Young Writers Society

**Continued**

Sam stared at her. He could feel the sweat on his brow cooling in the wind, as around them, all was silent. Her clear hazel brown eyes looked into his

own, defiant.

‘The Sandman…?’ he said finally, ‘I thought he was meant to be good?’ He recalled the night his mother had been tucking him in, and he asked her to stay, he didn’t want to be afraid. And she had smiled, warmth flooding her face, saying, ‘Never fear love, the Sandman will protect you.’ A colourful, elusive character that danced through the night, sands of destiny a-whirl all about him. It had fired his imagination, now, at this moment, he could only shake his head in disbelief. This was not the creature of folklore he faced.

Lora said nothing, leaving him to question quietly, ‘What happened?’

He went to speak again, but she hushed him hurriedly, pointing out to the dimly lit street, where something approached. A tall man walked down the middle of the road, shadowed still, despite the pools of light cast by the street lights. He paused, directly in their line of vision. He looked up, hawked and spat out a glob of darkness. It spun for a second, before exploding outward and extinguishing all light. Darkness, blacker then the deepest of oblivion, descended.

Hot lips pressed against his ear; ‘Whatever you do, say nothing,’ Lora breathed.

The only sensation left to him, apart from freezing cold, was the vice like grip crushing his hand. He squeezed it, reassuring Lora he was still there. Even this however, began to seem less tangible, less real, a disembodied memory amidst nothingness.

In darkness, chaos reigns.

The voice, menacing and soft, whispered all about them.

In darkness, and dream, I hold sway.

There was nothing but his words, drenched in a melancholy terrible to hear.

Prepare yourself, for I am Nightmare, and this is the Test of Mind.

It was so cold. Huddling there in the dark, tears still desperately close to the surface, Sam felt miserable. There was something wet and squishy beneath him, soaking into his cotton blue pyjamas. It was as if the despair was spreading, he could see clearly the sorrow that had been etched in Sandman’s body, that moment he had stumbled upon this terror. It was only a moment ago, but it seemed an age. The silence stretched, and even thoughts were drowned in this inky void. As time passed –surely, it had been hours? – the events of the last hour began to seem more and more ludicrous and Sam had to refrain from yelling out loud, from screaming just to hear his voice and know he was real...that he wasn’t just a dream.

Light flared, blinding them, and unable to help himself, Sam cried out. Immediately, he found himself wrenched away, hand torn from Lora’s. He heard her anguished scream, then darkness clamped back down. Moments passed, and there was silence once more. All that could be heard were the frantic rasps of breathing coming from Sam, who was pressed to a hard, flat surface, bands of iron weighing his chest down. There was something bulky and cold beside him.

With a fizzle, light flickered into being above him; the light bulb swung to and fro, and the shadows shifted and played. Sam craned his neck desperately, heaving at the bands, mewls beginning to sound from his throat. But he was held fast. He sucked in huge breaths, lungs constricting, but never seeming to fill. As the bulb swung back toward him he stared desperately ahead, but could see nothing.

‘Help me!’ he screamed.

As the light slowly drifted past his head, something glinted, and gleamed.

‘Help yourself!’ Sandman barked. His musical voice was gruff, toneless.

Instinctively, Sam froze, going whiter still when the knife came into view. It dangled above his eyes for a moment, before drifting down his face, cool tip only lightly scoring his skin. In following it, Sandman came into view. Sam could see that the tattered black coat he was wearing was in fact made of shifting colour; deep blues and blacks that swirled slowly.

‘I’m done with helping you’re kind,’ he finished bitterly. The knife snagged briefly on a button, a brief jerk ripped through it, tearing open Sam’s pyjama jacket.

‘Please..., sir, please; I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, just don’t hurt me,’ Sam was gabbling in fear.

‘You have failed the test, lost the game, located when nothing should be found,’ said the Sandman, ‘Your life is now forfeit.’ And he raised the knife as if to plunge it straight into the vulnerable white chest below.

‘No! Wait!’ Sam yelled, desperate, ‘You didn’t give me a third piece of advice!’

And the entity known as Sandman paused, ‘Nor do I have to, I only thought to make the game more interesting. It has been so very long since any came to play...,’ at this, he trailed off, head cocked as if something else had just occurred to him.

‘Well?’ Sam distracted, ‘Why not now?’

He blinked, coming back to the present. ‘No one survives a nightmare unscathed,’ he said acidly, then made ready to gut the boy.

A door banged open, and someone yelled, ‘Papa, no!’

Lora came sprinting into the now illuminated morgue. Sam could see now, with horror, that the cold bulky thing beside him was a dead woman. He was bound to a gurney by a metal clasp. With Sandman distracted, he began to work on it.

Sandman sighed, ‘Daddy’s trying to work, honey. Could you give me a minute?’

‘Daddy, please! Hurting him won’t bring her back!’

He frowned. ‘And when did I say that was what I wanted?’ Sardonic now, he laughed. He was advancing on her as he spoke, and with each step her fierce stance wilted further, till he towered over her. ‘I’ve been wondering how it was a mere mortal brat could find me, without aid, when I haven’t been found in thousands of years. And now I see.’

She said nothing, merely cowering beneath his shadow.

‘You thought to break me, to help find the conscience that deserted me... by bringing one of her ilk –‘he flicked a contemptuous glance at the dead woman. One he had loved. One who had had the audacity to die on him.

He sneered. ‘How pathetic.’

She was crying now, small sobs shaking her hunched over frame. ‘No, papa,’ she choked out. I thought to kill you,’ she said, as Sam slammed the knife into his back.

The Sandman stiffened then, a groan escaping his lips as the knife was twisted, and hammered in again. He collapsed onto his daughter, blood pooling out onto her. Numbly, she stepped aside and watched as he fell to the floor. Sparks began to flicker in and out, and all over the gold mask. Slowly, they grew in strength, as with a crackling, grinding noise the mask began to break apart. Brilliant blue azure light blazed through the exposed parts, flooding the room as the sandman breathed no more.

Lying there now, revealed to the world, was a young man of noble features, face still twisted with anger and hate. Even this, though, began to fade, till nought but a pile of sand remained.

‘It is done,’ Lora said, as liquid gold congealed and settled over her features. ‘Thank you so much for your help in this.’

But Sam was no longer listening, no longer cared. He had played his part, he was done.

‘Just take me home,’ he said wearily.

And she did, whispering a heartfelt apology as she did so.

**

Sam Nightingale was suffering from a severe sleep disorder. His doctors were aware of this, their patient less so. His parents had died horrifically in a homicide-suicide; he had never recovered. He slept once since then, but never again. It wasn’t long before he began to suffer hallucinations, delusions, and soon after, had to be physically restrained from hurting himself.

His rapidly deteriorating condition baffled doctors, who couldn’t find the cause of the illness. Various psychologists were brought in, where they ‘tsked’ and clucked about him, but in the end, shook their heads. There was nothing they could do. Throughout it all, he clutched golden fragments to his chest, where he drooled and sobbed over them.

And through every night, and every day, he muttered to himself, ‘No one escapes a nightmare.’