Chapter 3 #3
There are still a couple of messages from my parents sitting and waiting to be opened. And, as always, there are a few voice messages from Miller, the newest of which came in a few minutes ago.
“Really? Even at four in the goddamn morning?” I mutter around the lollipop, which now tastes slightly of dread.
Still, I tap the first voicemail.
It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.
Miller’s voice comes through, perky in a way only people who get a full eight hours of sleep and have no conscience can manage.
“Riiidge, buddy! I’m at that book conference I told you about, remember? And I just had a chat with your publisher. Great news! They are so excited for the next novel, but I need you to—”
I hit the next one before he can finish.
“Riiidge, my guy! Still haven’t heard back from you yet.
As I said, they need at least something to read in the next couple of weeks.
A chapter, a scene, hell, even an outline you scribbled on a napkin.
Anything. They know you’ve been one of the best horror authors in the genre for the last few years, and trust me, you’ve had more leverage than most, but—”
Next message.
“Ridgy Ridge. Listen, I know it’s late… well, early for you, technically, but I need you to give us something. You signed a contract three months ago, remember? Call me back, Wells!”
I put the phone face down on my stomach and let out a groan that sounds like it crawled out of the deepest pit of hell. “Was one of the best horror authors,” I mutter, rolling my head to the side, my gaze landing on my overflowing bookshelves. “Past tense. Back when my dreams actually cooperated.”
Thanks to my parents, who own this fucking building but now live on the other side of the world, I have a decent two-room apartment with a kitchen-living combo, and this space, where my bed, desk, and some uneven stacks of sci-fi and horror novels, some mine, most not, are.
A few figurines, a skull mug, a stock of old journals, the stack of… crystals.
The wall calendar has a big red circle around today’s date. Past Ridge wanted to make sure I remembered the deadline. As if I could ever forget.
It’s been almost a hundred days since my dreams turned on me.
A hundred days since Miller called to tell me about that major publishing deal he’d arranged for me, and since the night I got weak and actually wanted to share the damn accomplishment with my ex-best friend.
The night I swallowed my pride only to step foot into his literal nightmare before being pushed into my own, the door slammed in my face.
Thanks again for that, buddy.
I close my eyes again, the lollipop still tucked against my molars and face the truth I’ve spent months refusing to look at straight on.
If lucid dreaming doesn’t start working again for me soon, I’m fucked.
Miller seems to think I have a masterpiece hidden somewhere up my ass, but the simple fact is, no lucid dreaming means no sketching monsters, no sculpting nightmares. No nightmares mean no material, and no material? Well. Contract breach, career death, public shame, and all that fun shit.
I pull the blanket higher, drag in a slow breath, and will myself to slip back into sleep. I don’t even try to go in lucid. I just want enough unconsciousness to stop thinking, but the second I start drifting, I drift straight back to her.
Her trembling breath, the spotlights, and the car. I try to shove the memory out of my head the same way I tried to shove her out of my dream, but surprise, it doesn’t work. It’s like her fear and her wide eyes are stitched into the lining of my thoughts.
My brain hasn’t fixated on a stranger this hard since…
well, ever. But to be fair, I’ve also never shared a dream with a total stranger before.
Anyone, really. Only with—nope. Not peeling open that can of psychological worms at five in the morning.
I’ve had enough existential bullshit for one night.
I feel nothing.
Think nothing.
I am nothing…
“Why the hell would that guy call her that?” I mutter around the lollipop, remembering more of the dream. Cherub. Seriously? Cherub.
Who the actual fuck calls a grown woman a baby-angel-cupid-valentine-reject nickname? What’s next, my little Holy Infant?
I chuckle at my own joke.
After a few more minutes of fighting a losing battle, I give up entirely. I spit out a swear, reach for the nightstand, and grab the paperback sitting on top of the stack.
It’s some obscure horror collection I’ve been rereading, and I flip it open one-handed, lollipop shifting in my mouth as I settle back against the pillows. If I can’t sleep, I’ll read until the words blur or the sun comes up.
Forcing my eyes across the page, I pretend to care about the story, pretending the only reason I’m still awake is my usual cocktail of insomnia and stress.
Except every time the silence shifts, even a little, my head snaps toward the wall, anticipating proof that she’s really there, and that she’s really crying a few feet away instead of in a dreamscape I shouldn’t have been able to enter at all.