Night Terrors

Copyright © 2013 Sean Rodman

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Rodman, Sean, 1972-
Night terrors [electronic resource] / Sean Rodman.

(Orca soundings)

Electronic monograph.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN
978-1-4598-0421-0 (
PDF
).--
ISBN
978-1-4598-0422-7 (
EPUB
)

I. Title. II. Series: Orca soundings (Online)
PS
8635.O355
N
55 2013              j
C
813'.6              
C
2012-907493-4

First published in the United States, 2013
Library of Congress Control Number:
2012952958

Summary:
Dylan struggles with his memories of the death of his younger brother while fighting for survival in a snowbound resort.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Cover photography by Getty Images

www.orcabook.com
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For Mom

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter One

“Night terrors,” says the psychiatrist. “A symptom of post-traumatic stress. Perfectly normal.”

He smiles at me with polished teeth, gleaming white. Blond hair that's slicked back in perfect little lines, spotless expensive shirt, manicured hands. I'm slumped in a leather chair in jeans and a black T-shirt, feeling like the big wooden desk between us is more like a barrier between worlds. He's from a different planet. No way am I going to talk to this guy, no matter how much my parents want me to. The silence drags on.

“I can help you, but you need to open up,” he says. That's why my parents brought me here—to get some help. Because they can't handle the screaming at night. Can't handle the way I've unplugged from everything, everyone, around me.

Like this plastic-faced shrink is going to help. There's no way I'm going to “open up” to this guy. Because if I tell him the truth, he'll think I'm crazy. The truth is, I sleep for four, maybe five, hours every night. And then the dream wakes me up. The dream is always the same, every time. It starts with me in my bed.

I open my eyes and see him standing there, watching me. Just a little shadow in the doorway. Six years old, small for his age. My little brother. I grunt out his name, wondering why he's woken me up.

“Sammy?”

He doesn't answer. Just watches me. I notice he's wearing his clothes, not pajamas. His Superman T-shirt is soaked through, and his hair is plastered down, wet. Then I smell damp leaves and the putrid scent of something rotting.

“Sammy—where the hell have you been? You know what time it is?” I whisper. He doesn't say a word but starts to shuffle toward me. And then I remember.

Sammy died months ago. I was in the river next to him when the current pulled him away. I tried to grab him, my hands scratching his slick wet back. Sammy was way out of reach downriver when he went down the first time. His head reappeared, looking back at me. Then he was gone under the black water, forever.

The worst part is, they never found his body. The search-and-rescue guys said it was probably pinned down at the bottom, under a log or something. I can't stop thinking about Sammy, lying down there at the bottom of the river, looking up at the daylight. Trapped.

So there is no way he survived. There is no way he can be here right now, sliding his feet across the floor, shadowy eyes fixed on mine. Sam stops at the edge of my bed, and his tiny hands reach up to me, scrabbling against my naked chest. Wanting me to pick him up. His hands feel like cold dead meat.

That's when I wake up screaming
.

A week after the visit to the psychiatrist, the nightmares are worse than ever. My dad comes in and finds me in sweat-soaked sheets, my throat hoarse and sore. He sits close enough to me that I can smell the whiskey on his breath. The accident wasn't easy on him either. He listens as I mumble through tears, explaining the dream to him. When I finish, he takes his glasses off and just looks at me for a while.

“You remember when we saw that zombie movie last year?”

I nod, not sure where this is going. The film scared the crap out of me, although I tried not to show it to my dad.

“Right now, your mind is like a movie projector,” he says. “It's throwing pictures on the wall. But they're just… images, ghosts. You're making yourself see scary stuff.” He pulls up the sheets, smoothing them around me like I'm a little kid again. “You just need to turn the projector off. And the pictures…the ghosts…they'll go away.”

He walks to the door. Looks back at me, one hand on the light switch.

“It's all in your mind,” he says, “and ghosts can't hurt you.”

He means well. But Dad is wrong. I don't find that out until a couple of months later.

Chapter Two

“For most of you, tomorrow means a final departure from Ravenslake Lodge and a return to real life. Which I know you are all absolutely devastated about,” Edward says. A few people in the crowd laugh.

“However, as you may know, we recently dismissed two of our junior maintenance staff. So this year we need a few volunteers to help Harvey, our facility manager, close up the resort. It's an extra week of hard work, but at double pay. Please let Harvey know if you're interested.” Edward turns slowly, scanning the crowd of hotel staff surrounding him. We're gathered in the main dining hall of the resort. The chairs and tables have been stored away already, so everyone is just standing around in groups. We've gathered into the tribes that keep the luxury resort running—the office staff, clean-cut and perky, even when they're off duty. Groundskeepers in overalls and ballcaps. The kitchen crew in their whites, piercings and tattoos peeking out from under the uniforms. And then there are the bellmen, like me—the guys who carry your bags, bring you room service. Like the others, I'm wearing a bright red jacket with my name embroidered on one corner in dorky lettering—
Dylan.
Not the most stylish but, like a lot of things at Ravenslake Lodge, you get used to it.

Edward has a thin face like an axe, and his narrow black eyes scan the crowd. “One final thought,” he says. “I know that I have a reputation for…”

“Being a jerk.” It's Tom, one of the other bellmen. He says it quietly, so only we can hear him. Wouldn't want to attract Edward's attention, even on the last day.

“…being a leader with exacting standards. I accept no laziness,” Edward continues, shaking one hand for emphasis. When I started at the beginning of summer, I was told that with Edward, you screw up, you get fired. No second chance. I saw a few people go.

“I hope that, as you depart, you understand the reason for my standards. My insistence on self-discipline. My requirement for a true strength of character to work in a fine hotel such as this.” He smiles, thin lips forming a slash across his face. “It is my gift to you. Something you will carry away into the world, having been trained here at Ravenslake Lodge.” He lifts both hands up, as if letting us all go. I see Tom roll his eyes at the dramatics. Edward winds up for his big finale.

“So as I thank you for your hard work, I think in fact you should be thanking me. For teaching you so well. For being a firm but fair leader. And to that I say, you are most welcome. It has been my honor.” There's an awkward pause, then a ripple of polite applause as Edward walks away from the crowd.

The big dining hall fills with chatter. I see Tom heading out the door. I run to catch up. He grunts when I pull up to him, and we start walking down the gravel path toward the staff cabins.

“Dylan! D-Man! Edward was in good shape today, huh?” he says. “Classic. I'm surprised he didn't fire someone right there, just to teach us all a lesson.” He stops and leans toward me, lowering his voice. “Hey, I saved a six-pack from the party last night at the Point. You up for a victory beer while I pack my bag?” It's ten in the morning, but I'm not surprised. Most of the staff worked hard during their shifts and partied even harder off duty. Tom was always the ringleader, DJ and master of ceremonies for most of the late-night campfires and cabin parties. As long as we kept the action away from the resort grounds, out at a place called the Point, Edward didn't seem to notice.

“I'm good,” I say. “It's a little early for me.” Don't get me wrong—I've never complained about Tom or the parties. Far from it. They were the perfect prescription for my sickness, better than the drugs the shrink and my parents wanted me to take. I had spent the summer trying to blur out my old memories with a combination of sweat, beer and weed. The nightmares still came, but less often. Now it was all coming to an end. Ravenslake Lodge was closing up for the winter. The weather was already colder, and there was a chance of early snow. The last guests had already checked out, and soon a bus would come to drive us all back to the nearest town, two hours away. Then home. My stomach clenched at the thought.

“Your loss,” Tom says. We walk up the creaky wooden steps to his cabin.

“What exactly is the victory you're celebrating?” I ask. Unlike the guest cabins at the resort, the staff cabins are basically shacks with eight beds and one bathroom, military style. Edward spares no expense when it comes to the guests. And goes totally budget when it comes to us.

“For surviving another summer up here. For surviving Edward.” He looks at me like I'm stupid. He pulls out a beer from a little bar fridge at the end of the cabin, pops the tab with a hiss and flops down on the thin mattress.

“It wasn't that bad,” I say.

“Seriously, D-Man? Stuck in the middle of a forest, hours away from civilization, working like a slave. Never mind all the stupid requests from guests who have more money than brains.”

“So I guess you're not staying on?” I push aside some laundry piled on the bunk across from Tom and sit down.

“'Course not,” he snorts. He squints and puts on a pirate voice. “A city is waiting to be plundered. Ladies to be deflowered. Gold to be…whatever.” He takes a swig, then stares at me. “Wait—you're thinking about closing up the lodge?”