I told you to expect it: A rather healthy excerpt from the Dreamdarkers manuscript.  And here it is.

This is part of a flashback that spans several chapters of the book.  If you read the original “Darkness Comes to Kingswell” or have seen some of the mentions of Dave Lloyd in the various Dreamdarkers-related posts since that short story was published, you’ll undoubtedly know this is not happening in the current narrative since it’s between him and his wife.

While I’m rather pleased with how this entire conversation flows, I’m not entirely thrilled with the full extent of this extract.  That’s because it’s the first draft of the novel.

I therefore expect it to change.  Some things will expand (like, uh, most of it).  Some things will shrink (or disappear altogether).  That’s how this whole writing thing works, right?  Uh-huh.  I thought so, too.

For those who read “Darkness Comes to Kingswell,” you’ve not seen this before.  It’s new.  That’s also why it’s rather unfinished, a bit primitive even.  Compared to the original yarn, Dreamdarkers explores in greater detail the relationship between Dave and Beth, all via his memories (remember, the entire story comes from him in a sort of journal motif).

Oh, and please don’t pester me about typos, errors, and the like.  This is, much like “Darkness Comes to Kingswell,” nothing more than stream of consciousness.  It doesn’t represent a working over of the short story.  It’s new, different.  Because it’s the first draft, you can expect I’ll be manhandling it later.

So without further ado, here’s a robust tidbit from Dreamdarkers.

“Sweetie, I’d like to ask you a question but I want you to know it’s all right if you’d rather not talk about it.”

Beth turned and looked at me.  Her shower had been long.  I knew her day had been hectic and stressful.  The steamy indulgence served to relax her, and I respected her need enough to wait until she had finished before I stepped into the bathroom to interrogate her.

My curiosity about her stories of the Dreamdarkers had grown since she first mentioned them.  I’d finished Sing Larentia’s Song nine months after our last conversation regarding the wives’ tale.  Evolution’s My Gig, my fourth novel, already had a solid foundation and grew steadily.  Nevertheless, my interest in the Dreamdarkers saga exploded within my imagination as I pondered the idea of turning it into a novel.  I would need several months to complete the manuscript on my plate, and I had another premise brewing in the recesses of my mind to work on afterward.  Regardless of that, the idea of translating her grandmother’s fearmongering from a wretch’s abuse of an innocent child to a lucrative book had already taken root.  I knew my imagination could fill in the details.  It began offering scenarios the day after my wife mentioned the demons—or whatever they were.  But to be realistic to some degree, and already having failed to locate any reference to them via my normal research channels, I needed Beth to fill in many of the blanks.  Otherwise, I would create an interesting and frightening tale without hinging it on the truth.  For that, I needed her to dredge up those old memories.

Her childhood under the firm hand of an old battleax like Irene had been traumatic.  That much I understood.  I was alarmed by the many stories she had told me of growing controlled by an elderly demoness covered in a walking cadaver.  Each time Beth spoke of her upbringing, I could see it pained her.  Unpleasant childhoods were not uncommon as far as I knew.  What did seem unusual rested in the bewildering anguish left like oily residue all over her memories.  She couldn’t recall a moment from before her grandmother’s death without also reliving the stinging brutality that defined those years.  Remembering often drove her to weep or cringe, or both, and that only if she didn’t lash out verbally with revulsion and anger meant for a woman long dead.  I doubted she had it within her, but the enchantress who stole my heart explained from time to time how she longed to visit Irene’s grave, to spit on it, to douse it with gasoline and to set it afire, and to sit nearby so she might watch the devilish remains smolder and turn to dust.  “I’ll give her a taste of the hell she put me through,” I once heard her say.  Beth had a mean streak as long as mine, but she wasn’t cruel.  Hearing such thoughts drop from her mouth like poison gave me cause for concern insofar as those times revealed the true abyssal depth of her agony.

I rested against the doorframe with my hands behind my back.  She stood in front of me facing the mirror as she toweled her body dry.  I had placed a half-full crystal tumbler on the vanity beside me.  Although trying to appear timid and wanting, I knew she could see through the disguise.  Her story intrigued me.  I wanted to hear it, or at least more of it.

She gave me a quick sideways glance that screamed of offense.  Knowing I had poked a stick in a very sore spot, and knowing I would twist that stick repeatedly while prodding her for more, I allowed my eyes to drop from her gaze and slowly caress her naked form.  I ensured the gesture appeared as intentional and sultry as possible.  Her eyes never moved but instead remained locked on my face.  Meanwhile, I dropped my head at a glacial pace and made certain she knew of my admiration for her beauty and the raw sexual power she held over me.  Unless I crossed my signals, she would see through the ploy and understand I meant only to disarm her anger with shared lust.  It worked.

As my eyes slowly crawled upward from her feet where they had come to rest, she shifted her weight and cleared her throat with an erotic harrumph that screamed “Do me now!”  When our eyes again met, her face had softened.

“Don’t think I didn’t see that coming.”

“Not yet, but you will.”

She laughed a small laugh, one comfortable yet admonishing.  It was ingrained with a simple statement: “You bet I will.”

“So, can we talk about it?  I promise to make it worth your while.”

A smile passed briefly across her lips as she glanced at the partially full glass of Crown Royal.  Its position had been strategically chosen.  If I intended to push, I needed to be willing to give as well.  And I was more than ready to do just that.

“You bring one for me?” she asked with a nod toward the whiskey.

“Don’t I always think of you?” I replied as I leaned forward.

From behind my back, I produced one hand with another glass of the fine alcohol.  It too had been filled halfway.  She shifted the towel into her right hand as she stepped in my direction.  Our lips met in a fiery kiss that lasted mere seconds.  With my focus on the mambo our tongues danced together, I barely noticed as her left hand met mine, slipped around my fingers in a brief embrace, and slid the glass away from me.  Her movements always came across as graceful yet assertive, like those of a danseuse capable of ballerina-like movements but who could also kick ass with the best loggers in the forest.  Had I not surrendered the drink, she likely would have taken it by force.  And I would have enjoyed it.

After our kiss ended, she stepped back while taking a quick sip, and then she turned back to the mirror while saying, “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts, right?  But you better have another offering.  I’m not feeling too generous this evening.  If that other hand is empty…”

Always too smart to be fooled, she knew I held my other hand behind my back for a reason.  In response to her, I moved it in front of me and held out a joint and lighter.  The freshly rolled sinsemilla produced an enticing aroma from within its thin paper blanket, a sweet bouquet of near-skunk cannabis and warm earthen spices reminiscent of teak and wood.  Unlike much of the schwag I smoked as a child, our combined incomes made it possible to indulge in the finer quality illicit drugs.  Neither of us complained about that.

As I held the marijuana in front of me like a gift, I bowed my head slightly and quipped, “But of course, Madame Lloyd.  I would never think of purchasing your favors with but a paltry adult beverage.”

She returned an appreciative smirk.

“Shall I light it for you or do you not trust me with such heavy responsibility?”

“You can either light it or we go straight to the sex and skip the conversation.”

“That’s a tough choice.  Can I think about it while we talk?”

“If you don’t spark that up right now, maybe the sex gets taken off the table.”

As I lifted the marijuana cigarette and lighter to my lips, I said, “Lighting it.  Right now.”

“I thought so,” she added snidely.

It took only a second to get the joint lit.  I also reached over and turned on the exhaust fan.  Although we both loved to get stoned, we appreciated not having the house smell like a flaming hydroponics garden.  After puffing on it a few times, I inhaled deeply before handing it to her.  The sweet smell of it wafted upward in tiny wisps and left a disappearing trail between us.

Before taking a hit she said, “I suppose you’ve offered enough gifts to your queen to deserve some consideration.  What do you want to know?”

I took a quick sip of my drink before responding, “I want to know about the Dreamdarkers.”

She coughed.  I didn’t move but waited silently.  After she cleared her throat, she sent a wicked look in my direction.  I would have called it devilish and even a bit nasty—not in a good way—had it not focused so intently on me.  I knew what to expect.

I added, “But only if Her Royal Highness has it within her to share a few tidbits without verbally lashing me—although oral lashing are welcome.”

Before taking another hit, and with her gaze still locked on me, she quipped, “Don’t think I won’t come over there and beat the fire out of you, Mr. Lloyd.  Husband or not, I have no qualms with kicking your butt all over this bathroom.  If you want to be sarcastic, take your smart-ass self out of this bathroom and leave me be.”

My laughter was hearty.  I could tell she felt better.  Despite having a strenuous day, the shower and company helped her to relax.  And I knew she would kick me out of the bathroom if she tired of my facetious inquiry, so it behooved me to at least behave enough so that she would not be forced into her dominatrix role.  Although that could be fun.  But I wanted more than the sex I knew would come later; I wanted information.

She handed the joint back to me as I set my tumbler down on the vanity and asked, “Who are the Dreamdarkers?  Or, if it’s more appropriate, what are they?”

With a quick gesture, she tossed her towel next to the sink, and then she grabbed her glass of whiskey and took another sip.  Only after setting it back down did she speak.

“I don’t know what the word means.  I know it’s plural if that helps.”  She refrained from looking at the daggers I shot at her but instead continued, “Grandmother never said what she meant by the word.  But she talked about them many times while I was growing up.  Back then, I assumed it was her way of frightening me, an intentional mental abuse she heaped on a little girl scared to death of storms.  That’s normally when she brought them up.  That was her thing, I suppose.  Anyways, she said they’d come with the storms.  I figured that was why they always came up when the weather got rough.  Considering how terrified I felt with thunder or lightning or a strong wind, her ranting about Dreamdarkers made it worse.”

The joint moved easily between us as we sipped our Crown Royal and enjoyed a good high with each other.  I remained leaning against the doorjamb.  She stood in front of the mirror and began plucking her eyebrows as she spoke.  She paused only long enough to take an occasional sip of her drink or to puff on the joint.

“I guess I already told you she said they were coming for all the dreamers, right?”  I nodded.  “Okay, so that’s what she said.  As time went on, the story became more…  Oh, I don’t know what you’d call it.  More robust, maybe.  Bigger?  Well, it certainly grew.  My fear of storms didn’t subside until my early teens, perhaps twelve or so.  Until then, she badgered me with the Dreamdarkers.

“At first, they were just generic somethings-or-other coming with the storms, coming for the dreamers, and without a doubt, coming for me.  It made for good mental abuse.  But then her tales began to change.  It wasn’t until she was dead and I was much older that I wondered if that was senility or an attempt to spill the beans because she knew she wasn’t long for this world.”

She paused to take drag on the joint.  I could see the stress in her eyes.  Talking about Irene and growing up made her uncomfortable.  Yet Beth was strong and faced her demons without flinching.  Had she been so unnerved that she didn’t want to talk about it at that time, she would have said as much.  Nevertheless, I didn’t push.  I let her work through her memories at her own pace.

I took the joint from her as she passed it back to me, and then she sipped from her whiskey again.  Her eyebrows had been meticulously plucked.  After putting the tweezers in a drawer, she wrapped the towel around her bosom and set about brushing her hair.

She snapped around and looked at me directly.  “Are you really thinking about writing them into a book?”

“The thought had crossed my mind.  It all depends.”

She took a deep breath before turning back to the mirror and returning to the methodical motions needed to expertly brush her short hair.  I found it amazing she could spend so much time with that activity given her hair was only shoulder length.  Still, she was a woman and would have it perfect and no other way.

“It took years for me to piece it all together,” she continued, “but I did.  I took each bit and filed it away.

“Grandmother started out with the little stuff.  They’re coming with the storms, they’re coming for all the dreamers, hiding under the bed won’t save you, and all that jazz.  Then it got more serious.  I think I told you already she’d told me once that nightmares where their way of calling back.  I wasn’t sure what that meant until one day when a storm was brewing and I surreptitiously went to my room ‘to read’ as I told her.  I actually went to hide.  She knew it.

“So there I was sitting on the floor against the bed.  I figured I could scoot underneath at the first sign of trouble.  But then I heard her stomping down the hallway.  She was so obese it practically shook the floor.  There was never a doubt when she was on her way.  Thankfully, I wasn’t under the bed.  I had a book in my lap and sat quietly.  She sprang through the door like an animal.  An overweight animal, yes, but an animal nonetheless.  She pounced into the room as though she’d caught me.  I stared at her and tried for the most sincere bewildered look I could come up with when I said, ‘What’s up, Grandmother?’  She propped both her hands on her hips, pressed her lips together, furrowed her eyebrows, and stared at me with a burning gaze that would’ve set me on fire had I not been so determined to stand up to her that time.  In truth, I hoped she’d see I wasn’t under the bed and would leave.  At least that way I’d be alone and could slip under the bed if the weather got bad.  But she either saw through the ruse or had other plans to begin with.

“After standing in the open door for a minute or so looking like a teapot with two handles, she finally lowered her guard a bit and dropped her hands.  Then she came over to the bed and sat down.  The damn thing creaked so obnoxiously I thought it would collapse under her enormous weight.  And let me be honest: I think she was around six feet tall and weighed 250 pounds, so she wasn’t very huge.  But to a little girl like me, she was a behemoth.  Anyways, she threw herself down on the bed and waited for the groaning metal to quiet down before she spoke.  I think she was just waiting to see if it was going to crumble under her weight.  When it didn’t, she patted the bed beside her and told me to come up and sit down for a bit because she wanted to talk to me.

“After I joined her, she said, ‘Elizabeth, dontcha go thinkin’ I don’t know where y’at.  Ya under the bed.  Now listen, child.  I knows ya scared of them storms out yonder, but they ain’t ya biggest worries, hon.  I done told ya before them’s nuttin’ to fret about.  Whatcha gots to watch for be them real storms.’

“Her bastardized French-Creole accent was thick yet aristocratic.  She could make bad English sound proper.  Still, I doubt I’m doing it justice, but that doesn’t mean you can laugh.  Just bear with me.  And another thing…  Yes, she really did stress the ‘real storms’ part that way.  It seemed odd.  I never understood why.

“So anyways, she said, ‘Them real storms will come when they not s’posed to.  They gonna come and they gonna be black like the night, only blacker.  They the Dreamdarkers.  No, the storms ain’t the Dreamdarkers, but the storms comes from ’em, and does their biddin’.  Ya gonna know what storms I be talkin’ ’bout when ya sees ’em.  There ain’t no mistakin’ them storms for nuttin’ but the Dreamdarkers.’

“And then she got up and left.  I was confused and just stared after her as she lumbered through the doorway and stomped her way down the hall.  We didn’t get storms that day.  I think they blew around us or never really formed.  Either way, we got nothing.  It’s possible she knew that ahead of time having watched so much television, but she didn’t want an opportunity to get away from her, so she came in and talked about them anyways.  I’m guessing, but it’s possible.

“The next time she talked about them, it was after I’d had a nightmare.  I woke up screaming early one morning.  I can’t tell you what the nightmare was about.  Probably her.  So I sat upright in bed just howling like I’d been stabbed.  And down the hall she came rumbling.  She almost bounced me out of bed when she sat down because she did it so quickly.  I remember because I was quite certain we’d collapse to the floor with the bed splintering beneath us.  But it didn’t.

“So this time, she showed me one of those rare moments of compassion, but she filled it with more mental abuse under the guise of comforting me.  After asking why I was screaming and wrapping her big sweaty arm around me, she rocked us both back and forth and shushed me without being rude.  She finally started talking when my sobs calmed down enough for her to be heard.

“‘Ya had yaself a nightmare, honey?  I’s sorry, baby girl.  That’s a cryin’ shame.  But it’s awright now.  Ya just hush.  Ya knows what them nightmares is, dontcha?  Them’s the Dreamdarkers sayin’ ya gots to go.  They’s tellin’ ya loud and clear ya ain’t welcome no more.’

“‘What do you mean?  Tell me, Grandmother,’ I urged.

“‘Dontcha fret ’bout it.  All ya gots to know is them’s Dreamdarkers visions.  They’s gonna be comin’ with the storms, ya betcha, but they’s already shoutin’ at us, at us dreamers, tellin’ us to get.  I don’t think they’s gonna wait much longer.’  She didn’t explain what that meant.  Believe me, I asked.

“The rest of her stories were similar.  She talked ad nauseam about how they would come with the black storms.  She went on about them using nightmares to talk to us—or as she put it, to call us back.  And as I grew less afraid of the weather, talk of the Dreamdarkers grew less frequent.  I suppose she realized they weren’t scaring me and it did little good to keep up pretenses.”

I puffed on the joint after she handed it back to me, and then I asked in a strained voice as I tried to hold my breath and talk at the same time, “Was that it?  That was all she said about them?”

Beth turned and looked at me.  For the first time during our conversation, she had a serious look on her face.  Her eyes projected a solemn glare I hadn’t expected.  She had seemed moderately at ease with my probing.  More importantly, she had seemed more comfortable than ever before when talking about her history growing up with Irene.  It troubled me to see something else in the cards shuffling through her mind.  She was holding back.

“What is it, babe?”

“There’s more.  And there’s a rhyme.”