In Dreams Read Online Free Page B

of a killer, devoid of warmth or humanity.
    He knows my name. I feel the wall at my back, which tells me this is really happening, the plaster cool to my touch. There is nowhere to run. I can’t breathe I am so scared. “Stay away from what?” From where? From who? My mind races, but it’s taking all of me just to keep breathing.
    “You don’t belong. You shouldn’t exist. Stay out of the Underworld.”
    “The what?” He’s not making any sense. Not that anything today has.
    He leans in close to me, until I feel his lips pressed against my ear. They are moist, and I know I am not dreaming. He’s real. This is happening. “The Underworld. You know. Deep down. You’ve always known . Keep away.”
    I move my face and glance to my left, and I see Grandpa raise the tongs high in the air. But before he can bring them down on the man’s head, the man whirls around. With one hand, he grabs Grandpa’s wrist tight. My grandfather drops to his knees and his face pales, then turns florid. I scream—a pitch so high and frightened and loud I didn’t know I had it in me.
    “Grandpa!”
    I tug on the man’s arm. “Don’t hurt him! I’ll do whatever you ask. Just please don’t hurt him.” I hear how desperately I am begging. How scared I am.
    And then the man lets go. He whirls and grabs my face in his left hand, pressing his fingers into my cheeks until it hurts so bad tears stream down my face. “Remember . . . stay away.” Then he releases me and storms out of the house, slamming the door.
    I run to the window. He whistles for his dog.His three-headed beast of a dog. And the two of them start down the street, then disappear into a shroud of fog that has suddenly appeared from out of nowhere.

5
In dreams no man wears a mask.
EDWARD COUNSEL
    I ris, are you okay?” Grandpa asks shakily.
    I nod, not trusting my voice. Grandpa and I survey the mess. It’s almost comforting that things are broken—that way I know it all actually happened. That I didn’t imagine the whole thing. That I didn’t imagine the man. Or his beast.
    “Come on, let’s deal with this later,” he says, and wraps an arm around my shoulders, leading me into the kitchen. I lean my head on him, grateful for the scent of his Polo aftershave. For normal.
    I touch my back pocket, thinking we should call 911. But what would I say? Our Chinese food was delivered by a man with mirror eyes and a three-headed dog?
    “We need to do something,” I urge Grandpa. What, I have no idea. I guess I expect him to have the answers.
    “We’ll talk.”
    Talk?
    I stare at him, but it’s clear he just wants us to sit down. Like he has to collect himself. But most of all, I notice that he doesn’t seem shocked. As for me, my stomach is tight, like an iron cable is wrapped around my gut.
    I sit down and stare at the table. Then I lift my head and watch as Grandpa picks up and plops the brown paper bag containing our Chinese food onto the kitchen table. He unpacks it. As if nothing happened. But I can see his face is gray.
    Amazingly, our Chinese food is hot and in perfect condition, except for one flattened wonton. I don’t know what’s more surprising: that or a three-headed dog.
    Neither one of us says a word. I know I have no idea what to say. I watch Grandpa walk over to the cabinet next to the fridge. He takes out a bottle of single-malt scotch. The expensive stuff.
    To be clear, my grandpa drinks only three times a year. He has a stiff scotch to toast the New Year. He has a stiff scotch on the anniversary of mygrandmother’s death. And he toasts her silently on their wedding anniversary date. He opens another cabinet and pulls out a large tumbler. His hands shake as he pours himself the biggest, stiffest scotch I have ever seen him drink. He finishes half of it with one swig. Then he adds some ice cubes and comes and sits at the table.
    “Well, that was a weird one,” he whispers.
    “Um, understatement of the year.”
    I wait. I wait for him to