Page 14 of Yumi and the Nightmare Painter

Sluggish, his mind a haze, he turned toward home, which was fortunately nearby. He barely registered arriving, climbing the stairs, and walking to his apartment. It took him four tries to get the key in, but once he stumbled into his room and threw on his pajamas, he paused.

Dared he sleep? The family…needed his report…for the funds…

What was happening to him? Why did he suddenly feel like he’d been drained of strength? Abruptly gasping for breath, he flung open his window for fresh air, leaning out. Then he heard something odd. A rushing sound? Like…water?

He looked up toward the star.

Something came from the sky and struck him. Hard.

All went black.

Painter blinked.He was hot. Uncomfortably hot, and something was shining in his face. A garish light, like from the front of a hion-line bus.

He blinked his eyes open and was immediately blinded by that terrible overpowering light.

What was (lowly) going on? He’d hit his head perhaps? He forced his eyes open against the light and pushed himself with effort to a sitting position. He was wearing…bright cloth? Yes, some sort of bulky formal nightdress made of bright red-and-blue cloth.

Beside him lay a young woman. You’d recognize her as Yumi.

She opened her eyes.

Then screamed.

Painter bolted tohis feet. He was in a small room with a stone floor, wooden walls, and no furniture.

Thatimpossiblybright light—flooding in through the room’s single window—washed everything out, making it difficult to see. He raised his hand against the bizarre red-orange glare. That was a color that light should never be. To him, seeing it was like seeing someone spill the wrong color of blood.

Plus, that girl. How had he ended up lying next to her? She scrambled to her knees and grabbed at her blanket.

Her hands went straight through it as if she weren’t there.

Right. Okay. This was…a dream, maybe? Painter knew dreams. His classes—which he’d mostly paid attention to while secretly drawing in his notebook—had covered their nature in detail. This didn’t feel atalllike a dream, but he knew you couldn’t trust yourself while in one.

He needed to find some writing. According to his classes, that was one possible way to prove he was dreaming—you usually couldn’t read in a dream.

“Attendants!” the girl shouted. “Attendants!” She continued scrabbling at the blanket, but it kept passing through her fingers. As if…

Oh no. Was she a nightmare?

Paper. He needed paper. Still shading his eyes against the garish light from the window, he did another scan of the room—but this place was completely empty. Who lived in a room with no dressers, no futon, not even a table?

Wait. Book over there, on a shelf. He snatched it and flipped through the pages. Looked like a bunch of prayers? He could read them without trouble.

The girl fell silent as her cries for help fortunately brought no response. If shewasa nightmare, she…well, she defied his knowledge. One that was fully stable like she was should have been physical. She also shouldn’t have had color, or the shape of a girl, but should have taken the form of something twisted and imaginary.

Unless she wasbeyondstable. There were stories of the last days of some of the cities that had been attacked, of solid nightmares that had begun to change color, more like flesh tones… But no, this girl wasn’t crazed, lashing out in a maddened frenzy, trying to kill. She couldn’t be a nightmare.

He glanced back at the book. He could read it. That wasn’t sure proof, and yet…well, he knew dreams. He knew nightmares. He wasn’t dreaming. Time was linear. Causality was in effect. He could read, feel, and—most importantly—consider whether this was a dream without feeling a disconnect.

Somehow, this was real.

The girl, who was wearing a nightdress identical to what he had on, frantically clawed for her blankets. Painter didn’t know how to respond. He’d never woken next to an incorporeal girl before. While that’s farmore pleasant than some of the thingsI’vewoken up in bed with, it can still be rather disorienting.

“You wear my clothing…” the girl whispered. “You…you’re not an intruder, are you? You’re the spirit I talked to. You’ve taken shape?”

Painter wasn’t certain what she was talking about, but—on account of it being better than being screamed at—he decided to play things cool. “Cool” in this case meant pretending that he knew what was going on. He closed the book and put it back on the shelf. Then he folded his arms and gave her his best confident “I am a dark and mysterious warrior” look.

She bowed her head. “Youarethe powerful spirit. Please forgive me for my attitude earlier. I was surprised, confused. I did not mean offense.”

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