Page 15 of The Nightmare King

The lake bottom wasn’t soft and squishy— it was cold and hard. I sat up with a gasp, finding myself on a dimly lit street. Cold fall air twisted around me and my wing fluttered in the cold. Wait— my wing? Standing, my knees wobbly and my feet bare against the cold, wet pavement, I reached over to touch a long, paper-like wing growing from my shoulder-blade. But my other shoulder bore a ripped, half version of the other majestic wing. A moth wing, I realized. I had moth wings.

And like a moth, I followed the light, crunching leaves as I walked toward the streetlamp. The name of the road was etched on a green sign with dull white lettering.

ELM STREET.

Oh, no. No, no, no?—

“Oh, your sadness is tattered on the street.” A low voice said behind me. When I turned, I saw him standing there. His face grotesque, wearing a striped red sweater, and with sharp knives protruding from his fingers.

“My sadness?” I said with a dry croak.

The horrifying man with glowing purple eyes knelt and picked up my broken moth wing. “What if I cut your sadness with scissors? Would that help?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, stepping forward. “Try it.”

He tipped his hat and used his scissor fingers to cut my wing. When he did, my heart pricked, and tears began to fall. The worst sorrow I’d ever felt flooded through me as the pieces of my broken wing fell to the dirty pavement.

The horror of a man glanced up at me. “Seems that made it worse. Shall I burn it?”

I nodded. “Anything to take this feeling away.”

He reached in his pocked and pulled out a match. Striking it, he let it fall to my tattered pieces of moth wing. The lit match fell ablaze and furled my wing like black pieces of paper. I dropped to my knees and sobbed. Feeling the burning in my chest, the tightening of my throat, the aching devastation of death and loss. As the flames licked around me, I choked on sobs until I felt a scissored edge tilt my head up to meet his purple eyes.

He reached out his other hand and stroked my wing. “Nothing will take this pain away, you broken Death’s Head Moth. Like the moth, some beautiful creatures are cursed to carry death and make it look beautiful. To make death and sorrow fly toward the moon.”

My tears wouldn’t stop as I looked up at him. He gestured toward a long mirror that suddenly appeared in the middle of Elm Street. “See for yourself.”

I shakily made my way to the mirror and gasped at my reflection. My body was the same, weak, and barefoot. My face, however, had been replaced by a Death’s Head Moth. A moth etched with a skull. An omen, a darkness, a sign of sorrow.

That was me.

This was a dream but it was the truest version of myself I’d ever seen. My sorrow personified. My tears were a monsoon of rain upon my cheeks and that storm had sprouted wings.

“I can’t make death beautiful,” I said to my reflection. And Mare appeared behind me, putting a scissored hand on my shoulder. “Death isn’t beautiful.” The wings of my moth-face fluttered at his touch. Could we stay there, on Elm Street, and be monsters forever?

“You will always find the moon,” my nightmare whispered. “I love you. I believe in you. Do not leave your sadness in piles on the street. Pick them up, Lucy. String them together, create something haunting. You can do this, I know you can.”

“Mare,” I cried as my wings fluttered and the wind began to howl.

But it was too late.

I woke up.

Chapter

Seven

ZOMBIES

Fly away, pretty moth, to the shade Of the leaf where you slumbered all day; Be content with the moon and the stars, pretty moth, And make use of your wings while you may. . . . . But tho' dreams of delight may have dazzled you quite, They at last found it dangerous play; Many things in this world that look bright, pretty moth, Only dazzle to lead us astray.

Thomas Haynes Bayly

Brandon’s sofa smelt like beer and sweat. It had been seven nights and no visit from Mare. If he were real, like he’d insisted, this was the equivalent of going on a date and not having the guy call you back for a week.

And yes, he’d left me sore and reeling.

Each night I stared at my closet, wishing it were Halloween in the seventies and he was going to jump out in a ghost face mask.

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