The woman nodded.
Angela shook her head. “No, I can’t say I have. Unless you mean an old horse?”
Rosalyn didn’t speak.
“Or a night-mare.”
The old woman looked up from the table, her expression dead still. “That’s precisely where they got their names from.” The corner of her mouth pulled slightly, the faintest evidence of a smirk. “Or rather, nightmares got their name from them.”
“Them?”
“Mares. They have many other names. Alps. Sleep demons. I prefer to call them what they truly are—dream goblins.”
Angela stared at the woman, her eyebrows stretching as high as they would go. “Oh-kay then.” She stood up from the kitchen table, sliding the chair across the linoleum floor, making a loud scraping noise that caused both women to cringe.
“Where are you going?” Rosalyn asked, squinting at her guest.
“Far, far away from here.”
Rosalyn pushed herself to her feet. “Nonsense, child. You are in terrible danger.”
“Because of dream goblins?” She scoffed. “Do you know how goddamn ridiculous that sounds?”
“Ridiculous or not, that is what I believe has marked your home. A Mare is an ancient creature, a demon of sorts, that latches onto a certain individual and tortures them by infiltrating their dreams, manipulating them until their mind can no longer bear the horrific images, until there’s nothing left of the victim’s sanity. Then… it takes what it wants. In this case, Mrs. Shepard, I believe what it wants is your home. And something else…” The old woman’s face became long, drawn with worry. “It chooses victims who have experienced some sort of tragedy.”
[we do not speak his name]
Raising her chin, the old woman gulped. “Those who have gone through terrible ordeals make it easier for the goblins to access their dreams. They’re more susceptible to this kind of, what I’d like to call, possession.”
“This is crazy.”
“Hard to believe, yes.” Rosalyn offered what looked like a comforting smile. “But not crazy. I knew something was amiss the second I stepped foot in your house. I felt it wash over me, an incredible wave of perpetual evil. I haven’t felt intense power like that since… well, since a very long time ago.”
“Like, say… since 1968?” The question came out sharp, with more venom than Angela desired.
The woman didn’t seem fazed, her expression hardly changing. “I assume Barry told you about his discovery. Yes, it’s true. All of it.”
“You killed a woman.”
There was a pause. Rosalyn Jeffries sat completely still.
“Oh my God,” Angela said, covering her mouth with her hand.
“She didn’t die by my hand, but by another. I was there. The woman’s death hangs over me every day I open my eyes.”
“Did your husband know?”
“I told my husband everything. Much like I assume you do. Or did. Before…”
“How did he take the news?”
Rosalyn’s eyes darted across the room, as if something had flashed in her periphery, then settled her vision back on her guest. Angela followed the old woman’s gaze to the corner of the kitchen, but saw nothing.
“My husband has forgiven me for my past, the decisions I made when I was a young, stupid girl.” She reached her hands across the table, palms up, asking Angela for hers. “I’m asking you to do the same, Angela Shepard. You and your husband’s lives depend on it.”
Slowly, Angela planted herself back in the chair. She didn’t offer her hands to the old woman.
Rosalyn cleared her throat. “Mrs. Shepard, please. Do not make the same mistakes I have.”
“Same mistakes?” Angela laughed incredulously. “I have no intentions of killing any—”
“Forget that. That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“Do not let yourself ignore the signs before you.” Her eyes filled with water, glistening in the dim light the overhead bulbs provided. Those surging tears were the only thing keeping Angela seated, preventing her from fleeing the house, screaming for the entire neighborhood to hear. The woman’s story, impossible as it sounded, felt authentic. Angela was surprised to find herself buying into Rosalyn’s tale.
Sort of.
Not quite.
It can’t be real.
But something in the back of her mind said differently.
It’s all real. All of it. The dream goblins. They’ve marked you. They’re coming to get you. First your dreams. Then your reality.
“My husband, Carl,” Rosalyn began, blotting her eyes with a napkin. “He was… he was in terrible danger. Much like yourself. He had something chasing him, following him night after night. I sensed it somewhere in the distance, somewhere hidden in the darkest regions of the netherworld. Even though I haven’t practiced in years, I’m still connected to the darkness, the places where light doesn’t dare go. Something was following him, all right; I sensed the foul spirit the way a rabbit senses a sneaking wolf. The creature was good and clever, always kept dodging my eye. The blasted thing covered its tracks well, leaving no traces of its existence behind. I couldn’t find it. I searched the darkest places, points on the celestial map I haven’t trespassed in years, and I came up empty. Carl told me he was fine and not to worry, whatever it was would pass, but I knew better. I knew the thing was persistent and desperate to have him. But, like a good, obedient wife, I listened to him.” She sniffled as more tears streamed down her face. “But I shouldn’t have. I should have persisted. I shouldn’t have ignored the signs. The evidence. I… I let that thing kill my husband, Mrs. Shepard. All because I was too complacent.”
Angela shook her head. “You said on television he died of a heart attack.”
“Yes, well, who would believe me if I said he had been stalked and killed by some unspeakable evil?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the same amount of people who believed you when you said he visits you nightly. Maybe about that many?”
“People believe in communication with the other side, Mrs. Shepard. A recent national poll showed that last year forty-two percent of Americans believed in supernatural entities. In Europe, it’s well over fifty.”
Angela closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip. “That doesn’t make it true.”
“No, but as someone who has tampered with the darkness, who has harnessed certain energies invisible to the naked eye, I can assure you, Mrs. Shepard—it’s all true.”
“Well, I haven’t seen a shred of evidence other than what’s been going on in my house. And that’s just me losing my fucking mind.” The woman’s eyes bulged. “Pardon my French.”
She ignored the foul language. “You need to believe me.”
“Whatever is happening, Rosalyn, it isn’t supernatural. It’s just a product of what happened over eight months ago. It’s me.”
“In a way, you are correct, Mrs. Shepard. It is about what happened to [we do not speak his name]. The tragedy. These monsters thrive on it. Feed on those negative emotions like vampires to an open wound.”
Angela snarled at the old woman. “How dare you,” she barked.
Rosalyn recoiled as if she’d been slapped. “How dare I what?”
“Speak his name. You have no right.”
Rosalyn twirled her hands in the air. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful. I only want to help you.”
Angela’s eyes traveled up the stairs. She pointed to the area of the house where she thought the master bedroom was, where the pile of dead chickens rested on the bureau. “By sacrificing chickens? Cutting off their fucking heads? I’m starting to see who the crazy one is here, and I’m starting to think it’s not me.”