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    Sweet Dreams
    Sweet Dreams
    Sweet Dreams
    Ebook385 pages6 hours

    Sweet Dreams

    By William W. Johnstone

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Light

    It could only be seen in the dead of night. The satanic glow swirled above the old railroad tracks, pulsating with evil, flickering with the light of hell itself. And it Drew the young people of Good Hope to its shimmering core like moths to a flame...

    Dark

    The eerie change in the slumbering Missouri town could only be seen by one child. Innocent ten-year-old Heather sensed the chill of darkness in her schoolmates' vacant stares, the evil festering in their hearts. But no one listened to her terrified screams. No one believed the nightmare was true. And now it was Heather's turn to feed the hungry spirit—with her very soul.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLyrical Press
    Release dateMay 12, 2015
    ISBN9781616507831
    Sweet Dreams
    Author

    William W. Johnstone

    William W. Johnstone is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over 300 books, including the series THE MOUNTAIN MAN; PREACHER, THE FIRST MOUNTAIN MAN; MACCALLISTER; LUKE JENSEN, BOUNTY HUNTER; FLINTLOCK; THOSE JENSEN BOYS; THE FRONTIERSMAN; THE LEGEND OF PERLEY GATES, THE CHUCKWAGON TRAIL, FIRESTICK, SAWBONES, and WILL TANNER: DEPUTY U.S. MARSHAL. His thrillers include BLACK FRIDAY, TYRANNY, STAND YOUR GROUND, THE DOOMSDAY BUNKER, and TRIGGER WARNING. Visit his website at www.williamjohnstone.net or email him at dogcia2006@aol.com.  

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      Sweet Dreams - William W. Johnstone

      careful.

      BOOK ONE

      Will you walk into my parlor? said the spider to the fly. ’Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.

      – Mary Howitt

      PROLOGUE

      The small town of Good Hope lies just north of what is called the Bootheel. This southernmost section of Missouri, looks as though it rightfully should belong to the state of Arkansas.

      To the immediate north of Good Hope is the bustling little city of Sikeston, where, each summer, Missouri’s largest rodeo is held. South of Good Hope, the next town of any size is Portageville. Good Hope is set just off interstate 55. Its eastern border is the Mississippi River. The main street ends at the levee that protects the town from flooding. At least to date.

      Minor quakes still occasionally rattle the coffee cups and the nerves of the citizens of Good Hope, but nothing compared to the ones that completely devastated the town back around 1811 and 1812 – at least to date, they are not.

      Good Hope is a peaceful little town with a population of about thirty-five hundred, a couple of small factories, and a lumber mill. Its main street, like those of many small towns throughout the nation, is slowly dying. It is a farming community, with a lot of nice people, a few cranks. A typical small town, U.S.A.

      And Good Hope has something else, too. A light.

      Not just an ordinary light, but a mysterious light. A round, pulsating, wavy light that grows larger as one approaches it – if the light will allow one to get close to it, and if one wants to get close.

      There are as many explanations for the light as there are people who have witnessed its glowing movement, but the four one is most likely to hear are that it is foxfire, that organic luminescence from fungi on decaying wood; the reflection of streetlights from a nearby town; escaping methane gas; or a reflection from the moon or the stars or the sun.

      Well, now. Let us explore further. If the light is caused by decaying wood, in this one spot there must be a hell of a lot of fungi, for the light was first documented back in the 1800s. If it is caused by streetlights, why then, was it witnessed before there were any streetlights within fifty miles of the place? If the light – that moves and bobs and jumps about and follows one, darting first one way and then the other – is caused by escaping methane gas, why then, if there is that much escaping gas in one small area, hasn’t the entire county been blown all the way to hell and Texas? If the light is caused by some type of reflection from the sun or the stars or the moon, why then, do people see the light on clear nights, stormy nights, rainy nights, foggy nights, snowy nights – on any night one might care to drive out and look at it? Drunk or sober.

      Arguing about the New Madrid County light is rather like arguing about politics or religion: stupid and time-consuming, producing no results.

      There is another popular explanation. This one claims that, way back when the original railroad tracks were first laid, somebody – it is not generally known just who it was – either went to sleep or, as is more likely, got drunk and passed out on the tracks. A train came chugging along and ran over the poor fellow, cutting off his head. The light is rumored to be the man’s head, searching for its body. The light will not rest until the body is reunited with the head.

      That story makes about as much sense as any of the other explanations. If one has any type of imagination at all, it makes more sense.

      As far as anyone knows, and is able to prove, the light has never harmed anyone. Of course, the old-timers around the county are reluctant to talk about the people who have gone out to see the light and never returned. That hasn’t happened lately – not so far as anyone around there knows.

      However, some rather bizarre happenings might well be connected with the light. I am not referring to the boys who take girls to look at it in order to frighten them into their arms or onto the back seats of their cars – or whatever. No. I speak of more serious occurrences. People have been known to witness the light and then to wander off into the nearby timber, communing with . . . well, perhaps something not of this world, something that is trapped between worlds, locked in one small space in time, unable or unwilling to begin the journey to the Stygian shore. Perhaps the . . . thing . . . is waiting for the right moment to slip past the veil, or waiting for the right person or persons to help it shake the bonds of unlife and ...

      Who knows?

      There is a story concerning a man who witnessed the light and to his dying day was unable to utter a sound.

      What happened to him? What did he see, if anything? No one knows. When asked, the man would begin to tremble violently, as if some type of hideous demon had entered his body and taken possession of his mind.

      Perhaps that is exactly what happened to him.

      Pregnant women who have witnessed this phenomenon have birthed children that were marked in some way – an unusual birthmark. Several had numbers clearly visible on their skins, usually on the head. The numbers almost always read 666. Of course, the light may have had absolutely nothing to do with those strange birthmarks.

      One more point to be made about the light: It is not a fixed light. It can move up and down, left and right, and go back and forth. It can also change shape. But the light always returns to the area of the old railroad tracks. Almost as if it is, somehow, held by an invisible bond to the tracks.

      Foxfire that has been in the same general area for more than a hundred years? Methane gas that forms a glowing circle, that can expand and reduce its size and then return to the same spot when pursued? And then disappear? Streetlights that follow a person? A reflection that tries in vain to communicate with living beings?

      Sure.

      And if one paints wings on a pig it will fly.

      1

      It had struggled for more than a hundred years to be free of the bonds that held it. Then it joined forces with a restless spirit that had defied the Master Plan and refused to die. The spirit’s electricity, which never dies, had joined forces with the restless currents that crack and surge silently from every living being, whether that being was first born to serve God or Satan. No matter. The charge remains long after the body dies and turns to dust.

      There are those who will swear only one higher power exists, and all else is fable. They are wrong. There are powers around us that sing their seductive songs to anyone who will listen; and the person who does will invariably lure someone else into heeding these silent songs of temptation.

      Did you know, Marc said, a dark tone in his voice, that if you go to sleep at night, with your hand hanging over the side of the bed, something will crawl out from beneath it and grab your fingers and jerk you under the bed . . . and you’ll never be seen again?

      Heather looked at him and sighed with the long-suffering patience the very young can affect. Marc, that is stupid. She thought about his statement for a moment, then she narrowed her eyes and looked at him. Really?

      Naw, Marc said with a smile. Not really. I just said it, that’s all. But he wasn’t all that sure. Least I don’t think so, he added.

      She leaned back against the trunk of the huge old oak tree at the edge of the schoolyard and ran her fingers through the long blond hair that hung halfway down her back, beautiful honey blond hair – when it was combed.

      They were both new to this town. Heather Thomas and Marc Anderson. Heather had just moved from Indiana, Marc from Maryland. Their fathers worked for the same company, CalNac, and although they had not known each other prior to this move, they had become good friends since arriving in Good Hope. Marc’s father was a senior foreman at the plant, Heather’s father was an office manager. Neither of their mothers worked outside the home.

      Heather, a fair-skinned blonde with violet eyes, was leggy as a young colt. Like Marc, Heather was in the county’s exceptional children’s program at school. And like Marc, Heather did not make friends easily. Both these young people were very intelligent and were quickly bored by those who were not, whereas their classmates, were irritated by this pair’s quick minds which instantly grasped the gist of lessons others were struggling to understand.

      Marc looked at Heather and smiled. Heather caught the glance, the smile, and again sighed. She didn’t know about Marc, couldn’t make up her mind about him. She wasn’t certain she even liked him . . . well, maybe a little bit. He was O.K., as boys go, but Heather had concluded that most boys were not only confusing and contrary, but sometimes downright disgusting.

      She again caught Marc’s glance and met him look for look. She took in his dark eyes and his mop of dark brown hair. He was a husky boy, and strong. Already what would be a heavy musculature was developing. Marc liked to play sports, especially baseball, and he enjoyed watching the games on TV with his Dad; but he did not have the makings of a natural athlete.

      Heather concluded that was a point in Marc’s favor, perhaps if this hadn’t been the case he wouldn’t be so well read.

      What are you thinking about? Marc asked.

      Nothing.

      Together, they watched the last of the kids leave the school building and head for their bicycles. This was not a laughing, shouting, happy bunch. None of them exhibited the usual youthful exuberance being released from school inspires. They were strangely quiet.

      From the sixth grade down to kindergarten, they appeared to be normal. From the seventh grade up, they seemed listless and preoccupied and . . . odd.

      None of the older kids waved at Heather and Marc. None even looked at the pair.

      Kind of funny, Marc observed.

      Yeah, Heather agreed. More than that. It’s weird.

      You making any friends at school? Arlene Thomas asked her only daughter.

      Some, Heather said. She didn’t add that many of the other kids were really strange. She had never seen so many older kids behaving so distantly. And there was something else, but it was something she wasn’t about to tell her mother: Many of the older kids acted ... well, kind of dead.

      Arlene came to her daughter and stroked the girl’s long blond hair. Give it time, Heather. We’ve only been here a few weeks. Your father and I discussed leaving you with Betty and Randall so you could finish out the school year in South Bend. But, she said with a sigh, maybe we made a mistake.

      No, Heather thought. No, you didn’t make a mistake. I could never tell you, you wouldn’t have believed me, but I was afraid of Randall. He always wanted me to sit on his lap, always wanted to put his arm around me and his hands in some . . . funny places.

      Heather smiled at her mother. No, mother. You and daddy didn’t make a mistake. Everything is going to be all right.

      Arlene returned the smile. Sure it is, honey.

      Outside, a young man walked past the brick home. He glanced at the house, looking at it through seemingly dead eyes. His smile was evil as he thought of Heather.

      How’s it goin’, sport? Harry Anderson grinned at his only son.

      Marc looked up from his book. No more homework for several months. Tests were all over. Marc wasn’t worried. He knew he had made straight As. Pretty good, Dad. You?

      Great. It was a good move, I’m thinking. You making any friends?

      A few, Marc replied cautiously. You know how it is when you’re in a gifted program. The other kids kind of look at you like you’ve got horns and a tail.

      Yeah. But you’re tough. You’ll make it. Takes time for a new kid in town. He grinned at the boy. You kind of like Heather, don’t you?

      "Aw, come on, Dad. She’s a girl."

      Harry laughed and rumpled his son’s hair. Right. You wanna have a party, invite some kids over?

      I ... I don’t think so, Dad. School’s almost out. It’ll be all right. Maybe later.

      Hang in there, sport.

      Right.

      Marc watched his father walk down the hall to the den. A pretty good guy, my pop, Marc thought. No ... he’s more than that. He’s a great guy. Not like a lot of fathers. When he saw I wasn’t ever going to be another Pete Rose or Frank Gifford, he just smiled and said, ‘So what? It’s not a big deal. Be what you want to be, son. I’m not going to push you into something you don’t want. There’s enough damn pressure out in the world without my adding to it.’

      So father and son reached that ultimate pinnacle in their relationship early on: mutual respect.

      Yeah, Marc muttered, closing his book. It’ll be O.K., Dad. But I just wish I could figure out why I keep getting the feeling something is ... weird around here.

      Outside, a young man walked past the Anderson house. As he glanced at the home, his eyes were a little bit hostile, a little bit flat, and a whole lot dead.

      They gathered near the deserted archaeological site during the night, more than a hundred people – men and women, boys and girls. On a silent signal, they formed in rows and faced the east. They stood that way for several minutes, all as silent as death. Their faces were impassive; their eyes held no emotion. One by one they began leaving the ranks, walking away. After only a short time, the dig site was deserted. Only a bobbing globe of almost translucent light remained. Then it, too, began to fade.

      The dig site was still and empty as the moon shone down on the earth. It had the surreal quality of a graveyard – which it had been, almost a thousand years back.

      But not all that is buried is dead. Some things the earth cannot claim as its own. Some entities defy logic. Some beings, once born, never die – not as long as one person believes in them, not as long as that which refuses to cross the line separating life and death can still draw power from the living.

      Soon, a voice echoed across the flatness that surrounded the huge mound of earth. Very soon.

      The wind sighed.

      That one’s gonna be a looker, Heather heard the young man say as she walked along the sidewalk.

      Yeah, his companion agreed. When she gets older she can come play with me anytime.

      Heather knew what they were talking about, and she flushed with anger. She walked on up the street. Creeps! she thought. She passed the hardware store, turned left, and crossed the street. As she entered the drug store, the coolness of air conditioning struck her.

      God! it was only the end of May and the temperature was already in the nineties.

      She browsed through the comic book section, but her mind was still on the comments of the young men.

      Someone touched her shoulder and she almost dropped the book. She spun around. Marc.

      Wow! the boy said. You sure are jumpy. What’s the matter with you?

      Nothing, she replied, invisible icicles in her voice.

      A store clerk was eyeballing both of them, not amused.

      Heather placed the book back on the shelf and walked out the door. She expected Marc to follow her. He did.

      Hey, Heather! Come on. Wait up.

      She stopped and turned to face him.

      Hey, I’m sorry I scared you. I didn’t mean to, really. I –

      It’s not your fault, Marc, she cut him off. She started to tell him why she was angry and jumpy, then closed her mouth. She really didn’t know why – for sure.

      O.K., he said, a puzzled look in his dark eyes. I was thinking maybe I’d done something really awful.

      She shook her head. Walk with me, Marc.

      They turned the corner and walked away from the river, toward the new subdivision where they both lived.

      Not a whole bunch to do in this town, Marc finally broke the silence.

      Yeah. It sure is different from the city.

      Did your folks let you go out by yourself?

      Uh-huh. They said I was so responsible they really trusted me.

      I get tired of being called ‘wise for my years,’ Marc said, a wistful note in his tone. Don’t you?

      Kind of. But what really irks me is being treated like a freak by the other kids. You know what I mean?

      I sure do. But I guess there’s nothing we can do about it. I wonder what kids do in a town this size?

      I think . . . nothing, she replied.

      They walked on. Marc turned around and looked back toward the levee. Used to be a theater back there.

      Heather followed his gaze. ’Bout a zillion years ago.

      Marc jerked his thumb to their right. Library.

      Heather jerked her thumb. Post office.

      They looked at each other and began laughing. Long way from South Bend, Heather observed.

      Pretty good jump from Maryland too, Marc added.

      Heather held out her hand and Marc took it. They stood on the corner of the street, holding hands. When Marc finally released her hand, Heather wasn’t at all sure of her emotions.

      You have a bike, don’t you, Heather?

      No. That thing with two wheels at my house is a Rolls-Royce.

      Marc grinned. Right. I never see you riding it. What do you like to do, play with dolls?

      She looked at him to see if he was serious. He was. "Marc, I got away from that a couple of years ago. What do you like to do, play with teddy bears?"

      Marc wet the tip of his index finger and made an invisible mark in the air. That’s one for you. Let’s back up and start all over.

      We’d better. It’s getting pretty stupid.

      They walked on.

      Reason I asked if you had a bike is school will be out Monday.

      A real news flash. So?

      You like to explore?

      She looked at him. Depends on what kind of exploring you have in mind.

      Well, I don’t play a whole lot of sports. I’m not much good at it.

      Yeah. I saw right off you weren’t any threat to Jimmy Connors. So what?

      Marc grinned. He liked Heather, but didn’t quite know how to express his feelings, her being a girl and all that. Well, my Dad didn’t start out to be a foreman. I mean, he was going to be an explorer.

      Oh? A sailor, sort of, or an archaeologist?

      An archaeologist.

      That’s what I want to be.

      "All right. Anyway, Dad had to drop out of college after his folks died. I never knew my grandparents on Dad’s side."

      I’m sorry.

      He shrugged. Anyway, I’d kind of like to be an archaeologist. I like that stuff. Did you know there were all sorts of battles fought around here during the Civil War? Yeah. And just outside of town, they’ve found an old Indian village. ‘Bout a thousand years old.

      I didn’t know that, Heather said, her interest quickening. Is it very far out of town?

      Not too far. I’ll check it out. Hey! Why don’t we go over to the library now and ask there? They’d know.

      "O.K. And? ...

      Well, I was thinking that maybe . . . you know . . . you and I ... you know.

      She looked at him for a moment and then smiled. Yeah, Marc. I know.

      2

      What’s the matter with the Bradford boy? Doctor Jerry Baldwin’s nurse asked. Must be serious for you to work on Saturday.

      Jerry shook his head. Honestly, Janet, I don’t know. Matt is in perfect health – physically, that is. Mentally, I don’t know. He shows all the classic signs of depression, but . . . I don’t think that’s it. What in the hell does he have to be depressed about? He was the captain of his football team. He’s a handsome young man. His sex life is ... well, better than that of most married men. He’s a straight A student. Going to a fine school this fall. He has a good job lined up for this summer. He has his own car. In short –

      He has everything. Janet finished his thought. Maybe that’s the way to go?

      Maybe. I’m going to speak with Maryruth about it.

      The parents don’t want Matt to see her?

      You’ve got it. I’m still amazed at the number of so-called adults who refuse to discuss mental illness, who think there’s something shameful about it. He shook his head.

      Janet moved closer to the doctor. Speaking of a sex life, she said, placing a hand on his crotch and gently squeezing. She felt his penis come alive under her touch.

      Doctor Baldwin reacted as if someone had stuffed a live rattlesnake down his trousers. He jerked away with such force he stumbled against his desk.

      Jesus Christ, Janet! Not now.

      Why not? she questioned, a smile on her lips. It’s Saturday. The office is clear of patients, Sally is gone for the day, I’ve just locked the front door, and fucking is fun. So why not now?

      Because Lisa might pound on that front door at any moment, Jerry replied. We were supposed to go somewhere this afternoon, and she’s going to be angry at me. Can you think of a better reason not to fool around?

      Shit! the R.N. said. She smiled and backed off. And I was looking forward to a good screwing. It’s been a while, Jerry.

      "You’re telling me? It’s been so long I think I may as well have my cock amputated."

      Janet laughed at him. She knew what a horrible marriage the doctor was locked into, what a bitch his wife was. The whole town knew.

      Janet, why don’t you remarry?

      No way, Doctor. No way. One bad marriage is quite enough.

      The doctor and the R.N. looked at each other for a long moment. Someone pounding on the front door broke the silence.

      Janet recognized the arrogant knocking. Speaking of that bitch you’re married to . . . .

      Yeah, Jerry answered wearily. He started toward the reception area.

      I’ll get it. Janet stopped him.

      The hard and angry face of Lisa Baldwin greeted the nurse. Why was this door locked? the woman demanded.

      Why did I ever marry that shrew? Jerry silently wondered as his wife’s voice ripped through the office like a ship’s foghorn. Her voice made Jerry grit his teeth.

      It’s standard procedure, Mrs. Baldwin, Janet said. If we have to work on Saturday, we always lock the office door just as soon as the last patient leaves. We –

      Oh, never mind! Lisa snapped. She brushed past the nurse and sailed through the reception area, past the examining room, and into her husband’s office. She stopped in the doorway to look back at the empty reception desk, then lifted her eyes to glare at Janet. Miss Carson gone already? How convenient for you and my husband.

      Janet almost told the woman that she was a bitch, and that was why her husband looked elsewhere for sex, but the doctor’s wife turned her back to the nurse and walked into her husband’s office, slamming the door.

      Janet leaned over the receptionist’s desk and clicked on the intercom. Will that be all for today, Doctor?

      Yes. Thank you, Janet. I’ll see you Monday morning. Have a nice weekend.

      Janet smiled and pressed the talk button. Thank you, Doctor. I will certainly do my best to make it as lengthy and fulfilling as possible.

      The doctor and his wife sat, silent, listening to the front door open and then close, the lock click into place. The faint sounds of Janet’s car starting reached them.

      Lisa stared at her husband. There was no pretense in either of them. Man and wife intensely disliked each other. I thought I told you I wanted that woman fired? Lisa said.

      Jerry picked up the folder on the Bradford boy, opened it, closed it, and looked at his wife. You do not tell me how to staff this office, Lisa. Janet is not only the best qualified R.N. in this town, she is probably the best R.N. in this county. She is surgically trained and takes one hell of a load off my back. I’m damn lucky to have her. And, he thought, speaking of getting rid of someone, if I could think of a way to get rid of you without it costing me both legs and my balls, I’d do it in a minute.

      Lisa flushed and inspected her carefully manicured fingernails. She cleared her throat. I see. She spoke softly. Well. Now I at least know my place. Are you ready to go?

      Go where?

      Lisa’s flush deepened. She drummed her fingertips on the arm of the chair. I might have known. Goddamn you, Jerry! To the Cape. Remember?

      He shook his head. That’s what it was. I was trying to remember a few minutes ago. Sorry. I did forget. But I can’t go.

      What the hell do you mean, you can’t go? she shrieked at him. "Damn it, Jerry, we’ve had this invitation for over a month. I planned on this. You promised."

      "No, Lisa. I did not promise. I’m sorry, but I can’t go!" he yelled at her.

      She jumped to her feet. Damn you! Don’t raise your voice to me! she yelled at him. You bastard!

      Jerry’s temples began throbbing. His face felt hot. He knew his blood pressure was soaring toward the danger line. Carefully, methodically, he calmed himself. Lisa, he said slowly, meticulously reviewing in his mind each word he was going to say, I told you ten years ago how it was going to be with a small-town doctor. I—

      Then why don’t you take the appointment in St. Louis? she shouted. You could live like a normal human being for a change.

      – have professional duties and responsibilities to the people of this community. I told you-

      Fuck your duties and responsibilities!

      – that I was a G.P., born and reared in the home of a small-town G.P. And like my father, and his father before him, I –

      Fuck your family, too! she screamed at him.

      – will see to the needs of my patients. I told you –

      To hell with your patients! she squalled. I’ve had it, Jerry. I’ve had it up to my neck with you, your whore nurse, and this town.

      " – last month I had reservations about this dinner party. I also told you I had no intention of going. Now I’ve got these kids on my mind and I am not going to turn my back on this matter and go off to Cape Girardeau to attend some cocktail party given by your snooty friends.

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