The Girl Who Could Not Dream (27 page)

In the kitchen, the chairs scraped again, as if the man (or men) were standing up. A door—the back door, she guessed—squeaked open, then banged shut. Sophie tensed. This could be their chance! But then she heard more footsteps, and the suction sound of the refrigerator door. “One of them is still there,” Monster whispered.

“What if he doesn't leave?” Sophie asked.

“Or what if he has to pee?” Monster asked.

Christina stood. “I will distract him. You go.”

“But what about you? And my parents? And Ethan and Madison?” She was
not
leaving them.

“I can't help them, but I can help you,” Christina said. “And you're the important one. You're the nondreamer. They're just ordinary people. Please, Sophie, don't argue. So long as I know you're free, that's enough.” Stepping toward the toilet, Christina flushed it. She then gave Sophie a quick hug, unlocked the door, and strolled outside.

A chair scraped in the kitchen. “Christina? What are you doing down here?”

Sophie heard fast footsteps—Christina was running. She heard Mr. Nightmare shout, and then footsteps pounded on the stairs up to the bedrooms.

“Sophie, are we going to run?” Monster asked.

She looked at him, at the bunnies, and then at the distiller in the bathtub.
When they sleep, fear wins,
Christina had said. “No, we're not going to run,” Sophie said. “I have an idea.”

S
OPHIE TOUCHED THE GLASS CURVES OF THE DISTILLER.
“There was a dreamcatcher in Mr. Nightmare's bedroom. It's hanging from his bed. Why?” She didn't wait for Monster to answer. “He knows dreamcatchers work—I don't think he'd have one just for decoration. I think he has bad dreams.”

“And you want to drink his dream?” Monster guessed.

She nodded. “When he sleeps, his fear wins—like Christina said.”

Monster clapped his paws together softly. “And if we bring his fear to life, we win.”

“Exactly,” Sophie said. She knelt next to the rabbits. “Are you really ninja bunnies? Can you hop upstairs and bring that dreamcatcher back without being seen?”

In a semicircle, the rabbits were on their hind legs, at attention. The pink rabbit saluted.

She felt a stab of guilt, bringing them here and putting them in danger. “You could get caught. You could get eaten. You could be turned back into a dream. So I need you to be very careful. There are not-nice people and not-nice monsters out there. Only do this if you're sure . . .”

The bunnies hopped to the door and nudged at it with their noses.

“Guess that's a yes,” Monster said.

She cautiously opened the door a few inches. Flattening against the wall, the bunnies slipped out. They scattered, slipping into the shadows. She shut and locked the door, and then she sat down with Monster to wait.

“Your parents weren't upstairs, so they must be downstairs,” Monster said. “There must be more rooms like the one that Madison was in.”

Sophie nodded. “So that's where we go, if we can, if this works.” It
had
to work. Christina had bought her some time, but not forever. This was their best and only chance. Everyone else was captured. She was the only one who could save them—and if this worked, she could save all of them. “After we rescue my parents, Ethan, and Madison, we'll go back up and rescue Christina again.”

“You don't know that he dreamed anything useful,” Monster cautioned, “and without a somnium, we'll have no way to check the dream before you drink it. It could be useless or upsetting.”

“At worst, it will distract him. At best . . . This will work, Monster.” She checked over the distiller. None of the tubes looked broken. There were remnants of a dream on the bottom of the tub. It had been used here. Glittery yellow was caught in the drain.

“And the muscle man?”

“You saw him,” Sophie said. “He's not real. We find a way to distract him too and then use a dreamcatcher on him. The rabbits will help.” She looked around for a bottle and found some cups by the sink. That would do. She didn't need to store it; she just needed to drink it.

“You think we're ‘not real'?” Monster's voice was soft.

Sophie stopped and knelt beside him. His tentacles were drooping. She petted one. “I didn't mean
you.
Of course you're real. You're my best friend.”

He sniffed. “Old best friend. You looked like you'd found a new one.”

Sophie poked him. “Monster, are you jealous? Of a human?”

“Never. But I'm not looking forward to the time when you don't need me anymore.”

“I'll always need you!” It was hard to keep her voice to a whisper. What had gotten into him? It was
good
that she'd found someone like her. He'd seen her mope often enough about feeling alone and different.

“Children outgrow their imaginary friends.”

“You aren't imaginary.”

“I came from a dream. What other definition of
imaginary
do you want?”

Sophie glared at him, unable to think of the right words to convince him, and finally she reached over and pinched his ear on the tender spot under the furry flap. He yelped, softly. “
Not
imaginary,” she said.

He glared back at her but didn't argue.

The wait was painfully long. She felt as if her ears were listening so hard that they hurt. There was someone in the kitchen again. She heard the kitchen sink turn on and dishes clatter. Someone—Mr. Nightmare or the guard—had come back to finish his dinner. The sounds were so ordinary. It was so strange to think that there were people imprisoned in this house, and that she was trapped in the bathroom.

At last, she heard little scratches at the door. She scrambled to her feet and inched the door open. Led by the pink one, the rabbits shot inside. They carried a pillowcase between them.

She locked the door behind them and opened the pillowcase. Inside was the dreamcatcher. “You are wonderful, amazing, the most brilliant rabbits ever.”

The pink rabbit preened, and the others shook paws, as if congratulating one another.

She carried the dreamcatcher over to the distiller. She'd seen her parents do this a thousand times, but she'd never done it herself. Slowly, she tilted the dreamcatcher over the funnel at the top. “Monster, can you work the levers?” she whispered. Usually Mom poured and Dad worked the levers.

“On it,” he said, taking up a position at the base of the distiller.

She couldn't see the dream on the threads, but as soon as Monster pressed the first lever, scattered droplets formed inside the funnel. Sophie tilted the dreamcatcher more.

“Gently,” Monster whispered. His breath was hot on Sophie's leg. He pressed another lever, allowing the droplets from the dream to slide into the next tube. The liquid began to glow.

Her arms started to ache from holding the dreamcatcher up and out over the bathtub. At last, no more drops formed. She laid the dreamcatcher down. “We can do this, right?”

Monster scooted sideways so Sophie could work the levers. “I'd cheer you on with pompoms, but they're not really my thing.”

Watching the drips move through the tubes, she thought of all the times she'd watched her parents, memorizing their every move, practicing when they weren't looking. She mimicked what she'd seen them do. The key was to increase the sparkle, but to do it carefully . . . It would be very easy to accidentally lose bits of the dream. She had to watch it every second: when it dimmed, she had to make it turn; when it flickered, drop it down; when it glowed, guide it to a spiral. If she wanted a clear and complete dream, she had to do to right. Her parents always made the crispest dreams.

Concentrating, she raced through the levers, causing the liquid to veer faster down a tube, where it brightened as it sloshed, and then swerved to the left, where it dimmed. She hit another lever. The dream flickered as it switched direction, and then it flashed brighter again.

She continued to guide it through the tubes until at last, it dripped into the cup. Squatting next to it, she watched the shimmering blue liquid slosh inside. When the drips stopped, Monster turned off the distiller. Sophie gently removed the cup from underneath the spigot.

She lowered herself onto the bathmat and leaned against the cabinet. She didn't want to tip over and make any kind of noise when she fell asleep. She stared at the cup. It felt very wrong to sleep when Mr. Nightmare was right outside in the kitchen. She was making herself vulnerable at a bad time. But Monster would protect her and wake her.

Raising the cup to her lips, she hoped he'd dreamed something useful.

It was snowing fat flakes out the window.

She pressed her nose against the pane, and her breath fogged the glass. With this much snow, they'd cancel school. She'd better tell Mom and Dad. Slipping off the couch, she stood—and she didn't know where she was. This wasn't her living room. All the couches were red leather, and the rug was white. The shelves were filled with glass figurines instead of books, and there was a coffee table made out of an old trunk. She'd never seen this room before.

I'm in his dream,
she remembered.

There was a bowl of chocolate ice cream on the coffee table. The chocolate was piled several scoops high, and as she stared at it, it melted in front of her, pooling on the table and then dripping onto the white rug. When the melted chocolate hit the rug, it turned as red as blood. It seeped and spread until the whole room was red.

And then the red liquefied, and ocean waves lapped against the coffee table and the couch. Sophie climbed onto the back cushions. Sharks circled the sofa.

If a shark bit her in a dream, would it hurt? She clutched the cushions as the couch rose on a wave and smacked down on the other side. Water sprayed around her and then slammed into her. In the distance, a train whistle screamed, inexplicably, and then a jet engine roared, but then there was only the sound of wave hitting wave, hard smacks.

Water pummeled her, pouring over her head and face until she breathed water. It burned as it filled her throat, and then she was submerged. She swam toward the light above her, but it fractured. Her lungs felt shredded, and her skull felt as if it wanted to break apart. Spots appeared before her eyes, and then she was lying in darkness, her cheek pressed against a cool floor, and she was able to breathe again.

“Finally found you,” a woman's voice said. “Did you really think you could run forever? You can't run, swim, or fly fast enough to ever get away from me.” Sophie felt something rough and dry stroke her cheek. It felt like a stick.

A light switched on, and Sophie realized she was lying on a kitchen floor. Coughing, expecting water to come out of her mouth, she twisted to see who had spoken.

Sophie screamed.

A woman's face loomed over her. It was planted on top of the body of a massive brown spider. Her eight legs straddled Sophie. Her abdomen was the size of Sophie. Her face was as lovely as a model's, framed by lush black curls that cascaded down to her hairy arachnid shoulders. Her makeup was perfect, with bronze skin, deep pink lips, contoured cheekbones, and accented eyes. She frowned, a perfect upside-down rainbow frown. “You aren't Eugene.”

“Hi. I'm Sophie. I borrowed his dream.”

The spider woman lowered her face—all eight legs bending to bring her closer. Her breath smelled like overripe peaches. “Ahh, so this is a dream. That explains my shape. And you say you borrowed his dream . . . You must be a friend of his.”

“No!” Immediately Sophie worried that the answer should have been yes.

“No?” The spider woman straightened her legs, and Sophie could see her entire spider body. She stepped backwards, allowing Sophie to sit up. “Why would he give you his dream?”

“I, uh, took it.” In a burst, she told the spider woman about how Mr. Nightmare had kidnapped her parents and Madison and Lucy and how he now had Ethan as well, and Sophie was trapped in a bathroom . . . She petered out of words as the woman stared at her.