Return of Nitemare

(Trigger Warnings: this story tackles themes of past abuse, childhood illness, and mild transphobia including partial deadnaming) If Desiree Wright had to guess where her past would catch up to her, Line 3 on a Saturday afternoon at Kroger would not have been her guess. She had no clue what she would have picked, maybe a walk home after dark, or an unfortunate confrontation off in some hellhole in the Imageria. Perhaps on a paper with an Ohio Justice System letterhead, or even an old familiar name echoing across broadcast waves like an echo, like a ghost. Not three in the afternoon, on a Saturday, at Kroger. If anything, that would have been her last guess. There had been a text, seconds before. Dorian had asked some insignificant question, some request or reminder about an item forgotten on a grocery list, and Desiree had picked up her phone to answer. A cart’s rattle crashed over the clicking of keys. She ignored the cacophony, idly swaying as she cradled the handles of a basket in her elbow. Typing the final words of her text, she looked up, glancing at the distant price of tomatoes. The total of the shopping trip fled her mind, and she frustratedly returned to her counting as she checked her shopping list. “Oh my god,” croaked a voice from the edge of her vision. Desiree raised her head, turning to face her fellow shopper. A young woman, approaching her late 20s, stood petrified. She stared at her, still lightly hunched over mid-push. A few strands of brown hair framed the look of shock covering her face. Her white-knuckled hands shook visibly as she gripped the ends of her cart’s handle. It was impossible to forget the face of a cult member. Let alone one she watched, and felt, break out. Dee’s eyes met hers, and the woman straightened. She closed her mouth abruptly and squared her shoulders. Dee scanned her face as her mind raced, searching for the name of the woman before her. Years had passed, foggy miserable years, and she felt a haze cast over her memory. Her face was clear, a scared young college grad scrambling for a sense of self. She had broken out on the second try. The awakening had been chillingly brutal. Metal had buckled around her as she screamed for her sister. Abruptly, she had gone silent and, for the remainder of the night, hauntedly stared into the distance, oblivious to the revelry around her. “Myra-” escaped Dee’s lips as a breath. Dee shook her head. An unwelcome look of horror had started to find its way to her face. She stretched a pleasant smile across her face as her heart thudded in her chest. “Apologies,” she said, shaking the mothballs from a warm, detached tone, “Is there some way I can-” “Don't even try to feign ignorance,” she interrupted, “My name was the first thing out of your mouth.” Myra’s face was tightened and her eyes narrowed slightly. Dee sighed and dropped her smile. She looked to the side and crossed her arms. “You look like you're doing well,” she said, eyes flitting across the magazine racks, “I’m sure I’m probably the last person you’d want to hear that from, but for what it’s worth, you seem to be.” Myra bitterly laughed. Dee’s eyes flicked back to her. She was shaking her head, a pained smile stretched behind a raised hand. “You have no idea of how much damage you really did,” she remarked, with sadness and bitter humor in her voice, “Do you, Ariel?” Dee faced her with a frown and a sigh. She looked over Myra again. She dropped her hand, her lips now pressed tight in an impression of calm. Her cart was full, her clothes seemed new. By some miracle, she seemed to be alive and thriving. She had been lucky. Dee’s face softened into an expression of sadness. “I’ll make sure you never have to deal with me again,” she promised, already turning to face forward, “And that was never my name.” “I need your help,” Myra loudly announced. Dee froze mid turn before slowly turning to fully face her. Myra looked to the side, hand running down her cheek. Her hands opened before slowly closing, and she leaned back on her cart. “My son is- my son needs help,” she explained, exhaling to soothe herself, “He’s paranormal, somehow. Something’s wrong, he can’t control his powers.” Dee nodded sagely, hand curled in front of her mouth. “I don’t see how I would-” she began, halting as Myra raised a finger. Myra’s hands shook, and she gripped the cart again, hands once again white-knuckled against the black plastic. “For all of the horrible things, all of the harm, you’ve done,” she said, the tempo of her voice climbing, “This is what you did. You helped people.” Desiree met Myra’s eyes. She glared at her, shifting the fingers of the curled hand. She unfolded her hand, placed it on the metal of the conveyor belt, and leaned casually, not breaking her gaze. The receipt printer electronically screeched behind her and she distantly heard the cashier ask for the next customer. “Then I will need you to explain everything that’s happened to your son, to me,” she demanded, turning and stepping towards the register.

*****

Desiree leaned on her arm, pen in hand, as her eyes bored into Myra. Children screamed from a distant park and clouds sped by on an unfelt breeze. The paper pad was thick enough to block the undulating metal of the park table from marring her words, while little prevented it from digging into the back of her thighs. Myra sat opposite her, shoulders hunched, arms on the table between them “What do I even call you? I don’t think ‘Vin-” she asked. “Desiree. I go by Desiree,” she answered. Myra blinked and jerked backwards. “I must ask that you handle this with sensitivity,” she explained, “I understand if you must curse me, but please do so with my real name.” Myra’s nose scrunched in palatable disdain. “Alright, then, Desiree, let’s make this quick,” she said, opening her phone, “I have a kid to return to.” She clicked on an image, set the phone down, and slid it across the metal table. A picture of a young boy glowed from the surface of the phone. He smiled into the camera, arms full of a perturbed cat. A carefree smile squished his round cheeks, and curly brown hair tumbled to his shoulders. “This is my son. His birthday is in November, he's five years old. He likes fire trucks and the pop music I play to clean,” she explained, “He's one of the smartest kids in class, and for the last few years he's been losing himself to some horrible darkness inside of him.” Dee tapped a period onto the paper as she finished her notes. Nothing too strange, by the sounds of it. A few meditation lessons would start curbing those bad habits. “Can you explain this further to me?” She requested, pen briefly touching her lip. Myra looked upwards and swallowed. “He, ah, he’d always been a bit weird, you know? I found out I was pregnant just after I left and I decided to keep him,” she explained, “He was my little miracle. Let me keep going, helped me steer clear of the likes of you.” The plastic in Dee’s pen creaked. “He started playing with shadows at first? It was adorable, you know how it is with kids, they play with everything,” she continued, eyes sparkling like glass, “We all found it a bit strange that he never really broke out, but we figured we just never noticed.” It had been on the news that the children of some paranormal parent displayed paranormal abilities without a definitive breakout. Speculation involved epigenetics and maternal stress levels. “And how has this been causing problems?” she asked. Tears trickled down Myra’s cheeks. She covered her eyes and leaned over. Dee’s stomach knotted. Touching her to provide a measure of comfort would have been inappropriate, too comfortable, too intrusive for their shared past. Influencing her emotions was far beyond the pale. She pulled a pack of tissues from her purse and held them out towards Myra. Myra wiped her eyes and accepted, pinching her nose through the paper. “Sorry, I- this is hard. I feel alone in this,” she confessed, quietly trying to blow her nose. Dee nodded. “I understand.” “So my son started having problems. It was just shadows in the night at first. Sleep paralysis happens sometimes. But then it got worse,” she explained, “He'd have scratches the nights he had sleep paralysis. He felt cold all of the time, seemed irritable most days, some days he even stopped being able to see.” That was more unusual. Not unheard of, but not the thing you expect to hear out of some random woman. “Did the problems stop there?” She asked, expecting a negative answer. “No, if anything that's where it only began. Black spots started showing up on his skin. Doctors said it was nothing. Shadows jumped when he was around, even when he wasn't moving them,” She said, “His coughs have started producing this black, tarry paste that stains anything it touches.” The denizens of shadow had no business here. Desiree narrowed her eyes and circled the new bullet points. Spirits rarely stopped at this level of affliction. Far easier, far more common, for them to slip into extreme violence or possession. “What else is happening?” she asked, pen poised. “He's telling me his head hurts. He's started to be bed-ridden when the worst of it hits. He's started being out of it all the time,” she continued, “He was odd even before this started, but now I feel like I barely know him.” Odd was a troubling descriptor. To be expected, but troubling. “What do you mean by ‘odd’?” She asked, tapping her pen to her lips. Myra hesitated, clasping her hands. “My more spiritual friends have called him an old soul. I don't need to tell you why I hate that bullshit. But he’s been very quiet for a kid his age. He’s patient,” she explained, “Other parents talk about their kids not understanding things like money or their parents having needs, but it seems like he does.” Dee bit her pen. She would have to ask about abuse history. That could wait. She pulled the pen from her mouth and placed it at the head of her notepad, folding her hands in front of her. “I’ll assume you've been smart enough to ask a doctor for help,” she said, “Your son’s issues sound extreme. I’m surprised you haven't sought out paranormal help already.” Myra grimly nodded. “We did. He scammed us,” she said. Dee struggled to find words, a strangled syllable issuing from her mouth. “Your abilities were legitimate. And at this point, I’ll do nearly anything to help him,” she explained. Dee closed her mouth. She gently placed her notepad and pen in her purse. She handed Myra’s phone back to her and pulled out her phone. “Let's see when my next appointment is available,” she offered. Green boxes crowded her calendar. The next free hours were weeks away. Myra looked expectantly up at her. “When are you available?” She asked dryly. “I work long hours. Medical field,” she said, “I’m normally open in the evenings, but I sleep early.” “Right,” replied Dee, scanning her evenings. Every day, her final appointments ended far too late. The nights ending earlier were immediately abutted by doctors visits, errands, a book club meeting. Even disturbing a single appointment would cascade, throwing weeks of planning into disarray. Only the remainder of that day remained a bare, stark white. Dee shut her eyes and squeezed the bridge of her nose. “My closest appointment is the 23rd,” she admitted, “I don't think it's safe for you to wait that long.” Myra shook her head. “I don’t think it would be either,” she agreed. Dee exhaled slowly. “Are you available right now?” she asked, removing her hand and looking back at her. Myra blinked as she recoiled in shock. The distant screams of children filled the silence between them as she stared at her. “Are you serious?” she asked. “I know it’s on very short notice, and I know,” she said, hesitating, “You have no reason to trust me, but it’s the quickest option.” “I-I-I don’t want you in my home!” she exclaimed. Dee raised her hand defensively in front of her. “I don’t want to be in your home either, is there somewhere you want to meet outside-” she offered. Myra stood up, grabbing her belongings. “What about my son’s state makes you think he can leave home?” she countered, slinging her bag onto her shoulder. “I don’t know, I just assumed,” she explained, “If I had any other options, I would take them, I-” Myra had turned and began to walk to her car. “Wait!” she yelled. Dee ran a few steps before stopping dead in her tracks. Running after Myra would be exactly what her old self would do. She had to figure out some way to prove her good will without manipulation. She gritted her teeth and rolled her eyes. “If you want proof that I won’t hurt you, I’ll give you something of mine,” she offered. Myra stopped and turned around, confused. “Something I can’t replace, something I won’t be able to get back,” she clarified, staring at her hands, shoulders falling, “I’ll give you my wedding ring, or a picture of my family, or- Something.” Myra scanned her, confusion turned to thought. “If I hurt you, or manipulate you, or do anything you think might be motivated by malice, you can destroy it. I won’t try to stop you, I’ll just leave,” she offered. Dee slowly took a step towards Myra. An itch had grown at the base of her skull. A few moments, little more than a thought, would be all that it took to ensure an enthusiastic agreement. Bile rose in her throat and raged bloomed in her chest. Was she really so pathetic as to resort to her pathomancy with an Ex-Rubedo member? “And if you really can’t find it in your heart to trust me, I understand, I have done horrible things to you,” she promised, “I can offer you a recommendation to the best occultist I know in the Colombus scene.” Myra’s face had returned to rest, a slight gentleness in her expression. Dee visualized the itch as a bug, crushing it in her mind’s fist. “I can’t let your son suffer. If what you say is true, something very bad is going on. Like you said, I help people,” she concluded. Myra scratched her scalp and ran her tongue over her teeth. “And you swear that you know how to help him?” she asked. Dee walked slowly forward, stopping just outside of Myra’s personal space. “If I can’t help him, I know how to find someone that can,” she explained. Myra glared at her suspiciously. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook out her hair. She approached Dee and held out her hand. “I want your collateral now,” she said. Dee dug in her purse, pulling out a small velvet box. She ran her fingers over it lovingly. It had been given to her on the brightest night of a dark time. That night, in the depths of her depression, she had dragged herself from bed, dressed, joined her partner on a boat on Lake Eerie, and painted a face of joy above her despair. She hadn’t expected him to propose. The ring had been his grandmother’s. She hadn’t let it leave her side since then. Desiree put the box, and the ring inside it, into Myra’s outstretched hand. She opened the velvet container, pursing her lips before closing it and tucking it into her back pocket. “You weren’t fucking around,” she remarked. Dee stared at the ground, her throat tightening. She dug in her purse again, pulling out a business card and holding it out. She snatched it from her hand and read the text. Curtly tapping on her phone, she entered the number as a contact and tucked the card into her wallet. She turned towards her car and walked away. “‘Wright’?” she asked. “Married two years ago, he’s a better man than I could have dreamed of,” she explained, “He knows about Rubedo. He loves me, and that’s what matters to him.” Myra nodded and tapped on her phone. “Let's go,” she ordered. Dee walked to her car as she felt tears well in her eyes. She pulled the door open and threw her purse in the passenger seat. A notification glowed blue with an address and an unknown number. With a tap the address opened to her GPS. She buckled her seat belt and leaned into the seat. A few tears fell down her face and she stared at the cloth ceiling of her car. A human life was more important than a stupid ring. There was no other way to convince Myra to give her this chance. Dee sniffled. The car roared to life at a key’s touch, drowning out her self-pity. She would make it worth it.

*****

Myra’s apartment was in a small, aging complex. Years had taken their toll on the building, the once white plaster tanned, the painted metal balconies flaking, but it retained a feeling of safety and charm. Desiree saw Myra park a few dozen feet away. As Dee exited the car, Myra popped open the trunk. Brown bag after brown bag came out of the trunk, blue lettering visible. She darted over and picked up a few bags. “Thank you,” she said, handing over a few more bags. She slammed the trunk shut, arms festooned with plastic. She walked across the parking lot and she followed her, scanning the buildings for the correct unit. The edge of her heel clipped the cracked pavement, and she stumbled. A blue square met her at eye level. The bags rustled as she fumbled around, before smacking the button with a sharp clack. “That crack gets all of us,” Myra explained, “Glad you didn’t drop anything.” Dee straightened and hustled through the lobby doors. It matched the outside. A scattered handful of tables and 6- looked older than either of them. Silence filled the room, sound dulled by tiles of industrial carpet. Myra calmly walked towards an old elevator. She kneed the small ivory button and rattling issued from behind the doors. Dee silently stood a few feet behind her, listening to the sound grow closer and stop, doors opening to reveal a fluorescent-bright box. The pair entered the doors and turned, standing side by side. Myra clicked the button for the fourth floor, then the elevator doors closed and it started with a jolt. Dee stared into the dull, stained metal surface of the door. Mechanical whirring filled the tense silence as the elevator slowly rose. Her fingers burned as the grocery bags dug into her hands. Myra stared at the crack between the doors. She was slightly hunched, folded around her groceries. She gently closed her eyes. “Sunsets.” Dee turned to face her. “Sunsets?” She asked “My son has a very strange reaction to sunrises and sunsets. It's hard to explain,” she said. Her hands tightened around her bags. “Every time that the sun sets, like clockwork, about ten minutes before, he bolts towards a window and watches it,” she said, “Just spends the time looking back and forth, like he's trying to burn it into his memory. It's strange, but I thought it was harmless” Dee continued to gaze. Myra’s face was tired, slightly tensed in worry, but her voice was calm, almost soothed “How long has he been doing this?” She asked, stomach strangely heavy. “As long as I can remember, actually,” she explained, “Even as a baby, he would stare at the light on the wall as it changed when the sun rose or set.” “Did this change when he started showing signs?” she asked, “Did he do it more, do it less? Would he start getting upset afterwards?” Myra stood silently for a few seconds. She shifted her hands around the handles of the grocery bags, angling away from her. “How did you know?” she asked. It had been a long time, but the memories rang clear in her head. It always seemed to be five years. Something made them start to go stir crazy after about five years. She guessed that human bodies simply lacked the qualities that they needed. “How exactly did you know?” she pushed, her voice growing suspect. She would have to intervene. It would be possible to keep the kid, and whoever else was there, calm and stable. “I think I know how to help your son,” she explained, “He won’t be the first person I’ve met in a similar situation.” “Did I know any of them?” she asked. Dee renewed her grip on the grocery bags. The elevator door dinged and rattled open. A corridor of middling carpet and aging plaster stretched in either direction. Myra huffed as she hauled herself into the hallway. “No. Nobody you’d know,” she explained, leaving the elevator. The carpeted hallway dampened Dee’s steps and the air in her lungs. Myra hauled herself towards the end of the hall, her head locked onto an orangish wooden door. Metal jingled as she rifled through her pocket, drawing out a mess of keys dangling from a sparkly pink leather strap. Dee turned her gaze as guilt ignited in her chest. Even a glance at her keys seemed intrusive, like the seeds of a plan to enter her house uninvited. A final key clicked and she muttered briefly as she shoved the key into her lock and wrenched the door open. “Put the bags on the table.” she ordered, plucking the keychain from the lock and boredly tossing it on a key rack. Dee walked in, hoisting her bags to her chest. PBS echoed from a tinny speaker through a cheap door to her left. She eased the bags onto a round wooden table. The bag rustled as she pulled it down around the items within. Myra heaped her bags on the counter and threw the fridge open. Dee turned at the sudden sound. The fridge light flickered to life behind bright, pre-packaged food. “Please help me put away the groceries,” Myra asked, rubbing the back of her neck. “Certainly,” she replied. She held her hand out, and she pawed at the groceries behind her. Her hand wrapped around a cold plastic tub, and handed over a container of yogurt. She pulled the container out of her hand and paused. Dee perked up and turned to the remaining bags, quickly gathering any item that felt cold to the touch and shoving them roughly into a bag. She whipped back around and held the bag out. Myra paused, hand held out, a look of mild shock on her face, before gingerly lacing her fingers into the bag’s handles, pulling it close, and looking inside. “Thank you,” she said cautiously, eyeing Dee. Myra continued to watch Desiree as she emptied the bag. Dee returned to searching the table. She handed over another bag of cold items. “Is that everything?” she asked. A sigh issued from behind her. “I think that’s everything cold. Can I get your help with the pantry?” she replied, shuffling a few boxes in the freezer. Dee scooped the food off the table, approaching the cabinets. “Alright,” she replied with a shrug. Myra put the final groceries away and stretched, walking towards the dining room table. Dee snatched up the last bag. She crumpled them into a ball and took aim at the garbage bin. “Put those under the sink,” she groaned. The chair hollowly squeaked as she pulled it out and sat down. She tapped open her phone and scrolled it, covering her forehead with a hand. Dee opened the sink cabinet. Among the brightly colored bottles of cleaner and rolls of trashbags was an overstuffed grocery bag. She peeked inside, the grays and browns of more bags threatening to spill forth into the cramped space. Grabbing her wadded bags, she wiggled in and shoved them with the rest. She wrapped her fingers around the cabinet frame and leaned out, brushing a few small pilled strands of dust off her sweater. “What do you plan on doing to my son?” came Myra’s voice from the table. Dee pulled herself up and faced her. She dusted off the last remains of dirt on her clothing and walked over, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “Let’s see,” she said, tapping her lips in thought. She reviewed the information Myra had given her in her head.
“I don’t yet know what’s happening to your son,” she explained, “So I’m going to talk to him and see if I can figure out what troubles him.” “Do you just need to talk? Nothing more? No tests, no magic, no-” she said, making circular gestures at her. Dee shook her head. “Having the information from those tests would help, but I won’t do it without permission from-” she explained. “As long as you don’t touch his mind, I don’t care what you have to do,” she said, “Figure out what’s happening to him, whatever needs to be done. I’ll forgive you when he’s ok.” Dee nodded gently. She placed her hands in her lap and rose from her chair. Myra placed her hand on her arm and stood up beside her. She looked down. They locked eyes. “What do you need?” Myra asked, unmoving. “I would like to make you and I some tea,” she explained, “Failing that, I would like some water.” Myra nodded and headed towards the stove. Dee slowly sunk back into her chair. She threw open a cabinet and rummaged around, pulling out a beaten metal kettle. A few clicks of the piezo sparked the stove to audible life. She filled the kettle and placed it on the stove. Mugs clinked as she searched the cabinets. Placing two white mugs on the counter, she reached into another cabinet and plopped a teabag into each mug. Her eyes glinted as she watched Dee. Dee shifted uncomfortably as the water finished boiling. “Do you take cream or sugar?” she asked. “A bit of milk,” she answered, swallowing, “Usually 1%, but whatever you have will be fine.” Myra poured the water over the tea and carried the mugs to the table. She carefully set down a mug in front of her, turning the handle towards Dee’s right. She sat down and watched Dee over her mug, twirling the bag around the mug. “Run me through what I should expect to happen to my son,” she requested. Dee scratched the back of her head. She could start to smell the brewing tea. Little clouds of fragrant steam brushed the skin of her cheek. “To put it briefly: Whenever you’re ready, You’ll take me down to his room. For the wellbeing of you and your son, I encourage you to observe the process” She cleared her throat and smelled the still brewing tea. “I’ll ask a few questions to get a handle on what he’s like in general. After that, I’ll start asking him about the unusual things that he’s been going through. He might have insight that he hasn’t thought to tell you,” she explained, “If I need to run any tests, I’ll get my supplies from my car, and be as non-invasive as possible, though I may need some hair or nails.” Myra grimaced. Dee sighed gently and picked up her mug. “Blood is normally used for this sort of thing,” she explained, “Quite frankly, I think it’s a bit excessive. Nails and hair are gentler.” She gently sipped the tea. Her throat burned. Needed another minute. “After the tests are finished, I should know more about what’s going on,” she continued, “And I plan on telling you everything. You’ll know what’s going on, what to do about it, and I’ll be on my way.” Myra exhaled steadily. “What if he needs more help after this?” she asked. Dee swirled her tea, stood, and opened the fridge. A gallon of whole milk sat on the bottom shelf, half full. She pulled it out and returned to the table. She poured until the tea turned paper-bag brown, capping it and returning it to the fridge. She sat down and drank. The tea was rich, oily from milkfat. “Then you have a choice,” she revealed, “You can ask me to come back, or I can refer you to someone I know is an honest tradesman.” Myra nodded and drank her tea. She pulled the mug from her face and stared down into the brown abyss. “I still don’t like this,” she said, lips slightly pursed. “Neither do I,” she replied, “But the night I put a bullet in Rubedo’s spine, I-” “Gave a hollow promise to cover your ass and abandoned us,” she snapped. Dee set down her mug, folded her hands, and stared at Myra. “I made a promise that if I could make things right, I would. That should you need my help, I would provide it if I could,” she explained, “and I have always held that promise to heart.” Myra scoffed and downed her tea. “You up and vanished immediately after,” she countered, “Gone. Prospero covered for you.” Dee pressed her lips tightly. “And that was my fault,” she admitted, “But I had to come to terms with myself.” Myra’s face scrunched. She picked up her mug and walked to the sink. She glared and stared out the kitchen window as she set it down. “How?” she asked, hostility creeping into her voice. “Rubedo was a dream bled by a thousand cuts,” Dee explained, picking up her tea, “I had to ensure my hand never held another knife.” Water rushed as the sink roared to life. A sponge rasped as Myra scrubbed the inside of her mug. Dee continued to sip at her tea, waiting for the tightness in her chest to subside. “Your dream wasn’t the only thing you bled dry, and self-pity doesn't remove blood,” she replied as she cleaned, “Put those words into action, and I’ll believe you.” Myra turned to face her. “I need your mug,” she said. Dee stood up, downed her tea, and held out her mug. Myra wrapped her hands around it and Dee slowly let go, the mug leaving her grasp. She placed the mug in the sink and filled it with water. The house stood in unsettling silence as she quickly cleaned the mug. She returned to her chair, gently grabbing the top of the backrest. Dee met her eyes before turning her eyes to her hands. “We’ve beat around the bush long enough,” she said, gently sighing in disappointment, “Follow me.” Dee stood up and followed her. The living room was small, a hand-me-down couch and two used armchairs surrounding a small coffee table. A documentary on stars beamed from the lightly bruised screen of a Hisense TV. The room was otherwise silent and empty. No toys were scattered around the floor. A row of children’s books on a shelf next to the TV appeared untouched, neatly lined up on the bottom shelf. Myra walked towards a short hallway. Three doors lined the sides of the dim hall, a pair on the right and another on the left. She stopped before the rear left door. She knocked twice on the door and cleared her throat. “Hey kiddo, I’m home,” she called out as she grabbed the handle, “How are you doing? Did you have a good nap?” Unoiled hinges creaked as Myra swung the door open. Dee gently peeked in over her shoulder. Sepia light flooded the room from a small lamp, a small fire truck serving as its base. A few white lines of sun were visible on the walls opposite the drawn curtains. On the twin bed sat a small child, quietly moving trucks across the undisturbed half of a comforter. Dee felt a hand wrap around her waist and Myra pull her in. A bucket shelf of toys stood against the wall, undisturbed before an empty floor and untouched playmat. Myra approached her son, reaching out to fluff his hair. “You should have the light on if you’re playing,” she said, reaching for the curtains, “You don’t want to hurt your eyes.” The child reached for her arm, remaining silent. Myra hesitated and pulled her arms away from the curtains. Dee watched the boy. It seemed to her that his face was still for a child’s, slightly tense. Most children didn’t know how to hold expressions like that. There was little of the unthinking doughiness of youth. She crouched to the boy’s eye level, shifting her weight to the heels of her boots. Myra turned to face her and gestured towards her son.. “Desiree, this is Colton, but we call him ‘Cole’,” she explained, “Cole, this is Desiree, but we call her Dee.” Dee waved gently. Cole stared at her intensely, an eerily emotionless curiosity visible in his features. He held his gaze for an endless minute before looking up at his mother’s face. “Momma, how do you know her?” he asked. The tone of his voice was noticeably high. Suspicion crept into Dee’s thoughts. Myra smiled and put her hand on his shoulder reassuringly. “I knew her a long time ago. I felt really bad and she found a way to make me better,” she answered, “She’s here to find a way to make you feel better, too.” Cole looked at Dee again. “Why didn’t she help earlier?” he asked. Myra paused briefly. “Dee hurt people by mistake and I felt angry at her,” she said, “But I’m letting her try again.” Cole stared at the floor blankly for a second, the eerie stillness unchanging. He slowly grabbed the toy truck on the bed and crawled towards the edge of the bed. At the edge, he squirmed into a sitting position and slid off the bed. He walked a few steps to the neglected playmat, plopped down, and idly pushed his truck around. Wide paths were carved into the dust on the surface of the playmat. Myra slowly backed towards the door and looked at Dee. Her expression was subtly wide. Dee stood and walked over to Cole. She kneeled down on the playmat and smiled warmly. Cole looked up at her and stared emptily for a moment before returning to his play. Dee paused and watched him. The boy’s movements were cold, dispassionate. His eyes tracked the car, looking over it as he ran it around methodically. Though his expression had remained distant, static, something had subtly changed. She tilted her head and looked closer. The corners of his eyes and mouth had subtly tightened, as if he struggled to hide an emotion. Cole’s mouth twitched. Irritation, perhaps. “Do you like to play with your trucks often?” she asked, continuing to observe. “Yeah,” he replied coldly. “It seems like you haven’t been playing a lot,” she pressed, running her finger through the dust. “I was sick,” he explained, “Didn’t mom tell you?” Dee nodded. “She did. I want to hear about how you are feeling,” she said, “Your mom can’t tell me what’s happening in your body.” Cole stopped moving his truck. He looked at the buildings on the mat. “My head hurts a lot. It hurts more when it’s bright,” he explained. “Go on,” she encouraged. Dee felt herself grit her teeth slightly. Pulling national secrets out of a spy was easier than pulling information from a child. “I stopped playing outside because it would make me throw up. Then I’d hurt all over,” he said, “And I’d cough too. And it would burn my skin. I miss the swings.” Dee nodded and lowered herself onto the carpet. “Is that how you got the spots?” she asked. “No,” he said, “I don’t think so.” Cole stood up and walked towards his bed. His hands grasped towards a truck on his blanket. Stretching, he clutched it in his hand and walked towards the mat. “Do you know how those spots happened?” she asked. He twisted his small face, scrunching his nose in the same way his mother did. “I don’t know,” he said. A chuckle escaped Dee’s lips. Children were horrible liars. “Your mom told me that you can shape shadows,” she asked, “Can you show me?” “Mom said I can’t,” he said, “It’s scary. People don’t like it.” Dee looked at Myra and raised her eyebrows. She nodded from the doorway and stepped in. “Please show her what you can do, Colton,” she commanded. Colton’s eyes grew wide. He looked towards his mom and his mouth fell open. “I won’t be scared,” Dee reassured with a wink, “I’m pretty brave.” The deep shadows of the room shifted, turbulently swirling like heated oil. Cole stuck his hand into the light and stared at its silhouette on the wall. The shape warped and stretched around, devouring the light around it. A grimace spread across his face and he groaned. The shadows settled, forming the shape of a small, simple tree from Cole’s hand. “That’s very cool,” she replied as she examined the shadows, feigning excitement, “I’m surprised people don’t think so.” “That’s not the scary part,” he admitted, “Watch this.” The room noticeably dimmed and shadow flowed from the wall like fog. “I see,” she remarked, “Cole, you did a good job, that’s enough for now.” The shadows flowed faster, vapor visible on the ground. Dee turned to face him, shifting back onto her heels. The whites of his eyes had gone gray and his face remained twisted with concentration. She gently reached out and touched his shoulder. “I need you to stop, Cole,” she asked, her voice low. Cole grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut. The amber light brightened into a dull orange. Myra walked over, stopping just behind her son. Dee looked over her shoulder. The shadow of his hand had shrunk, once again five small fingers jutting from a human palm. He blinked rapidly and squeezed his eyes shut as a few ink tears ran from his eyes. Grinding his fists into his eyes, he walked towards his bed, trucks abandoned. “I feel bad again,” he asked, “Mom, can I take a nap?” Myra lightly draped her fingers on his shoulders. “I think Dee has a few more questions for you, sweetie,” she explained, “She’s a nice lady, it would be mean to waste her time.” Cole continued to rub his eyes, a few more black tears flowing onto his face. “Can I tell her later?” he asked. Dee held up her hands reassuringly. “I’m sure a nap will help him feel much better,” she agreed. Myra looked between her son and Dee, pursing her lips slightly and raising her brows. “She’ll get tired, and she has to get home. It’s like she’s a doctor,“ she protested, “You wouldn’t take a nap at the doctor.” Cole leaned against his bed as the tears stopped. His hands and face were covered with a powdery black residue as he pulled them from his face. “She’s not a doctor.” he protested, “She doesn’t have a clipboard or anything.” Myra covered her face. “Not all doctors have those, Cole,” she explained, “Some doctors don’t need to check your heart.” Cole looked up from his hand, meeting his mother’s gaze. “She’s a charlatan,” he said, tone flat. Dee slowly stood. A creeping cold had entered the room. Her vision tinged gray. The tightness in her chest returned. She walked towards Myra. She reached out and touched her shoulder. “Can we talk for a moment?” she asked, staring at the lamp. Myra rose and nodded, a hand still on Cole. Chemicals coursed through Dee’s blood and her vision felt tilted as she walked out from the bedroom. She walked into the hallway, turning towards the living room. Her eyes darted around the hallway for a lightswitch. A small plaque of plastic rose gently from the plaster wall. The walls spun as she rushed forward and flicked it. Bright yellow light filled the hall as Myra walked out of the room. Pained cries echoed from the room, ceasing as she pulled the door closed. Dee sucked in air as she stood by the lightswitch, beating back the panic rising in her chest. “Where did he learn that word?” she asked, flattening her voice in false calm. Myra stuttered wordlessly. “I. I don’t know,” she admitted, “I’ve never used that word around him before.” Dee steepled her hands on her face. “Did he hear it in a show? Did one of his babysitters mention it?” she pressed, “Did one of your relatives use the word in front of him?” “I don’t know!” Myra responded, raising her voice, “I’ve never heard him use it before tonight. What’s going on?” Dee fully covered her face. Sweat had begun to bead on her forehead. It clung to the tips of her fingers, sticky, damp, uncomfortable. Small beads ran down her fingers. She pulled her hands from her face and reached into her jacket pocket. The handkerchief felt sandpapery against her skin as she blotted the sweat away. She tucked it back into her pocket and folded her arms across her stomach. “Can I talk to him alone?” she asked, flinching. Myra’s earlier incredulity visibly crept into her features. “Are you serious?” she scoffed, “No-” “I don’t care if you spend every moment with your ear pressed against the door,” she protested, “I just need you to not be visible to him.” Confusion emerged from her disdain. “I… think I might know what’s happening to your son,” she admitted, hesitating, “But I need him to admit something, and he won’t do it if he sees you there.” Dee’s heart stuttered. It wouldn’t be safe for her if he did admit it with her there. The rest of the apartment would not be safer, but the seconds it bought her could mean life or death. Worry was born from confusion, and Myra glanced at the door. “What’s going on-” she questioned. “I don’t want to tell you until I’m sure,” she promised, “I will tell you the moment I’m certain. But for that, I need to check.” Myra pulled out the box with Dee’s engagement ring and opened it. She looked at the ring, then at Dee, before closing the box and tucking it back in her pocket. “Alright,” she sighed, “But know that I will be listening to you. If anything funny happens, I’m destroying that ring.” Dee nodded in agreement, staring at the floor. The tension that had slowly built in her chest started to sour into panic. She had to make it to the end of the hallway. A gentle flick of her fingers threw the hallway into shadows, not darkness, but still too dim for comfort. Her steps were dull thuds against the linoleum floor as she approached the door. (Cont.: https://paper.wf/return-of-nitemare/chasing-shadows-part-2)