Chapter Text
When you wake up
I'll be standing in the line
To kiss your eyes
And wipe the tears from mine
'Cause everyone is afraid of something
- Sleepwalker, The Killers
~
You know well the feeling of being watched. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, prickling skin and shifting weight, fear slowly bubbling from within. Wondering whether you should hide, or simply turn tail and flee. Ever since you saw IT, the feeling has haunted you. IT stares deep into your soul even from the darkness you’ve subjected yourself to, forever burned into your memory.
This gaze is not quite like that, though. There is a sort of hunger in it, yes, but it is more curiosity than predatory. It traces your features carefully; you can almost feel the touch around your empty eye sockets. There’s a lot of people in this house, so you have no idea which of the others this could be.
“Hardly anyone ever dreams now.” A male voice, soft and raspy, curling through the air. “Most people have simply ceased to. But you? Your mind is plagued by restless nightmares.” The table creaks beneath your hands as he leans against it; he’s quiet, you hadn’t even heard him approach. “I want to see them,” he murmurs, so close it feels like he’s trying to merge his brain with your own. “You’ll share with me, won’t you?”
You lean back in your chair, trying to regain a bit of personal space. Then his request registers. “No. It’s better if you don’t know. I couldn’t even describe IT if I wanted to. Just imagine the most horrifying thing you can think of, and multiply it by infinity. ” You shudder at the unwanted memory.
The table protests even more as he shifts his weight to perch upon the edge. One of his legs brushes your arm. “The creature that stalks your dreams? You don’t have to describe it,” he amends, looking down at you. “I just want… a little taste. What happens? How does it end? I need to know.”
His insistence is a little odd, but honestly, who in this house isn’t? Besides, despite your desire to spare everyone else from the horror of IT… you do wish you could talk to someone about it. You’ve talked to the Homeowner, but even then you get the sense that he’s more concerned about the threat than actually interested in what you have to say. But this guy… He wants to chat. So you tell him.
“It always begins with a place. Somewhere I know well, like the store I always used to go to. I’m doing my everyday tasks, normal things. Buying bread, eggs… Then, I feel it. I see IT. Creeping around the corner, or prowling through the bushes. I know IT’s coming for me. I try to run, I flee as far as I can, but IT always finds me. IT always catches me. Then I wake up.”
You can see IT crawling after you: a dark shape in the distance accompanied by the scent of charred flesh. When did you start trembling?
But then: a soft inhale, and a long and satisfied exhale. “Thank you,” the man in front of you mutters. “You don’t know how long it’s been since someone’s shared a dream… Maybe I’ll actually be able to sleep tonight.”
He slips off the table and places a hand on your shoulder. “Your dreams are sour and curdled now, but I can tell they were once sweet. I’ll help you as much as I can to reclaim that taste… the taste of freedom.”
Then, he’s gone, without the sound of a single footstep. You put a hand out to see if he’s still there, but it only finds the slightly scratched surface of the laminate table. Huh. Odd. What a weird guy.
~
It’s late. You’re walking home along the tram tracks. A few houses here, a few trees there. With each step, your sense of paranoia grows. You can feel something following you, watching you. Yet your nervous glances backward reveal nothing.
The ground under your feet starts to rumble. And then you spot him. A man in black, frozen on the tracks, staring down the oncoming tram. You don’t think or hesitate. You just run.
“Hey!” You tackle him out of the way just as the tram shoots past, the sounds of the wheels and the horn deafening from sheer proximity. It feels like your body is moving in slow-motion as you both tumble to the ground, unharmed. You end up sprawled atop him, panting from the adrenaline rush and looking down at his startled face.
He’s ghost-pale and gaunt, with dark, wide eyes that remind you of a raccoon, and heavy bags. “So this is your dream…” He muses. You recognize his voice.
“Why are you—” Before you can get out the rest of the question, all the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. IT is here.
The man’s gaze drifts past you, and his eyes narrow. “That’s the thing that’s been bothering you?” He asks. He seems calm, but you notice his jaw is tense.
You tentatively try to turn and look, dreading the thought of seeing IT again. He quickly reaches out and cups your cheek with one bony-fingered hand, pressing your foreheads together. “No, don’t look. That’s what it wants. Don’t let it have that power over you. Just… keep your eyes on me.”
What? Isn’t he going to run? You want to pull away but your body isn’t working anymore. There is overwhelming pressure at your back as IT creeps closer. You give up on fleeing and maintain eye contact with the strange man, shaking the whole time. His other hand comes up to mirror the first, blocking your peripheral vision, thumbs rubbing circles into your numb skin. You feel IT come closer… and closer…
Then you gasp as you awaken suddenly, back aching from leaning over the kitchen table. The house is quiet now: nighttime. You can hear the Little Girl that was here before you softly snoring, tucked away in the back corner somewhere.
You get up and get a glass of water. It’s a bit difficult fumbling through all the cabinets looking for the cups, but you manage. Through the walls you can hear the soft vocalizations of some of the other guests: the quiet, manic giggling of the Ballerina, the soft muttering of the Shivering Man, the dry yet thoughtful tones of the Tall Poet, the absentminded mumbling of the Georgian, and the meek responses of the Forgetful Girl. Outside in the hallway, the Homeowner speaks tersely to a stranger on the other side of the door, whose voice is pleasant and genial, but with an underlying current of malice.
Notably, you hear nothing from the Dream Man; maybe he’s asleep? Although, you do vaguely recall him being the only one in that office room, so perhaps it’s simply that he has no one to talk to. You would visit if not for the unspoken agreement between guests about not leaving your rooms at night. Tomorrow, then. You’ll ask him more about the dreams tomorrow.
~
“I need to check on you.”
You show the Homeowner your hands as instructed and he makes a questioning noise. “They’re bloody,” he says.
“The blood is my own,” you reply. “The pain of taking my own eyes was nothing compared to the agony of seeing IT. I can feel it now: the pulsing horror, running down my face, coating my hands…”
“You should… wash them,” the Homeowner suggests, sounding a little disgusted. “I won’t need to check again.” His footsteps start to lead out of the kitchen, then pause and return. “That guy in the hoodie was asking about you, by the way. Thought you should know.”
Hoodie…? You remember the man from your dream was wearing a black hoodie. Did your subconscious manage to pick up on that, or…
You thank him. The Homeowner grunts and walks away. You feel your way around until you hit a wall, then carefully follow it until you reach the next room over. Having been in here very few times, you’re unsure of the layout of this area, so you make sure to place each step carefully.
“Watch the table,” comes that familiar soft voice. “To your right.” You stretch out your hand and as you slowly shuffle forward your shin hits the edge of a low coffee table. As you maneuver around it you manage to find the soft surface of a sofa, which you gratefully slump onto.
“I had another dream last night,” you offer.
He’s silent for a moment. “That creature you were talking about… it’s more formidable than I expected.”
Goosebumps form on your skin. “You saw IT?”
“I was there.”
It feels like a cold wind washes over you. “You were in my dream. That was you?” He makes an affirmative noise. “I… I need to confirm. Will you let me…?”
You extend both hands in his direction. Bony fingers meet them halfway and bring them to his face. Hollow cheeks, angular nose, a low forehead, unkempt chin stubble. It’s the same face you saw in your dream; your subconscious couldn’t have made this up. You draw back nervously.
“You’re a Visitor.”
He hums. “Maybe, maybe not.”
“Then how did you—”
“I was born with the ability to see other people’s dreams. To walk among them, an intruder of the mind.” He leans closer. “Without other people’s dreams, I wither away, unable to sleep… I was on a 6 day streak when I met you. Do you believe in fate? I believe we were destined to meet… You, the last remaining dreamer, and I, the one that can help you with the creature that torments you.”
“You can help?” You whisper, doubtful.
“I believe I can. There is a reason it keeps coming for you.” He taps your forehead. “Your dreams are full of fear, which it feasts upon. When you are alone, there is nothing to stop that fear from festering… your mind is constantly trying to shatter itself. But with someone else there, you may be able to stabilize long enough to fend it off. The longer you starve it, the weaker it will get. And eventually, it should give up and move on.”
It sounds… like an impossible fantasy. But what do you really have to lose? With every passing day you edge closer and closer to insanity. The nightly mental torment is taking its toll. “What do I have to do?”
“Simply be. Continue to dream. When you see me, follow my lead. The end result is ultimately up to you… but you will not face your challenges alone.”
His hand briefly touches yours before moving away once more. You have to fight the urge to reach for it, to feel the heat of his skin, to remind yourself that you’re not dead yet.
You are being chased, but you’re not dead yet.