DEATH'S DREAMS

By Darryl Dawson

When your work is death, there is no peaceful sleep.

The nightmares of mortal men are terrifying enough. But imagine if your job description was “harvester of souls,” and every day and night brings you to all manner of death, from ordinary to unexpected, from gruesome to profane. Would lying down to rest bring a flood of nightm

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darryl Dawson
• Release date: Sep 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733192156

Darryl Dawson

I was born in L.A. and raised, along with my big brother, in a lovely suburb called Harbor City by a wonderful pair of teachers that I still call Mom and Dad. I watched reruns of Night Gallery as a kid, which helped develop my taste for the bizarre.I have written three books: THE CRAWLSPACE, IF IT BLEEDS, and my latest, DEATH'S DREAMS. I specialize in short stories.I write because it's easier than speaking. Most people who know me know that hearing me speak at length about anything is as unlikely as Apple going broke. Having the gift to put my thoughts down on paper (or WordPad) and turn them into wild, terrifying stories is a wonderful gift. I don't know what I would be or do if I hadn't found that gift.I write horror because the dark places are more fun. Horror is my fifth limb, an inseparable part of me that may make me appear to most as a freak, but feels perfectly natural.I currently survive in Phoenix, Arizona with the help of a tight-knit group of Manchester City fans..

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 by Darryl Dawson Books.

Edited by Zoe Swann.

Front Cover Art and Design by Bailey Hunter.

Holy Night appears in WHEN RED SNOW MELTS, anthology edited and published by Horror Novel Reviews, 2014.

Disturbance appears in DARK BITS, anthology edited by Jacob Haddon, published by Apokrupha Press, 2013.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, redistributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

All characters depicted and described in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Special Thanks

Death’s Dreams Part 1: Encounter

Clown With Bleeding Eyes

New Identity

Night Train

Interlude #1: Disturbance

I Turned Invisible

The Claim

There Really Are No Accidents

Death’s Dreams Part 2: Metamorphosis

Request

Pain Killer

Interlude #2: Dance With Your Date

Holy Night

Jump Scare

Porter And The Door

Final Rinse

The Champion Of Suffering

Death’s Dreams Part 3: Awakening

About The Author

SPECIAL THANKS TO: All my family in Southern California and beyond, Wrath James White, Kristen McCartor, Eric J. Richards, Chris Hilliard, Grace Stufkosky for the new photographs, Fran Norman, Barbara Wood, Ella Haley-Danley, Colors In Darkness, MCFC Desert Blues (as well as Manchester City and all their supporters worldwide), The Artist Formerly Known As 3TV and CBS-5, The Labor Party/The Battered Suitcases, The Darts (U.S.), The Mission Creeps, Scorpion vs. Tarantula, and everybody who has ever asked me How’s that new book coming along?

Sweet dreams, Mila & Vince.

DEATH’S DREAMS PART 1: ENCOUNTER

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Excuse me, Dr. Vasser?

Dr. Raymond Vasser did not expect to hear anyone’s voice right then. He turned to see who could be calling his name after his day was over.

The psychoanalyst saw the tall, thin, young black man standing only a few feet away in blue jeans and black hoodie, a hard life carved onto his sad, gaunt face, and felt a need to shift into a defensive mode despite not having any weapons to protect himself. Dr. Vasser took stock of his surroundings—a not-entirely empty parking garage, first floor, still daylight out. He assumed the worst, and a part of him felt bad for doing so.

Dr. Vasser, could I talk with you for a minute? I don’t know who else I can turn to.

The doctor looked the young man up and down. Is this regarding my practice? he said. Do you need help?

Yes! The young man stepped towards him, and the doctor took a cautious half-step back. Something led me to you, doctor, and I need to talk to you before it’s too late.

Vasser reached into the pocket of his navy-blue polo shirt and pulled out a business card. You’ll need to call and make an appointment, he said as he handed it in the direction of the stranger.

It can’t wait that long! Let me tell you what’s troubling me! Please!

The young man sounded desperate, but Vasser still wasn’t sure. Years of racial conditioning led the doctor to ball his fist and prepare to strike back. What is it, are you addicted? You have a relationship problem?

No, it’s nothing like that! You have to understand…

I’m sorry, but I don’t see anyone without an appointment. He attempted to hand his card over to the young man again. Now if you just call this number, I’m sure we can…

Dr. Vasser, please! You’ve got to listen to me! I am Death!

Vasser froze. What?

A tear dripped from the young man’s eye. I’m Death. The Grim Reaper. And I don’t want to do this anymore! Please! You’ve got to help me!

It was then that Vasser noticed the unusual pendant, not more than two inches long and decorated with diamonds, hanging from a thin, gold chain from the stranger’s neck. It was in the shape of a scythe. But that could mean anything. Most people decorate themselves with the trappings of their identities in one form or another. This young man identified with death, or perhaps, the iconography of death, either for shock value or genuine sociopathic tendencies. Vasser was off the clock, yet his vocation compelled him to dig a little deeper into the mind of this crying stranger.

That necklace, he said. Where did you get it?

The young man hesitated. It was given to me. Passed down.

By whom?

So you will help me?

Vasser wasn’t ready to commit just yet. I’ll help you, but I need to ask a few questions, if you don’t mind. Outside of the disarming comfort of his office, he felt strange querying a potential patient, especially in a place where anyone could hear their conversation, but he pressed on. Who passed that down to you? A friend, a relative?

The downtrodden young man stared at his feet. I don’t know. The guy who had it before me. It’s been a long time.

Does it symbolize anything? Does it mean anything to you?

It’s…my duty.

Vasser put his finger to his lower lip and spoke in a more discreet tone. Your duty to whom?

Time.

So your duty is death? Killing is your duty?

"No, not killing! I don’t kill people. I just retrieve them, carry them away."

Where?

Other dimensions.

Vasser took a good look at the young man’s sullen brown eyes, eyes that belied his age. He had seen that same look in the eyes of soldiers and marines back from a long tour of duty in the Middle East, but he looked too young, too compassionate. He could tell the man was serious, but serious about what? A delusion?

Are you serving in the military? Vasser asked.

The stranger brought his hands to his face and wiped the pain downward. His fingers trembled. No, he said, never.

But you know something about battlefields?

How do you know?

I can see it in your face. You’ve seen some horrible things. Is that what’s causing your nightmares?

It’s not just the battlefields. It’s all of it. The murder scenes. The hospitals. The highways. Everything, everywhere. Just too much dying, and so much of it meaningless. And almost all of them leave a mark on me somehow. It’s not supposed to chew on me like that. I don’t understand… A tear trickled down his face. And I can’t deal with it anymore! All those deaths are coming back around to me in my dreams! They won’t leave me alone! Doctor!

Vasser was convinced of one thing for certain; whatever was disturbing this man could not wait. He felt in his gut that if he walked away and made him someone else’s problem something bad would happen, perhaps to someone nearby, or maybe he would kill himself. What’s your name?

I told you, I’m Death!

Alright, he thought. No need to press him. He’ll reveal what he needs to reveal for now. Okay, Death. Sit down with me for a moment.

They sat down on the concrete barrier in the empty parking space next to Vasser’s car. The thin, young black man who called himself Death spoke to him of world wars and plagues, of tragic accidents and terrorist attacks, and how it all weighed heavily on his mind for far too many years. His brown eyes were darkened by a heavy hopelessness that comes with carrying an important, but unwanted burden. Vasser was impressed with how bright and well-spoken Death was, unaware of the embodiment of casual racism in his observance. He gleaned little from his conversation with Death. Any information regarding his background or his past (even his date of birth) was lodged deep in a pit of mystery. How can I help you, Vasser said, if you won’t tell me anything about you?

I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t, said Death as he stared at an oily spot on the ground. It’s like parts of me are washed away.

Every attempt the doctor made in punching holes in the logic of the young man’s story—If you are death, why do you need sleep? How can you harvest millions of souls? Why haven’t you aged? —was met with honest, simple answers. A textbook pathological liar in Vasser’s opinion, but why would he lie about something so extraordinary and fantastic? What horrible event in his life scarred him so deeply that pretending to be the Grim Reaper was his only relief? A fascinating study, certainly, even if their impromptu consultation was getting them nowhere.

You say you’re Death, he said. Does this mean you’ve come for me, to take me away?

Death crossed his arms over his knees, letting his scythe pendant dangle and catch glints of sunlight. That’s not what I’m here for.

Then what do you want from me? Vasser asked. "What brought you to me? Did you know I was a psychologist before we stumbled into each other?"

I didn’t know. Maybe it was fate, or dumb luck. But you’re the perfect candidate.

Candidate for what?

Death looked at him with a face that could have cracked a knowing smile but didn’t. "I’m certain, just from my conversation with you, that you could do what I do. You have empathy, you care about the human condition, yet life has hardened you somehow. It takes unique qualities to be a harvester, the most important being a kind of numbness. There’s really nothing to the transformation. Just a