The Dreamcaster

By Mark Spann

Fifth-grader April discovers that a voice in her dreams is her father's, a research scientist who disappeared years ago. She soon learns that nearly everyone in town is having strange dreams, and the dreams are being controlled by a renegade scientist, the man responsible for her father's disappearance. April, her mother, and an undercover federal agent rescue her father and stop The Dreamcaster.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Spann
• Release date: May 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9780615629414

Mark Spann

Mark Spann is a writer and educator living in Washington, Missouri, 60 or so miles southwest of St. Louis. He's a married father of four groovy kids and five grandkids who are each making their part of the world a little better every day.

Book preview

The Dreamcaster

Mark Spann

Copyright 2012 Mark Spann

Cover design by MotherSpider.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

for Sherene E.

and

for all of our students on Planet Speckley

Chapter 1

April snuggled beside her mother as they rocked slowly on an old porch swing. Her head rocked gently forward and back, forward and back. She picked at loose flakes of white paint on the swing’s wood slats. Her mother’s skin was cool and soft, and it smelled of baby powder. April liked that. A warm breeze rustled the leaves of the silver maples surrounding the roomy porch, tossling April’s long, chocolate-brown hair and tickling her cheek. It was late May, the first week of summer break. April felt sleepy, and happy, and safe.

Dream a little dream of me, her mother sang quietly. April smiled. It was a tune that her mother, a fifth-grade teacher, often sang when she was happy. She loved summer break as much as her students did.

And in your dreams whatever they be, dream a little dream of me… her mother sang softly. She stroked April’s hair.

Mother and daughter sat together on the porch swing often in the first weeks of summer. They listened to the wind, to cars going by, doors opening and closing at the neighbors’ houses. They listened to the sounds of televisions and video games and radios spilling out from still-open windows on those few cool afternoons that remained before summer’s sticky heat set in. Sometimes they talked or played a game. At other times they rocked silently, eyes closed, and listened to the world spinning slowly around them.

Dream a little dream of me… Mom repeated softly.

Mom, do you ever hear voices in your dreams?

Sure, when people in the dream are talking, I guess I feel that I’m hearing them.

April sat up. I don’t mean like that, she said. I mean a voice that really doesn’t go with any dream. I can’t explain it. I just hear this voice sometimes.

Does it frighten you?

April thought about that. Not really. Actually, it’s more like a voice I’ve heard somewhere. Only I don’t know who’s talking.

That’s very interesting, Mom said. April lay her head back down on her mother’s arm. The wind had gone calm. A dog barked somewhere down the street. April thought of a question, but she wasn’t sure that she should ask.

What is it, honey? her mother asked. She always seemed to know when April had something on her mind.

I was just wondering about Dad’s voice.

The swing stopped moving. Mom sighed and gave April’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

It was a friendly voice, she said. People said there was a smile in his voice whenever he spoke.

A smile?

Yes. How can I explain it? It was as though every day was the most interesting day he’d ever had. Mom laughed. Until the next day, and then that was the most interesting day ever. I’m not sure that makes any sense, she said.

I think I know what you mean, April replied. Mr. Hemming is kind of like that, don’t you think?

Mr. Hemming was April’s fourth grade teacher. He was very tall and balding, and he wore suspenders every day and had a bit of a southern accent. He called all of his students Mr. Smith or Miss Johnson or whatever their last name was. April adored him—he was funny and liked to do messy science experiments. Even though she was excited about moving to fifth grade in the fall, she would miss Mr. Hemming terribly.

There you go again with Mr. Hemming, her mother sighed.

I just meant that Mr. Hemming talks like that. That’s what kids like about him. He’s always smiling.

I suppose that’s true, her mother replied. She hopped off the swing and held out her hands. Come on, let’s make some lemonade. Then we can get the garden ready for planting.

Yes! April loved Mom’s lemonade. She gave her mom a quick hug and noticed tears glistening in her eyes.

Are you okay? April asked.

I’m fine. I was just thinking about your Dad. Remembering his voice, that’s all.

I’m sorry it made you sad.

Mom hugged her. No, it’s a good thing to remember. I should talk about him more, now that you are older. It’s just hard to talk about. No one really knows what happened to him, and that makes it harder to talk about. We’ll talk about it soon, though. I forget sometimes that you aren’t a baby anymore.

They headed into the house. April had an odd, sad feeling. She missed the sound of her father’s voice, too, even though she couldn’t remember ever hearing it.

Chapter 2

A week of rainy weather washed out any plans for working on the garden. April soon got tired of television and video games. She had a new bike, and was anxious to use it.

Luckily, April’s best friend lived just a few houses down the street. Emily Pickle’s mother was a teacher too, at the high school. April was glad that Emily didn’t have to go to summer school or have a sitter.

Can Emily come over again this afternoon? April asked on the fourth day of rain.

Her mother hesitated. You told me you’d straighten up that mess in the attic, she said.

What if Emily helped me? she asked.

It isn’t nice to make your friends work, Mom reminded her.

She’d like it, I know she would. You should see her room, Mom. It’s always neat and organized. She likes to clean up. We’re both so bored. This would give us both something to do.

Alright, if you promise to work hard.

April had known Emily Pickle for as long as she could remember. They had been lucky enough to be in the same class every year since first grade. Emily was the only person besides April’s mother who knew about the voice that she sometimes heard in her dreams. April knew that Emily wouldn’t make fun of her, and, most important, she wouldn't talk about it to other kids. Emily was the best for keeping secrets.

April’s mother reached for a small loop of rope dangling from a hatch in the kitchen ceiling to let the girls into the attic. She gave a hard tug, and the hatch opened. Then she unfolded a ladder attached to the hatch, and the girls clambered up.

The attic space was cramped, but April liked that crowded, closed-in feeling. She loved to slip away with a book and a flashlight and hunker down between dusty stacks of boxes and old furniture, especially during storms. It was exciting to see the lightning flash through a small window on one wall of the attic, splaying shadows of tree branches on the opposite wall.

Wow, there’s some great stuff up here, Emily said. She swung her legs over an old hobby horse. The rusty springs squeaked as Emily bounced the plastic horse on its metal frame.

Was this yours? she asked.

Yep, April replied. Mom said it was my dad’s when he was little.

Oh, sorry.

It’s OK, Emily, April said. I don’t really remember my dad.