Night Terrors by Helen Harper Page A

reminding me of the bark in the Dreamlands’ forest. I’m not afraid of a bit of ice. I slap him again. He’s not getting near her, not if I have anything to say about it.
    There’s a strange choking sound. I squint, attempting to work out what he’s doing. I realise he’s laughing and my insides churn. I slap him once more.
    ‘You can’t hurt me.’ His voice grates across my bones. It’s rough, as if he’s a sixty fags a day man though I can’t smell tobacco on him. Instead there’s the faintest edge of sulphur, just like I caught from the Badlands.
    ‘You want to bet?’
    There’s another freakish laugh. ‘Traveller,’ he hisses. ‘You can watch. You cannot act.’
    I change my slaps to punches and pummel his body. I’m building up to a crescendo of rage for what Rawlins has had to experience. He twitches once or twice but, other than that, he doesn’t move.
    Then he rises, throwing me off. I hit the floor, catching my back on the edge of what must be a wardrobe, and agonising pain rips through me. My damn back again. This is getting stupid.
    I stagger unsteadily to my feet just as there’s a soft moan from Rawlins. I realise he’s advancing on her once more. I grit my teeth and ignore the pain. I leap onto his back and snag my arms round his throat, pulling as tightly as I can.
    ‘You’ve fucked up,’ I whisper in his ear. He grunts and spins, trying to throw me off. I cling on. ‘You see,’ I say, as if I’m discussing the weather, ‘I’m not just a Traveller. I’m the dreamweaver.’
    In mid-turn, the man freezes. ‘Impossible.’
    ‘Is it?’ I tighten my grip. ‘Do you feel that?’
    A rattle sounds from his throat. I leap off and face him. With one swift kick, my foot connects with his groin. He doubles over in agony. I bend down. ‘Did you feel that?’ I enquire.
    He swipes out, attempting to grab a hank of my hair. I jerk away and out of his grasp. ‘Bitch,’ he hisses.
    I smile coldly. ‘Begone.’
    The man’s eyes begin to glow, two slitted yellow lights glaring malevolently. He blinks once. I tut. ‘I’m not going to repeat myself.’ I raise my thumb and forefinger into the shape of a gun and pretend to cock it.
    He spits, then vanishes. My knees buckle and I half fall to the ground.
    ‘Ms. Lydon?’
    Shit. I pull up my head and stare at the bed. Rawlins is sitting up. I can’t make out her features because it’s too dark. I drop my head again; if I can’t see her properly, then I’m betting she can’t see me. With the man gone, I need her to believe this is exactly what it purported to be: a dream. A horrible, nightmarish dream, but a dream nonetheless. I don’t speak and I don’t move.
    ‘Is it you?’ she asks.
    Nope. Not me. I tighten my shoulders and glance upwards, forcing myself to disapparate away, forcing myself to wake up. She’ll still have her suspicions but she’s only seen me once in her dreams. That can be put down to her subconscious. To think otherwise would be crazy.
     
    ***
     
    I give myself a few hours of awake time and do as much I can to tire myself out. I run up and down the stairs, much to the bemusement of the Chairman who’s wandered back in from his adventures. Then I furiously clean the already sparkling kitchen and head out to the garden to pull up the weeds.
    By this point it’s dark but it doesn’t stop my next-door neighbour from making an appearance. His head pops over the fence. Either he’s grown two feet since I last saw him or he’s standing on a chair. I wipe the sweat off my brow and give an awkward wave.
    ‘Hi, Zoe. Strange time of day to be gardening, isn’t it?’
    I shrug. I’m weird; he already knows that. ‘I’m trying to keep the moles away,’ I say knowledgeably. ‘They come out at night.’
    He scratches his head. ‘Do moles roll around in flower beds?’
    Ah. I purse my lips and frown as if I’m taking the question seriously. ‘I’m not sure. Has that happened to you?’
    ‘Mm,’ he murmurs.