They Call it Dream-Tyme
By Wendy Cheairs
 
Ash tapped his fingers over the old desk, rapping to each tick of the clock, waiting for the bell to ring. It was nearly time for lunch, and he had skipped breakfast again. Escaping his house before anyone else woke was important. Any moment spent with his family members lasted a small eternity, and right now, he didn't have the time or energy for whatever drama continued from them. The teacher continued to ramble about the town's local history, like any town on the coast of Maine had any different history. They were fishers, crabbers, sailors, or, if fiction was to be believed, far more exciting thanks to Stephen King. Sadly, nothing happened here in Harper's Bay. The room of empty nods as Mrs. Jennings rambled on about history no one cared about. Ash pitied his fellow students. It was Friday, time to escape and enjoy the weekend, but each class took longer, draining the lives of the teens who had no interest.
The bell finally rang, a student leaving since most, like Ash, had packed up well before the lecture finished as Mrs. Jennings told them to have a safe weekend. He shuffled and jumped the line of students to wrangle himself to the front for food and snacks to load up on protein and carbs before finding his friend Lynn. He made his way from the lines to outside, rain or shine. Lynn would stay out whenever she could, enjoying what she called nature. The school had a few spots of trees and old benches dedicated to students of the past who did something or died. He found her reading yet another dusty book from the 1950s, some of the science fiction pulp she read by the boatloads. Even her clothing seemed closer to the '50s than modern with her black and white Rockabilly dress. He found her vibe interesting since she never changed what she wore for fashion, ignoring the other girls trying to be modern and hip. He sat, handing her one of the pre-packaged sandwiches before unwrapping his to eat in a few bites.
"Remember to breathe, Ashley," Lynn stated. 
Her white cloth napkin had come from her house, placed delicately on her lap as she took small, lady-like bites of the sandwich. Her lady of the manor manners were ingrained since her family was considered old money even if they hadn't been wealthy for years. They still owned the largest house in the bay, overlooking the ocean, and managed to keep hold of it. Her mother pretended they were still high upper class, teaching manners and rules to her two children. Her eldest son had already graduated and run straight for the Navy as soon as possible and rarely returned, while Lynn seemed to manage the balance of class, high school, and the realities of life. She kept her part-time job secret from her mother and father.
"Really?" Ash commented, hating his name, but he let her get away with it more than others outside of his family.
"I know, I just have a lot of my mind." She took a long pause before looking straight at Ash. "Are you ready for tonight?"
"I am still impressed you could get ahold of some Dream-Tyme."
"One of the perks of being who I am, besides if it works, is that we will be able to test the whole lucid dreaming to its true extent. I want to go somewhere, anywhere other than here." She dabbed the corner of her mouth, avoiding ruining any of her scarlet lipstick as Ash finished the last bit of his sandwich.
"Hell yeah, ever since they got on, the whole pot is bad for everyone since all the adults want it for themselves. It sucks. This shit is supposed to be serious, best buzz out there."
"Language darling, you know how I feel about everyone using swearing when there are ubiquitous phrases that can be used. But I agree with the sentiment. My father took my stash for his medical use and now won't let me get any for personal use. Thankfully, my mother is still just using good old-fashioned liquor. She will be out by nine."
"You sure your place is the best? I mean, I live in a spooky old manor, vibe is totally on par, but wouldn't it influence the dreaming?"
"I don't think so, but besides, who would look for us there? Your parents would think we are off having sex or something silly. My parents barely will notice if we are in the east wing, given no one uses it."
"You have a point; I'll be at the creepy tower by ten."
"But of course."
Ash's parents believed he was heading out to spend the night with his friend Henri, never thinking he would sneak out to do drugs with his female friend. They did not wholly believe that it was platonic. He didn't care since he did want a girlfriend like most guys, but Lynn never felt like one for him. Probably because they had known each other since Kindergarten. He knew his way up to the Smith manor, avoiding the few security lights that still worked along with the cranky butler that stalked the main house looking for trouble. The east wing has been shut off from the main house after one of the massive storms tore through the roof and upper rooms, leaving a shamble of rumble behind that had just been cornered off and politely ignored by all. He jumped over the small rose garden wall into the back door that once was used for servants before he bothered with his flashlight. 
Taking the broken staircase two steps at a time, he could avoid the often flooded first floor and move onto the second floor, which they had made into a playground. 
Lynn kept many personal items her parents found inappropriate for a girl, and he kept some questionable legal issues borrowed from others here to pawn off before he left this town at eighteen. Still, they had another two years to wait until that freedom hit. Until then, they had to entertain themselves.
Lynn was already curled up on the old couch in a long gown, once meant as a nightgown in pale ivory that now was demure enough to be worn in public. Her long hair was brushed out from the updo she wore daily, and she was back to reading another novel while waiting. After short greetings, he changed into comfortable flannel pants and a tee shirt since sleep would happen shortly after they took Dream-Tyme. They each took a couch across from one another before eating the odd mushroom-shaped treat. It has been made into chocolate edible from the local dealer to hide it from the police cracking down on all new drugs.
Both took their piece, devouring it before getting comfortable. Ash nestled into the pillow, wrapping the blanket over him to avoid the cold that crawled into places each evening, incredibly close to the water. The sound of the waves came in and out before he drifted off to sleep, shortly before Lynn dropped into a slumber nearby.
Ash woke, still sitting on the couch wrapped in the blanket, soaking wet from the storm directly above him. The entire third and fourth floors were gone, and a storm cackled above him, churning out sweeps of rain and icy pricks. 
Jerking off the couch, he sloshed across the long room to get to Lynn, who was still sleeping, unmoving in the storm's rage. He shook her twice before picking her up in a fireman's carry. Water began to flood into the room from windows and the stairs, above and below. The wind laughed at him as he pushed against the water current, trying to drive him down the halls into the maw. There was a maw, a giant open mouth of teeth and tentacles just waiting for him at the end of the hallway, calling his name, singing his sins, all with the water pushing him towards it. He had to fight upward against the current of the water since Lynn couldn't help, and if he failed, they would both go tumbling down the path. 
Grabbing onto every handhold, foothold, and anything to push towards the weaving stairway, he would find a way out. The flood, the rain, the thing waiting to eat them. He had to get away. It was there, staring at him. It knew it knew.
Jerking off the couch again, he was dry, the blanket dry, the room not swimming in the water, the ceiling where it should be. It was a dream. It worked.
"Lynn, it worked. That was," he paused, looking for her sleeping form on the other plaid couch only to see the remains of a blanket that appeared torn and bloody. "Lynn?" he called out, taking careful steps to where she should be. 
Each step creaked against the wood floor, aching a noise of age, whispering lies about what he saw. He couldn't be seeing blood and rags. She was right there, wasn't she?
"Lynn, what the hell?" He touched the edge of the blanket made of rags as it fell apart into dust and drops of fresh blood. Each drop hit the floor with a bang, a blast, an explosion of sound and fury. Clutching his head at the noise, he screamed for it to stop, anything to stop.
"Do you have a kitten?" A whispering voice purred into his ear, sharp teeth biting his knuckle. The explosions had stopped, and only the whisper remained. "I need a kitten."
Ash glanced up to see what was next to him, believing it could be Lynn, but the lie he told himself fell apart with a crash of something, a creature sitting on his hand chewing over his knuckles. Its bright yellow eyes gleamed in the candlelit darkness. Tiny tentacles held his hand to the ground as it ate through his hand. He should panic, he should scream, he had to stop this thing from eating him. He jerked his hand from the lightweight stuff. It skittered across the floor, laughing chuff from its teeth. It jumped onto the couch end, its blood mouth grinning wider than its tentacles-covered face and fur. 
"Feed me!" it screamed, it roared, deafening Ash. His hand began to bleed in the river of gore, and pieces of bones and cartilage began to float away. The river took his hand and wrist and began up his arm, all while the furry tentacles of a tiny monster screamed to feed its kittens. Ash ran, holding the remains of his arm as the laughing wind followed him into the next room.
Slamming the door, he pulled off his tee shirt to wrap the remains of his arm to stop the bleeding from finding his hand, wrist, and arm back where they belonged, with a small rat-sized bite mark over the knuckles. Glancing around the room, the old bathroom on the floor had been renovated sometime in the 1920s and never bothered with again. The gilded mirror had silvered with age, but he could scrap enough away to look at himself. His dark blonde hair was soaking wet, dripping icy water into his pale skin and dark eyes. He looked like he had not shaved in days, growing a bit of dark stubbled that looked far darker, thicker than he had managed in the past few years. His tee shirt off was covered in blood from his hand bite marks. Over his chest, there were other marks, such as teeth marks of various sizes, claws, bruising, and just a crossroad of lines up and down. He barely could feel his body, and it felt used and abused, but in a haze of nothing, he didn't understand it anymore. It responded when he made his hand go up and down. The disjointedness brought him to look closer at his face.
The stubble growing almost fast enough for him to see. It wiggled out of his skin, more worm-like than hair-like. He flipped the light switch on. The tiny worms were growing right out of his face. Everywhere his facial hair managed, they were crawling out of his face. No hair, just little, dangerous worms. Headless, bleeding where he had shaved that morning, cutting off the heads, leaving only the bodies to wiggle their way out of his face, ripping through the pores that kept them inside of him. They had waited to escape. 
With a yell, he dug through the cabinet nearby to find an old straight razor, rusted with age and water damage, before he started to cut through the inches of decapitated worms growing from his face. Dragging the blade over his skin, ripping through layers of flesh, pulling and destroying the bits of worms he could reach with each pass. Each layer of skin takes pieces of the wiggling masses with them. Each swipe dragged more, and more of them fell to the floor in soundless screams, for their heads were never coming back. His bloody face meets with the mirror; the layer has gone, but worms in pieces are scattered around him. He could smile. Finally, they were dead. He had killed them. Taking the blade, he folded it to put it into the flannel bottoms, still dripping with blood and water, before returning to the room. He was hunting now, the creature that was eating him, he could get now. Destroy.
"Come here, little monster," he sang out; the room had taken on a red-hued glow from a fire he had forgotten or had he. He no longer cared. It was there and lit up the place that was looking better. The wallpaper hung in dark green vine patterns with flowers of long-dead ancestry that no one had seen in centuries. The furniture had turned from old, rotten, forgotten pieces into something that could be used. A couch in high back fashion with long tassels in shades of gold and brown, the wooden chairs appeared to gleam in the blood-soaked light, and he covered the ground to the center of the room. Blood dripped from his face; the rusty blade seemed to pull in the blood, adding a fresh layer of rust. Nothing came for him right away, but he kept crooning for the monsters to emerge, for the things he was waiting for, forgetting this was not real and nothing was there for him to hunt.
The noise in the hallway took his attention from the shifting room. Vines opened the door before receding into the wallpaper they had blossomed from. Echoes of whispers, the conversation of the house curled past, meaning nothing, everything. He stalked out the door, hearing it close softly behind him, with the lap of ocean-tinted water dripping from the lights flickering between red and green, a Christmas flavor lost in an echo.
He saw the odd small creature that had dared attempt to each his hand, eating what appeared to be the remnants of a little cat, a kitten, before Ash grabbed its head. The squeal rolled past. He crushed it with one hand, adding the blood to the water-soaked wood below him, taking a bit of the remains that tasted raw, unfinished before spitting it out. Dropping the creature, he was still unsatisfied, displeased with the answer he had been given. Kneeling in the water, he returned to shaving the worms digging out from his face. Scrapping across his cheeks, destroying the newcomers that dared to roam over his face, digging out from his skin, purging their new little headless bodies with his razor, his fingers digging where he couldn't reach. The fish in the water began to eat the bits of flesh and worms, and they followed him at dizzying speeds. He left the hallways of water and tears down the forgotten stairwell of the servants.
Pictures of those who came before flickered over the picture frames, old, new, yellowed, aged, dead, and alive, with only a few static spots in the chassis. They who came before, those who would follow, left footprints over the stairs, his adding through blood and water. His footsteps were light over the new wood stairwell. The fish swam around his head, picking pieces off his face before he made it to the landing. He was in the front entranceway of the main house, forgetting the steps he should have taken to arrive, but arrived from an impossible angle as all angles could be once. They were imagined. The main entrance bloomed in candlelight over the luxurious white marble, fountains of champagne with miniature party-goers swimming through the waves of sparkling bubbles. He sauntered past, leaving his fish within the basin to enjoy eating the little party-goers as he entered the master ballroom to join the party.
It was in full swing. The live brass band has joined the punk rock group in the balcony area, mixing and matching their musical styles for the people below. The people were all dressed in their finest, from the vibrant blue robes to the tuxedoes that had become men's regular formal wear. His outfit was mixed with his viewpoint: long black slacks, a bright green dress shirt, and a jacket. There are no ties or buttons, just a beanie covering his wet hair. He took one of the many glasses offered, seeking one that matched his shirt and mood—only shifting away from the dancers doing some waltz past him. He came directly before Lynn, who he remembered he was looking for. Her gown kept him grounded in that it was her in the 1950s fashion, still in her black and white, with a new hat in bright red with a little veil covering part of her pale face.
"Where have you been?" he bothered to ask.
"Lost, what happened to your face? Where did it go?" 
He touched the raw pieces of his jaw, feeling the muscle and bone. Nearly all of the skin from his face had been carved off with his small blade. His dance touched his face, looking for pieces of flesh to find his forehead still attached, but nearly everything else had been carved off. Even the remains again moved with the worms trying to dig out of him. He attempted to smile at her, feeling the pull of the muscle burning with pain.
"I had to get out the worms. I had to kill them all," he replied, leaning closer to her face, looking for any movement of worms within her. He would kill them all there. He would get them all. She struck him with such force that he fell to the ground and landed in a pool of water outside the house. The rain attacked his raw skin before jumping up to get back in. She had kicked him out and removed him from the party. How dare she. He screamed at the door, pounded it, and tugged against the might of the gate with nothing changing. He was locked out, left alone outside. Outside with the shadows changing, shifting, waiting. He was no longer alone. He could see body shapes in the greenery, the shrubbery taking on a life of their mismatched forms. Things that went bump in the night crawled past him. Even the shells took on eyes to watch him, the gift they had been given. Something fresh. Something news.
Screaming, he woke on the couch he had passed out on. The stuffy room had taken on water. It had dripped over his face as Lynn shook him until the screaming stopped. He was awake. He was home; it was a dream and a nightmare. Blinking rapidly as his heart pounded, he saw panic on her face with a cell phone asking what was wrong.
"He is awake. Send help. Please," she yelled into the line, keeping her phone on. 
Ripping away parts of her once white gown, holding pieces along his jawline, he could see everything turning red, red from where he had been cutting his fingernails over his face, over and over.
"What did I do?" he choked out, his lips spitting blood from the ruins of his face.
"Don't worry, don't worry. It was just Dream-Tyme, it wasn't you." 
Her gown turned blood from her attempt to keep him with her. He was losing blood at such a pace she had to keep him with her until they arrived. His heart paused, jumping, and paused. She poured the rest of the Dream-Tyme down him; he might not live here but could remain there. She had little choice: he died forever, or a piece of him live within the Dreamland. She could visit. She could help him survive and learn the world. She would make him a new branch, one like home but better. He took a long gasp before nothing. His mind left, and he returned to Dreamland, where he would be with her forever. Laying his body in the water, she hung up the phone recording that would make him believe her when she explained what happened. She left the old room, closing the wing off, giving him the space to learn and explore the new world he would live in. The house would take his body—a new friend for the Dream-Tyme. 

Dreaming of becoming a vampire, I mean author, since she was a youngling, PS Nail finally fulfilled her prophecy by self-publishing her first paranormal fantasy romance novel, with many more to come.
She enjoys playing guitar to soothe the draw of the moon, video games to help pacify her blood lust, reading romance and smut books, since she never sleeps, and having a fangtastic time with paranormal friends. Once a month, when the full moon calls, she and her coven dance naked around a magical blazing fire . . . but don’t tell her we told you.
We think she currently lives in the United States, or possibly Romania, with her shifter husband, three hybrid sons, and their pet demons. She lovingly calls them her immortal family.
She will continue to quench her thirst for writing until death, dismissal, or dishonor.
FYI: She hates the sun, but loves garlic.