Avenging Cupids

Chapter 4: Mysterious Visitors

But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer,

Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep

In the affliction of these terrible dreams

That shake us nightly. Better be with the dead,

Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace,

Than on the torture of the mind to lie

— William Shakespeare, Macbeth

Willow sat bolt upright in her bed, scratching at her throat and gasping for air. Despite dreaming the same nightmare for over a decade, she had not yet grown accustomed to the shivers and cold sweats it induced. But for the first time in seventeen years, there was a slight change in the latest account of the nightmare; the urgency of her journey was doubled and the drowning scene was a few seconds longer than usual.

There were times when she was one finger away from dialing Dr. Browne. He was some old guy who preached Hypnotic Dream Analysis on late-night infomercials. But there were about a hundred forces that kept her finger from hitting that last number. For one, he was a total stranger and complete celebrity. Two, Willow wasn’t sure if she wanted anyone—stranger or relative—delving into her sacred mind. Three, hypnosis was a load of stinking crap.

She had long since given up on trying to analyze the dream. She allowed herself to spend a few minutes sitting up in bed startled and sweating, and then just shrugged it off until the next night. She thought she’d grow out of it eventually. Not anymore. It seemed as if the dream’s effects grew more and more potent as she neared adulthood. It made her blood turn ice-cold. The thought of the dream’s intensity growing was like a brain freeze.

Voices from the living room drifted up into Willow’s bedroom. Her heart instantly ascended ten stories upon hearing the voice of her mother. It was followed by a rough grumble that could only be her gruff father. 

It was either early dawn or late evening—Willow didn’t know. Aside from the ever-present chill of her nightmare, the events of the real world—particularly the brawl with Elle at the mall four days earlier—added a few more tosses and turns to her sleepless nights. The expression of utter hurt that she slapped onto Elle’s face haunted her. Willow—magnanimous as she was—wanted to apologize but Elle hadn’t shown up at school nor had she answered Willow’s phone calls. Willow was slowly losing her mind.

Her parents’ homecoming replaced her throbbing agony with elation. She yearned for their strong and tender embrace. She needed to be in the presence of people whom she still knew. Even if the sky fell and mankind slipped into a zombie pandemic, Azaria and Cassius’ ever-constant loyalty to her would still shine.

With a huge, goofy smile, Willow untangled herself from the clutches of her duvet and dove towards her doorknob. She came to an abrupt halt when she realized that her parents were hosting a couple of guests. But something was terribly wrong. Off, somehow—like day-old bread or cold pizza. The urgency and panic that saturated the voices made her bones rattle. 

Willow pressed her ear against her door to listen more closely. She suddenly recoiled as if the door electrocuted her. Her parents were speaking in tongues! It sounded like Arabic with a teaspoonful of Hebrew and a dash of ululating. She couldn’t put her finger on it but she somehow sensed it was ancient. There was something otherworldly about the language that unsettled her. It was simultaneously alluring and unnerving; beautiful and terrifying.

Willow was drowning in curiousness. It felt like that urge to rubberneck a fistfight during lunch period at D.C. High. She usually minded her own business when it came to her parents but she couldn’t leave this new mystery alone. She accepted her parents’ eccentric lifestyle a long time ago. Stumbling upon bizarre gadgets and knick-knacks—such as crystal scepters, swords with runes emblazoned in their hilts, and aged demonic-looking books written in a strange language—in her parents’ unlocked-by-accident study no longer tickled her curiosity. She knew there were certain things her parents couldn’t tell her and she was okay with that. They gave her privacy and she gladly, mercifully reciprocated it. She had her own problems—dreams in particular—to worry about.