someone else had snagged the Canyon Killer case, it was a day like any other. But for some reason, by the time I got home, I was so tired I barely had the energy to heat up a can of chicken noodle soup before falling into bed. So I thought I had a shot at making it through the night without having the damn nightmare again. No such luck.
In my dream, I’m plunging the carving knife into his chest again and again and again, grunting with each blow until my clothes, my face, and my arms are covered in blood. I stand back to let him fall, the handle of the knife slick and wet in my hand. But he doesn’t fall. He smiles. That sick leer of a smile that always made my insides freeze. I’m paralyzed for a moment, but then the hot rage surges through me again, and I lunge forward to slash his throat with a swift backhand motion. Blood gushes from his neck. But he’s still smiling. Frustrated, furious, I sob as I bury the knife in his stomach. Once, twice, three times, heaving with the effort of each thrust. Finally, I yank out the knife and stand back. Still he doesn’t fall. Exhausted, gulping for air, I raise the knife again, but suddenly, I can’t reach him. He’s a giant. I stare up at him, terrified. Then, in one swift motion, he grabs my arms, lifts me up, and pins me against the wall. His hands feel like steel clamps. I fight to break free, my heels kicking against the wall. As I twist my head back and forth, I feel a blast of hot, fetid air. His mouth opens wide-a huge, cavernous black hole-and I feel the darkness begin to engulf me. Trapped, terrified, I scream and scream, but all that comes out is a pathetic little whisper.
I woke up to the choked gurgle of my own voice, my heart pounding, my throat raw. I rolled over on my back still gasping for air. I used to believe the dreams would go away over time, once the memory of the living nightmare faded. But it’s been years now, and the dreams still come almost every night. The only thing that ever changes is the weapon. I’ve used a gun, a piano wire, a machete-even an ax. Doesn’t matter. It always ends the same way, with his hands clamped around my arms, and me, paralyzed, terrified… doomed.
Now, I curled up and shivered under the covers. My favorite sleeping T-shirt, the one with a smiling Janis Joplin, was soaked with sweat. I looked at the soft glow of sunlight that peeked through the gap in the curtains of my bedroom window-a reassuring slice of reality that reminded me that the monster was out of my life. I might not be able to get to him, but he couldn’t-wouldn’t dare-try to get to me. Except in my dreams.
