Bogeyman. Gayle Wilson
chipmunks from the neighbor’s cat. And if something was cold and hungry, you let it in.
Except not this time. Even though Blythe couldn’t explain the certainty she felt about that, she knew that whatever had caused the tapping she’d heard last night wasn’t something she wanted to let into her home.
And especially not into Maddie’s bedroom.
3
“Mama! Help me! Somebody help me!”
The screams pulled Blythe out of a sleep so deep that, despite her exhaustion, she couldn’t believe she’d achieved it. After all, she had tossed and turned in Maddie’s narrow bed for what seemed like hours. Listening for the tapping. Straining to identify every creak of the old house. She had finally drifted off, only to be awakened as suddenly as if someone had poured ice water over her.
She scrambled from under the covers, not stopping to pull on the woolen robe that lay across the foot of the bed. She ran across the heart-pine floors, bare feet skidding across their smooth surfaces as she made the turn through the doorway of Maddie’s bedroom and headed down the hall toward her own.
In the cold light of day—when her heart wasn’t frozen with fear or her mind imagining ridiculous scenarios—she hadn’t been able to justify letting the child sleep with her again. But she also couldn’t bring herself to put her back in that bedroom.
She had wondered if whatever she’d heard tapping at the window last night in Maddie’s room could precipitate the night terrors. Obviously, she’d been wrong.
“Mama, wake up. Please, Jesus. Please, somebody help me. Daddy. No. Daddy.”
By the time Blythe reached the doorway of her bedroom, the panicked screams had increased in volume. Following the now-familiar pattern, the little girl’s shrieks were growing so frenzied, words were no longer distinguishable. Piercing and hysterical, the screams echoed and reechoed through the room, even when Blythe turned on the bedside lamp.
As always when the child was in the grip of a terror, Maddie’s eyes were open, their dilated pupils eating up the blue iris. Blythe knew from experience that the little girl was totally unaware of her surroundings, still trapped in the horror of whatever she was dreaming about.
Blythe threw back the covers and then lifted her daughter to hold her against her heart. She rocked her back and forth in a rhythm familiar to them both since Maddie had been a baby.
“Shh. I’m here. I’ve got you. Everything’s all right.”
After what seemed an eternity, the little girl responded, turning her head to bury her face between her mother’s breasts. Through the thickness of her flannel gown, Blythe could feel the sweat-soaked hair. At least the shrieks had faded to whimpers.
Over the top of Maddie’s head, Blythe released a sigh of relief. Her own nightmare was that one night her daughter wouldn’t return from whatever terrifying place the dream took her. Tonight she had, and Blythe sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward.
She had done that far more often since she’d come back to Crenshaw. Prayed. It was something she couldn’t remember doing much of during the last few years. Not even during those terrible months of John’s illness.
Maybe she’d sought divine intervention more often because she had returned to her roots, the town where she’d spent her childhood, which had certainly not lacked for religious instruction. Or maybe, she admitted, it was that she was at the end of her own very human resources in knowing how to deal with what was going on.
Why wouldn’t she be? How could she be expected to know what to do with night terrors so severe she literally feared for her daughter’s life—or her sanity. Or with inexplicable noises that chilled her to the bone.
She leaned back, attempting to put some space between them so that she could look down into those normally lucent and guileless eyes. Maddie refused to look up, clutching her more tightly instead, small fingers locked into the fabric of Blythe’s gown.
“It’s all right,” she whispered again. “It was just a dream. I’m right here, and I have you.”
There was no response. At least Maddie was no longer trembling.
Gradually Blythe’s own panic began to ease. With the light of day, she might again be able to convince herself that this scene, which had been repeated no less than a dozen times in the last few weeks, had not been nearly as frightening as she remembered.
With one hand, she brushed damp tendrils of fine blond hair away from her daughter’s face. In response to the gesture, Maddie finally leaned back, looking up at her.
In the glow from the lamp, the little girl’s features seemed illuminated, as if lit from within. The blue eyes had now lost the look of horror they’d held only moments before.
“What’s wrong?” Maddie’s pale brows were drawn together in puzzlement.
Unsure how to answer the question, Blythe forced a smile. “You had a bad dream. Don’t you remember?”
The child shook her head. She raised a fist, rubbing her eyes in that timeless gesture of sleepiness.
“Don’t you remember anything, Maddie? Not even what made you call me?”
Another negative motion of the sweat-drenched head, and then her daughter leaned tiredly against her chest again. As she did, she put the thumb of the hand she’d used to rub her eyes into her mouth. In the stillness, Blythe listened to the sound of her sucking it.
The psychologist she’d taken Maddie to had advised she not make an issue of this, although the habit was something the little girl had outgrown years ago. Ignore it and everything else, the woman had said.
She had reassured Blythe that night terrors weren’t uncommon in children Maddie’s age. Although there was definitely a genetic component to them, they were usually triggered by stress.
Probably the result of her father’s death, combined with the move, the psychologist had suggested. She just needed lots of love and reassurance that she was safe and that you’ll always be there for her. Other than that, it was better to completely ignore the nightmares.
Blythe had had to fight against her instinct, which was to ignore the advice rather than the nightmares. She wanted to question Maddie about her dreams. To talk to her about them. To find out if there really were, as it seemed, no lingering traces of whatever horror paralyzed her in the darkness.
Instead, she had listened to the expert. About that, as well as about not sleeping with her daughter, which was one bit of advice she no longer intended to follow. At least not right now.
“I think I’ll sleep in here with you the rest of the night,” she said, pulling the covers back.
Obediently the little girl scooted over in the bed, making room. Blythe slipped between the warm sheets, settling the quilts around them again.
Before she reached over to turn off the lamp, she took one last look at her daughter. The little girl had already cuddled down on her side, her thumb back in her mouth. Her lashes lay motionless against the apple of her cheek, her breathing again relaxed and even.
Asleep? Was it possible that she’d already dropped off, despite the state in which Blythe had found her only minutes before? Something she obviously had no memory of.
Thank God, Blythe thought, completing the motion she’d begun. And while you’re at it, dear Heavenly Father, would you please give me that same blessed forgetfulness?
There was no answer to her prayer. At least not an affirmative one. Just as there had been no answer to any of the others she had prayed since she’d returned.
“Land sakes, child. You look like death warmed over. You sickening for something?”
“Too little sleep,” Blythe said, taking the cup of coffee her grandmother held out to her.
As