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There was no answer from the whirring monitor. She hadn’t expected one. If Bromley had answered, she wouldn’t have believed him anyway.
THE room was like all the other rooms. It was rectangular with pale blue walls. A single bed was against the right-hand wall, white sheets, brown blanket. When Jasmine was a child, she had longed for colored sheets. The kind with animals and clowns on them. In her house were bright-colored sheets, and none of the rooms were painted blue.
There was a white bureau with mirror against the left wall, and a closet in the far wall. That was all. Small or not, the rooms always seemed empty.
There was a monitor up in one corner. The red recording light was off, no whirring, no moving to scan the room. Bromley had turned it off; supposedly that meant that Jasmine was alone, unobserved.
Jasmine pressed her palms on top of the perfectly clean bureau top. She leaned forward until she was almost touching her own reflection. The old litany came back, “This is not the whole world. You will get out. You will make it on the outside. You can do it. This isn’t forever.” How many nights had she told her reflection that? How many years?
This wasn’t the whole world. She had gotten out. She had made it on the outside. She could do it. It hadn’t been forever. And now she was back. To save another little girl. The thought came, But does she deserve saving?
Jasmine answered aloud, “I save monsters all the time.” Fear had settled in the pit of her stomach, hard and thick. This place pressed so many of her buttons, so much shit to wade through here. And the child, that frightening, beautiful child. Why was so much evil pleasant, pretty on the outside, like poisoned candy? Most mass murderers were the nicest people.
Lisbeth Pearson was already in bed. It was an hour past dark. She would be out there in the dream network, hunting. For the first time someone would be hunting Lisbeth. Did the child suspect? No. There was one other trait of the serial killer that Lisbeth shared: arrogance. The predator never expects to be hunted.
Jasmine had never been hunted either. It would be a night of firsts.
That night Jasmine dreamed. Her own dreams first. Nothing pleasant; fears about the school, Lisbeth, Bromley, childhood nightmares, she brushed them away. Then the sensation that her skull evaporated and her mind eased outward like mist. She floated through one dream at a time. She could touch more than one mind at a time, bringing other people into the same dream, but they had to share a single dream. Multiple minds, but not multiple fantasies. No one was sure why that particular restriction. It was just the way it worked.
Jasmine swam through the colors of other people’s dreams, searching. A boy played catch with his dead father, sorrow, things left unsaid; a woman held a stranger in her arms, naked, unafraid, private, lust flowed warm and felt like anger; Bromley dreamed of flowers surrounding a coffin, rage, hate. Jasmine moved on before she could see who was inside the coffin. She could have wandered all night from dream to dream like a butterfly in a field of fantastic flowers, but something burned through her mind, screamed along her nerves: terror.
Jasmine followed it like a beacon. The silent rush of fear called her as surely as a scream for help. She appeared in the dream with an almost physical jolt. She had rushed, hadn’t taken her time; the reality of the nightmare was concrete, touchable, breathable, visible, real. A boy stood with his back to her. He was tall, slender, hair neatly buzzed next to his scalp, skin the color of dark coffee. He was struggling to lock the door to a dingy room. Windows leaked gray daylight through dirty glass. Wallpaper fell in strips from yellowed walls. The place reeked of damp, rot, urine.
The bolt slid home and he turned, leaning against the door, relieved. His eyes flew wide. “Who are you?” His voice hadn’t caught up to his tall, leggy body; it sounded like a child’s voice.
“I’m Jasmine. I’ve come to help.”
“You’re that new dream teacher.”
Jasmine started to explain that she was not a teacher, was not a part of the school, but standing there soaking up Malcolm’s terror, she let it go. “Yes.”
The smell was growing worse, a choking outhouse stench that was filling the room, coming from under the door. Malcolm backed away from the door, until he bumped into Jasmine. He jumped and she gripped his shoulders. He didn’t pull away. His breathing was coming in short gasps. The whole dream focused on that door. Jasmine could feel the pull of it. Fear. Fear forced down their throat until more than anything in the whole world you didn’t want that door to open. You didn’t want IT to come through and get you. And you knew that that was exactly what was going to happen, and there was nothing you could do about it. The helplessness of nightmare, but Jasmine could do something about it. Nightmares were her specialty.
The girl’s focus was strong and pure. Jasmine could not look away from the door. The sound of heavy footsteps scraped outside; the smell of rotting corpses, sweet and putrid, filled the room.
Jasmine concentrated, willing the walls to dissolve, the dream to end. Nothing happened. She took a deep breath and choked on the stinking air.
Malcolm’s voice was thin with fear. “Do something!”
She tried. Manipulating dreams was just a matter of will and concentration. Jasmine knew this wasn’t real; if you knew that, you could change it. But she had never been inside the dream of someone who matched her powers so exactly.
“I can’t break the dream.”
Malcolm made a small sound low in his throat. He sagged against her. “Oh, God,” he said, “oh, God.”
Jasmine swallowed the first rush of real fear, not Lisbeth’s creation but her very own fear. She was as trapped as the boy. Trapped in the mind of a sociopathic child.
Then things began to melt from the walls. Hands, arms reached outward; rotted flesh falling away from white bone, rags of clothes. Things long dead crawled out of the rotting walls and began to drag themselves closer.
One man had half his face blown away; his tongue rolled between bone and raw meat, a large fat worm twisted round the corpse’s tongue.
Malcolm screamed, one high shriek after another, as four of the things shambled toward them.
The faces were recognizable; a man, woman, two teenage children. They had been black; now they were the colors of old death.
Jasmine grabbed Malcolm’s hand; his fingernails dug into her palm. His screams became words. “My father, my father! Noooo!”
Of course, the dead things were Malcolm’s family. They were horrible, paralyzingly so to the boy, because this nightmare was designed with him in mind, not Jasmine. The dead things were slow; little pieces of them fell away as they walked, slow.
Jasmine dragged Malcolm toward the door. He fought her, the dead things turned toward them, but Jasmine was at the door with the boy screaming, tugging at her hand, trying to get free, to run, but there was nowhere to run.
Jasmine couldn’t break the dream, but maybe she could manipulate it. She unlocked the door and flung it open. The dream lurched; the dead things wavered. There was nothing on the other side of the door. Sloppy, Lisbeth, Jasmine thought. There was a sensation of vertigo, then Jasmine filling the emptiness with a stairway, leading down.
She dragged Malcolm onto the stairs and shut and locked the door behind them, with a thought. Malcolm was running now, still gripping her hand as if afraid she would vanish and abandon him. They clattered down the stairs; suddenly there were walls on either side. The stairs led downward, but now there were walls to hold them, rotting yellow walls.
Hands grew out of the wall, pale arms, they fluttered, hands wringing. A hand grabbed Jasmine’s wrist. The flesh was too soft, doughy, rubbery, but strong.
Malcolm screamed as hands grabbed his shirt.
Jasmine needed to be free of the hand; she thought of a sword. It levitated over the hand, and sliced downward in a glittering arc. The arm flopped, spraying warm blood into her face. The hand still clung to her wrist, but she pulled Malcolm free of the bloated hands, and they ran.
Jasmine sprayed the walls with blood from the sword as it sliced the hands in front of them like a thrasher, cutting wheat. The stairs were littered with pale hands that twitched and bled.
The stairs spilled onto a landing, and the walls closed in, dead end. Jasmine had been concentrating too much on the sword and the hands to maintain the stairs. The smell of rotting corpses began to fill the air.
“Malcolm, is this the same dream every time?”
