?

Or worse?

Smith was still in the kitchen; he glanced around casually.

Annie was stirring the pot of vegetables on the stove, paying no attention to her guests just now. To her left was the refrigerator, to her right the countertop and double sink. To the right of the sink was what he wanted – a rack of carving knives.

“’Scuse me a minute,” he said to Sandy.

He strolled around the kitchen table the long way, to the counter by the sink.

“Can I help you with anything, Ms. McGowan?” he asked.

She looked up. “Oh, no, I’m doing fine, thanks. You fellows make your plans.”

“All right. Thanks.” He strolled back, and casually pulled a knife from the rack as he walked past.

It was a good knife, a bread knife with a walnut handle and a serrated stainless steel blade.

Sandy and Khalil had gone on into the living room. Sandy had settled on the couch, while Khalil stood by the window, looking out at the garden. The sky was clouding over, Smith noticed. He held the knife casually in one hand, as if he had forgotten it was there.

“How’s your hand, Sandy?” he asked.

“My hand? It’s fine,” Sandy said.

“Let’s see,” Smith said.

“Hey, it’s fine, so fuck off, okay?”

That was almost the first thing Sandy had said this evening that was in character, but by now Smith was seriously worried.

“Khalil,” he said.

Khalil looked at him, then looked at Sandy, sitting on the couch. He tensed.

Smith lifted the knife.

“Let’s see the hand, Sandy,” he said.

“Hey, fuck yourself, Smith, my hand’s fine!”

“Then let me see it, Sandy. What’s the big deal?”

“What’s that knife for, asshole? That’s the big deal. You gone nuts, planning to cut off my fingers?”

Sandy’s attention was focused on Smith and the bread knife; he was caught by surprise when Khalil grabbed his arm and lifted it.

“The scars are there,” Khalil reported.

“Just scars?” Smith asked.

Khalil nodded.

“Hey, I told you it was fine!” Sandy insisted. “Christ, so I heal fast. What the hell is wrong with you, anyway, Smith?”

“Hold him still,” Smith said, approaching carefully, the knife raised.

Khalil looked very worried, but he held the arm where it was.

“Khalil, look,” Smith said. He reached out, wincing, and pricked the middle finger of his own left hand on the tip of the knife.

A red drop of blood appeared and dribbled down the blade.

Khalil nodded, and his worried look faded somewhat. He turned his full attention to Sandy.

Smith hesitated. It was Sandy who had him worried, but what if Khalil, too, was tainted?

He had to risk it.

“Now you, Sandy,” he said. “Just a drop of blood.” He wiped the knife on his shirt – the garment was already hopelessly damaged and dirty – and took another step toward Sandy.

Sandy suddenly began struggling, and Khalil forced him back down, shifted his hold. The two wrestled briefly, and although Sandy was the larger man, when it was over Khalil had Sandy in a full Nelson.

Smith took Sandy’s hand and pricked the finger.

No blood appeared.

He pressed harder.

Sandy struggled again, but no blood came.

Smith shifted his aim, and drew a cut down Sandy’s upper arm.

The knife left a white line; no red.

Smith cut more deeply, and the skin parted to reveal ropy grey flesh beneath. Khalil stared.

Smith stepped back. He glanced uneasily at Khalil, but then focused on Sandy once again.

“We know how to kill you,” he said. “And we should kill you. You murdered our friend, the man whose skin you’re wearing.”

The Sandy thing just stared at him.

Smith needed time to think of what to do next. He couldn’t bring himself to just fling himself on the thing, cut open its chest and eat its heart out, here on Annie McGowan’s couch.

At least, not yet.

“Ms. McGowan,” he called, never taking his eyes off the creature, “Could you come in here, please? And bring a sharp knife, a paring knife would be fine.”

Annie answered, “What?”

Smith repeated his instructions, and added, “And lock the front door on your way, please.”

A moment later he heard her bustling into the room behind him. He didn’t turn.

“Give the knife to Khalil,” he said.

Clearly puzzled, Annie obeyed.

Khalil accepted the knife uncertainly.

“Let me see your blood,” Smith said. He leaned forward so that the tip of the bread knife was resting lightly on the false Sandy’s chest.

Comprehension dawned; Khalil loosened his hold on the creature enough that he could use the knife to prick his finger.

Blood welled up immediately, thick, red, human blood.

Smith relaxed.

“Forgive me,” Khalil said, “but Mrs. McGowan?” He made a small questioning gesture.

That had not occurred to Smith. He nodded. “Ms. McGowan,” he said, “I’m sorry to have to ask this, but could you draw a little blood for us? It seems to be the surest way to be certain you’re… well, still you.”

She blinked. “I’m not sure I understand what’s going on here,” she said, but she took the knife Khalil offered her, and cut across the base of her thumb.

Blood flowed freely, red and shining.

“Thank you,” Smith said. “So it’s just Sandy.”

“Here,” Khalil said.

Smith stared at him. “What?”

“It is just Sandy of the four of us here. We don’t know about elsewhere.”

Smith nodded; Khalil was right; Maggie had gone home, and the nightmare people might have gotten her there.

There was nothing they could do about it right now, though. Not if it was already too late.

But if there was still time…

“Ms. McGowan,” he said, “Would you please phone Maggie, and warn her that the nightmare people have been active again? If she can, I think she should stay with other people at all times, and to stay awake, and it might be wise to stay in well-lit places. If she wants to come here, that would be fine, but not alone – someone should walk with her.”

“All right,” Annie said. She looked at the false Sandy, at the knife at his chest, and hurried to the kitchen.