Page 2 of Demon of Dreams

All of that was bad enough, but when word got around Churchill that Neil had come out as gay? My dad lost it. He told me in no uncertain terms that I was to ‘stop hanging out with that queer.’ The next time he found me and Neil hanging out in my room, he lost his shit, literally kicking Neil out before throwing me against the wall, saying he wouldn’t have a faggot for a son.

Neil and I stopped hanging out at my place after that, but Churchill’s a small town, and it didn’t take long for my dad to figure out we were still friends. The verbal abuse got worse after that. The physical abuse, too. I wasn’t going to let my dad end my friendship with Neil. Not when Neil needed more support than ever. But that meant I got a reputation for being gay too, which my dad couldn’t stand.

Sometimes it felt like he took all his frustration with how his life had ended up and unleashed it on me. Like he was punishing the world for what it had done to him, and I just happened to be the one taking the punches.

When I was sixteen, he got drunk, parked his truck on the railroad tracks, and passed out. I’d never known why he did it. Was it suicide? An accident? Either way, he was dead as soon as the train hit him.

I told myself not to feel sorry for him. Told myself he’d been a shitty dad, that he’d hated me, and that it was only right to hate him back. I was sixteen by then, old enough that I could live on my own. But I could never get free of my past.

I did hate my dad. But part of me loved him, too. Part of me missed him, no matter how much I knew I shouldn’t. And no matter how much I knew what he’d said was bullshit, I still cringed at what he’d think if he knew about the dreams I was having. If he knew his son was getting hard at the thought of being ravaged by some otherworldly, but still very male, monster.

Fuck,Iwasn’t even sure what to make of that. I was doing my best to push the whole mess out of my head, but it got harder and harder each time the dream repeated. I got harder and harder, too.

I forced myself to complete the shower with cold water, shivering from head to toe by the time I got out. My wet hair froze under my knit cap as I walked the twenty minutes into town to Carla’s Diner. I would have loved to live anywhere other than my dad’s old trailer, but even with two jobs, I couldn’t afford to move out.

In January, it was still dark at 5:00 a.m. Pitch black. Churchill doesn’t go in much for streetlights—we barely have enough money to keep the lights oninsideour town’s buildings—and there was no moon that night. The stars above looked cold and distant.

The town was silent as I trudged through the weeks-old snow. I didn’t mind. The quiet was peaceful, and the frigid air helped clear my head.

Until I heard it. A shuffling, somewhere behind me. My head whipped around.

Ineverpassed anyone on my pre-dawn walks. The only other people awake at this hour were still snugly ensconced in their homes, or truckers at the gas station near the highway. My eyes searched the darkness in vain. I stood still for thirty seconds, barely breathing, but the sound didn’t repeat.

I blew out a puff of air and turned around. I was probably just imagining things. Not hard to believe, with the sleep—or lack thereof—that I’d been having.

But I’d only walked half a block before I heard it again. A muted shuffling, almost the sound of sheets rubbing against each other in bed. It wasn’t the noise of footsteps, yet I had the distinct sensation that something was following me, and getting closer.

I stopped and turned around a second time. The night-washed houses and bare trees stared back at me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. What was out there?

Stop being stupid, I scolded myself.Who the hell would be followingyou,of all people? And if theyarefollowing you, why can’t you hear their footsteps?

Wings.

The answer flashed through my mind like it had been waiting for me to ask the question. But that was even dumber. People didn’t fly, and just because I’d been having creepy dreams about some kind of demon didn’t mean that one was chasing me now.

I turned back towards the diner and began walking, but I couldn’t help keeping one ear focused on the hush of the night around me. Five seconds in, I heard it again. A muffled sort of fluttering, or floating, getting ever closer.

It took all my willpower to keep walking. I felt like I had a target on my back. I passed into the pale orange glow of the porchlight in front of the McCabes’ house, forcing myself to go a few more steps before whirling around when I judged that the thing following me would be illuminated.

A large, black bird stood in the middle of the snowy sidewalk (the McCabes weren’t great at shoveling), wings folded. It was a crow. Nothing supernatural about it. I would have felt embarrassed, if I hadn’t been so relieved.

Was it staring at me? It looked like it was, eyeing me curiously in the orange light. Then again, we were the only two living beings out here, and I was staring atit. I supposed it had the right to stare back.

“Sorry,” I muttered, then shook my head. What was I doing, apologizing to a bird? I turned back towards the diner and continued my walk.

I cast a glance over my shoulder a couple of times, and the bird was still standing there in the snow. Not following me. What a ridiculous thought that had been.Stupid, stupid, stupid. Still, I was glad when I turned onto Canton Street and out of its eyeshot.

Sure enough, Anthony was waiting for me, his lit cigarette a tiny beacon in the dark as I approached the diner’s back entrance. He pushed away from the brick wall and met me at the door. The motion sensor flicked on, casting us in bright white light.

“You’re late, dude,” he said, grinding his cigarette out with his shoe. “Thought you might have been kidnapped.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I rolled my eyes, getting my heavy ring of keys out.

“Almost froze my balls off,” he continued as I fit the key into the lock. I swung open the outer, metal door and searched for the second key to open the inner, wooden one. “And you didn’t even have the decency to get kidnapped after all. Why would you make a man suffer like that, I ask you?”

“Because I know there’s nothing you love more than complaining,” I told him, forcing a laugh. The kidnapping comment had sent a shiver down my back. “Consider it a gift from me to you.”

“I’d rather have balls that weren’t ice co—what the fuck?”

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