The Dream Catcher

Tonight is gonna be a breeze, thought Waylon Towers through his mild inebriation. He swallowed the mouthful of whiskey he'd been ruminating on, then cast a sleepy glance around the bar. Smoke hung in the air over the old wood and quiet conversations. This was his cathedral. Every night before he worked, he came here to make his offerings to Saint Augustine. It helped to take the edge off.

His client that evening was an ex-military type, quite likely tougher than nails, and out to prove it. But military types were easy. They were predictable. They'd usually seen some horrible things, but Waylon had come to know what to expect from them. In truth, the most terrifying clients were always children.

People were often shocked when he revealed this information, but it was a bit of logic that didn't require much deduction to uncover. The most hardened members of society were often haunted by their past, but their past was at least grounded in reality and thus was easier to predict and deal with accordingly.

But kids' nightmares were never grounded in anything. Their imaginations conjured monstrosities that defied logic and made his blood run cold. On the rare occasion that a child's nightmare was grounded in some form of reality, however, it often shot past terrifying and landed squarely at heartbreaking.

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There was a time Waylon was hired by a client, Margot Hildebrandt, to clean out her son's dreamcatcher. It was back when he'd first started his career, when he was still young and idealistic. 

Defeat clung to Margot like a lead cloak. The lines on her face told the world that it had been a lifetime since she'd smiled. Her son, Alexander, was small, frail, and almost sickly from the torture his nightmares had been inflicting on him. They should have called someone months earlier.

When the time came for him to work, Waylon had to give the boy more than three times the amount of sedative than would usually be required. Clients often had no trouble falling asleep, as if the mere presence of a man in Waylon's profession put their mind at ease. But nothing could ease this boy's mind. It wasn't a long while before Waylon found out why.

Once Alexander had relinquished consciousness, Waylon knelt near the bed and closed his eyes. After a few silent minutes of meditation, he entered the trancelike state that allowed him to sense the dreams around him. He felt the hungry pull of the boy's nightmare. He felt himself balk at the dream's voracious appetite. After a moment, he allowed himself to be pulled inside.

The boy's nightmare wasn't like those of other children, with fantastical specters swirling about, or great conjured behemoths towering overhead. It was simply darkness, extending infinitely in every direction. There was a small spot of light, and underneath it was Alexander, tied to a chair. Waylon stood by in confusion as a door opened, and through it walked a man with grotesquely exaggerated features. He carried a leather belt with a viper's head at one end. He leaned in close to the boy's face.

"You know why you're here." Blood dripped from the tip of the boy's nose. The leather snake lashed and hissed in the man's hand, thirsty and venomous. "You know better than to steal from daddy."

The abomination drew back to strike, and Waylon had seen enough. He drew his revolver and put one through the creature's ribcage. His specially crafted ether round tore into its side and sent it sprawling to the ground. It immediately rolled into a beast-like stance, lunging at Waylon as a shrill scream of fury exploded from its maw. He fired again, catching it this time in the leg. Another round took off an ear before the creature came crashing into his chest, pinning him to the ground with one clawed hand while readying the viper with the other.

Waylon saw the venom dripping off the snake's teeth as it seemed, for an instant, to grin before streaking directly toward his throat. Without thinking, he shoved the barrel of his gun up under the snake wielder's chin and pulled the trigger at the exact moment he felt fangs make contact with his neck. The force of the point-blank shot flung the monster and its pet off of his chest, sending them both to the ground in crumpled heaps.

Waylon scrambled to his feet and leveled his weapon at the blood-spattered horror while clutching the burning wound on his neck where the fangs had raked across his skin. The atrocity locked hate-filled eyes with him as its ragged breaths became weaker and more scarce. It struggled to raise itself only once before collapsing with finality and wheezing its last.

Alexander, no longer restrained, stared at his tormentor's corpse; his face stricken with terror and grief.

After a moment, the body vaporized with a loud hiss.

The nightmare dissolved around Waylon, and he looked to see the child still sleeping soundly, albeit with tears streaking down his cheeks.

Waylon declined payment for that job. Margot couldn't look him in the eye as he left their house that evening.

He was professionally obligated, of course, to contact Child Services and inform them of the situation. The boy and his mother would hopefully be relocated, but the damage was already done. The torturous dreams were gone, for now, but they would inevitably return.

He had trouble sleeping himself for the next while.

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But tonight, thought Waylon again, tonight is gonna be a breeze.

He stared into the amber liquid in his hand, meeting the eyes of his own haggard reflection as he gently touched the two small, parallel scars on his neck. His hand shook a bit as he raised his glass to his lips, finishing off his whiskey before stepping out the door and into the night.