Sweet Dreams (15 page)

“What in blazes is
that
thing?” Voyles said. He and Janet stood on the sidewalk in front of the Anderson house.

Janet clutched his arm.

Voyles pulled his service revolver from the holster. The snub-nosed .38 Chiefs Special felt very comfortable and reassuring in his big hand.

A hollow-sounding laugh emanated from the ball of light that hovered over the sidewalk in front of the Anderson home.

“I think it's . . . it's laughing at your gun, Dick,” Janet said. “God, I'm dreaming all this. Tell me this is just a nightmare, Dick.”

Voyles looked at his 38, grimaced, and then stowed the pistol back in the holster. “I can't tell you that, Janet,” he said. “I don't know what is going on around here, but it's no dream.”

Voyles and Janet avoided contact with the ball of light by cutting across the front yard. Janet stopped the cop and tugged on his arm.

“Look over there, Dick.” She pointed to the house next door.

A man stood in the front yard, hedge clippers in his right hand. Voyles walked over to him and said hello.

The man ignored him.

“Sir?” Voyles persisted. “Sir, can you hear me?”

The man offered no evidence of recognition. He looked up once-right through Voyles. The man rubbed the back of his neck.

“Oh,
God
, Dick!” Janet said, gasping the words. “We're invisible to him!”

“Now that's impossible, Janet. Get hold of yourself.”

The ball of light laughed mockingly, tauntingly.

“None of us can be seen,” Bud spoke from the open doorway. “We are invisible to all others – for a time.”

“Who in the hell are you?” Voyles asked.

Before Bud could reply, Janet stepped close to Voyles and said, “But how can that be possible?”

Bud waved them toward the house. The old Indian waited until the couple entered and were seated before he elaborated.

“Call me Bud,” he said. “Now, all of you listen to me. The light is not what it appears to be. The light by itself is harmless, as has been proven over the years, unless it becomes highly agitated; then it can and will do harm. But for now, what has taken possession of the light is a clear and present danger to those of us gathered in this room, and to the residents of this town and the surrounding area.”

“Taken possession?” Maryruth asked, more to herself than to Bud.

All present, except for the kids, looked suspiciously at the leather-faced old man and his partner. The Indian was of medium height, stocky, and appeared to be in excellent health for his age. He stood erect, and spoke in a firm, steady voice. His eyes were bright, but unreadable. He wore his hair long, down to his shoulders; a leather headband was tied around his forehead. He appeared to be in his mid-seventies.

Leo was of approximately the same size and build, although perhaps a few years younger.

Both men were dressed in a mishmash of what seemed to be hand-me-down clothing. But the men and the clothing were clean. The men time-worn, the clothing patched.

“What has taken possession of the light?” Voyles asked, suspicion in his voice.

“The greatest Manitou that was ever created,” Bud replied. “But he is an evil Manitou. He is known as Sanjaman.”

“Manitou?” Janet said. “What in the hell—”—she looked at the kids—“devil is a Manitou?”

“Sanjaman?” Jerry said. “What kind of a name is that?”

“It's an Indian name,” Heather said. “And anything can be a Manitou. I read a book about them when I was little. Wind, fire, a rock, ice—anything can be a Manitou.”

“That is quite correct,” Bud said. “As far as you took it. You are a very astute young lady.”

“Thank you, sir,” Heather said. “I have a high retention capacity.”

“So I gather.”

“Now, wait just a minute,” Voyles said. “This is ... well, getting mind-boggling. Exactly what does this Manitou want? What am I saying! God. You people have me babbling now.”

Bud ignored the last part of Voyles's statement. “Sanjaman wants many things. None of you possesses the Indian mind. Our way of looking at matters is different so it will be terribly difficult—if not impossible —to explain.”

“Try us,” Maryruth suggested. “And we'll try to understand you.”

“You were a teacher, weren't you?” Marc said. “O.K. Teach.”

Bud smiled at the boy. He looked directly at the group, his old and wise eyes lingering on each person for a few seconds. He nodded his head. “Very well. First you must all understand—No! You must believe and accept matters that are, well, not conventional to your teachings. You must believe that no one ever truly dies; some part always remains. It can be strong or weak, but the
force
of a human being remains. Sanjaman was a very strong man in his first life. He was a mighty warrior; father of many sons. For centuries, the tale was handed down that Sanjaman did not seek the evil powers he now possesses. But he did seek immortality, and that search led him down many dark and twisted paths. When he finally exited life as you know it, Sanjaman was a very old man. He was also very wise, and he was furious at the spirit Death. He fought Death, screaming to the darkness that he would do or become anything in order to live. He was heard, and his pleas, to a point, were granted.”

“By whom?” Jerry asked, not knowing, at this juncture, what to believe.

“Those unseen but always present spirits that control all our lives, our final destinies. Call them gods or saviors or demons or spirits—whatever you wish. They are real.”

Voyles jumped to his feet, disbelief on his face. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He shook his head and returned to his place on the couch, beside Janet. “Jesus!” he said.

Maryruth suddenly shivered. Jerry glanced at her. “Air conditioning sure must be set low,” he remarked. “It's cool in here.”

“The air conditioning is set at seventy eight,” Marc said, “but it must not be working properly. 'Cause it sure is getting cold in here.”

Heather wrapped herself in an afghan and Janet moved closer to Voyles's side on the couch. Not that she needed any drastic temperature change to encourage her to do that. Voyles put an arm around her.

“The air conditioning has nothing to do with the sudden temperature inversion,” Bud said. “Sanjaman is playing with us.”

“What do you mean?” Voyles asked.

“It might well be snowing outside,” the old Indian replied.

“In the summer?” Jerry said. “That's impossible.”

Bud shrugged. “See for yourself.”

Jerry walked to the big picture window in the den. He pulled the cord to the drapes. Everyone in the room except Bud gasped at the sight that lay before them.

Bud stood quietly, his arms folded across his chest. His face was impassive.

Icicles hung from the gutters and the eaves of the house.

“But it must be seventy-five degrees outside,” Janet said. “This . . . what we're seeing . . . is impossible.”

“Dear lady,” Bud said softly.
“Nothing
is impossible to a Manitou. Sanjaman is just showing you he is all-powerful. He is telling you, in his way, that he can do anything he wishes, to any of you, at any time he so desires. He is playing with you.”

“But he can't do it to you, can he?” Jerry asked, without taking his eyes from the phenomenon occurring before his eyes. “If so, why is that?”

“You are correct to a degree, Doctor,” Bud said. “While a Manitou does not fear a medicine man, he must respect one. It is our way. There again, you are white; not of the Indian way. I have certain powers that you will never understand. That is not to say you are not a very intelligent man. You simply will not understand.”

“Try me,” Jerry challenged.

Bud smiled. “Your mind is trained to think white. You could never understand. There is no point in trying. Just accept and welcome the assistance that I bring. Soon, I believe, if I am to help you, my powers will be tested.”

Outside, hollow, mocking laughter rang out, reaching the ears of those inside the house.

“What next?” Maryruth asked.

“Only Sanjaman knows,” Bud told her.

“And God,” Voyles said.

Bud only smiled at that.

The house began steaming up, turning very hot, very quickly. Perspiration dripped from the faces of those in the den. Only Bud seemed immune to the intense heat.

The laughter reached them again. This time it seemed to contain a note of evil. Voyles said as much.

“Sanjaman is evil,” Bud told them. “Evil at its purest, if I may use a contradiction in terms. And add to that the fact that this time around, this reincarnation, he appears to be quite mad.”

“Like in angry?” Heather asked.

“No, child,” Bud replied. “As in demented.”

Jerry looked outside. Rapidly disappearing puddles of water on the ground beneath the eaves were all that remained of the ice.

Voyles joined Jerry at the window. He said, “I'm feeling it and looking at it, but damned if I can believe it's happening. There has got to be some sort of logical explanation for this. There has to be.”

“The white mind,” Bud remarked. “How much your race has lost over the passage of time. In your haste to create what you call advanced civilization, you've let the basics slip from you; you have lost your center of being.”

Voyles muttered something inaudible. Jerry got the impression it wasn't anything complimentary.

“But children, in their innocence,” Maryruth said. “They still have it. Is that what you're saying? Is that the connection?”

Bud nodded his head. “Wise for a woman,” he said drily.

“Thanks a lot,” she replied, as much ice in her tone as that which had hung from the eaves of the house only moments before.

“I did not mean to offend,” Bud said. “But yes. You are correct in your statement. Most white adults are prepossessed by material matters. They push aside all childhood beliefs while it would be to their advantage to retain many of those beliefs. For many are based on fact. Children—the making, the creating of them is a wondrous thing. And I still laugh at your medical communities' feeble attempts to explain the process. The white mind perceives it as all physical, while in truth there is as much spirituality involved as physicality. The stork fable is not all fiction.”

He stood, a faint smile on his face. “Someday truth will out.”

Jerry snorted and turned around, glancing out the window. “The light is gone,” he said.

“Again,” Bud said, “a half truth. The light is not gone. It has merely taken another form.”

“What form?” Voyles asked wearily. The highway cop didn't know what to believe. This night was becoming a living nightmare for his orderly, logical mind.

“That, I cannot answer.”

A slight movement across the room caused Maryruth's eyes to shift. She stood for a few seconds in numb frightening silence. A huge rattlesnake, at least six feet long and as large as a big man's arm was slithering toward her. She opened her mouth and screamed just as the rattler suddenly coiled and struck at her.

The lights in the house went out. Someone screamed in terror.

 

To anyone passing through the small Bootheel town, all would appear normal. The police force—one person to a shift—continued to make its rounds; a few people visited other people; the cafés and bars and supermarkets and gas stations remained open; the motel checked people in and out.

But few walked at night and no teenagers drove the streets. Astute people traveling through, those who noticed small details about human behavior in the mid-1980s, would wonder what had happened to the teenagers.

But they would wonder only briefly; then the question would be gone from their minds, erased.

No outsider would notice the intangible force slowly taking control of the town and its people. Changes were occurring in the minds of the townspeople – subtle, deadly changes. Evil changes. Now, if one heard a scream in the night . . . well, best to ignore that type of thing.

Why?

Just is.

Best thing you can do, nowadays, is go home and mind your own business. Staying inside your house is a good thing to do. Minding your own business is an even better thing. And if something . . . well, kinda odd occurs next door, that ain't nobody's business 'cept the folks that live there.

Why is that?

Just is.

Person carries on business during the daylight hours same as always. But at night . . . well, best to just go on home and stay there. If you just gotta go out after dark, get it done and get the hell back home as quickly as possible.

Why?

Lots of folks can't remember what goes on at night. And I ain't gonna say no more about it.

Are you afraid of the dark?

No. Look, why don't you just mind your own business? Yeah. That might be the best thing for you to do. And if you got any smarts at all, there's one more thing a person like you ought to do.

Oh?

Yeah. Leave . . . if you can.

 

Jerry was moving toward Maryruth before the rattler coiled. But he was well aware that a snake can short-strike, using its neck muscles, without coiling. Jerry leaped at her and literally threw her out of the snake's strike zone. They landed heavily on the carpet, behind the sofa.

The lights came back on with a
pop
.

Only Bud had not moved. He looked at the gathering, amusement in his dark eyes. “There was no danger,” he said calmly. “Sanjaman entered your minds and made your imaginations come alive. You merely imagined your worst fears.”