Author's Note: MissAmyLovett asked for this one—she wanted to see how Victor and Victoria would deal with their daughters having nightmares. This is what I came up with. I don't own these characters, though, and I didn't get any money to write this.
Nightmares
Victor glanced up from his sketchbook at his youngest daughter, Anne. She was sitting with him in his study, he at his desk and she in one of the armchairs near the fireplace. Anne was four and, though she was never noisy, was especially quiet this afternoon. He'd not heard a peep from her for a while.
"Everything all right today?" Victor asked her. When she didn't reply he looked at her more closely. Her dark little head was bent over her illustrated animal encyclopedia, her chin touching her chest. She was asleep.
Victor set aside his pen, got up, and went to crouch by Anne's chair. Her breathing was deep and regular, and she'd started to list to one side. Carefully he reached and took the book from her lap. The movement woke her up.
"Good afternoon," said Victor, amused. He set her book on the side table and rested his forearms on the armrest. Anne looked a little bleary. "Did you not sleep well last night?"
"I had bad dreams," Anne told him, rubbing at her eyes. Victor made a sympathetic noise.
"What about?" he asked.
While Victor often felt at a loss with three daughters, he was confident he could handle this particular childhood problem. After all, he had lots of personal experience. He'd suffered from nightmares for years. Fears of the dark, dark dreams about monsters and huge animals and mysterious shadows. He'd slept in the pantry for two weeks when he was six, just because he'd felt safest in that well-barricaded place. No amount of light or reassurances or open doors had helped. They'd simply gone away on their own. Hopefully poor Anne wouldn't be as tough a case as he was.
"Sometimes it helps to talk about them," he prompted gently.
"I don't know," Anne said at last, her voice small. "I can't remember what was so scary. It was dark. And I think there were birds. Big ones."
"Well," said Victor confidently, "you know that birds aren't anything to be afraid of. You love birds. Why not think about nice birds before you go to sleep?"
Anne was far too kind a child to ever give her father a withering look, but the one she gave him right then was as close as she could come. Victor cleared his throat self-conciously.
"Well, there is some time before tea," he said, the wind a bit out of his sails. "Perhaps you could lie down upstairs to rest. You can't have a nightmare in the afternoon."
Again, that look. Admittedly the joke had been a bit feeble. But this time the look eased into a small smile as Anne slid out of the chair.
"I suppose not," she said. "I'll try."
Victor watched her leave, her step slow and sleepy. He felt sorry for her.
0–0
Thumps from the nursery roused Victoria late that night. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and squinted at the clock on her night table. Just past one.
With a sigh she eased herself out of bed, glancing back at Victor. He was sound asleep. Carefully, groping about in the dark, Victoria managed to light the small lamp she kept just for such occasions. She paused to listen. There it was again, a muffled, rhythmic thudding.
Victoria went to the door which joined her room to the nursery, and opened it as quietly as she could. Just as quietly she stepped through and closed it behind her. She raised her light and looked around. Movement by the window caught her eye.
It was Anne, who turned with a little gasp when she heard Victoria approach.
"Darling, what are you doing out of bed?" Victoria asked. She glanced about. "And why are you piling blocks and books in front of the window?"
"There's something out there," Anne whispered. "I'm trying to build a wall against it."
Victoria stepped closer to the window, narrowly missing a stack of books. She peered into the night. The moon was nearly full. Close to the house stood the familiar old oak tree, its branches dark and still. Sudden movement caught her eye.
"Anne, it's a raven," Victoria whispered. She set down the lamp on the dresser and picked up her daughter, holding her up to see. "Look, on that branch, in the oak. That's all."
As they looked together, Victoria realized Anne was trembling.
"They want to get inside," Anne whispered, so softly Victoria had to strain to hear her.
"You just had a nightmare," Victoria soothed. She stroked Anne's hair and kissed her cheek, and carried her back to her bed on the far side of the room. "Nothing is trying to get inside."
Victoria smoothed the blankets and tucked them in securely. By the low light of the lamp she could see that Anne was still huge-eyed and nervous, staring over Victoria's shoulder at the window. The room was quiet. Catherine and Lydia's heavy, regular breathing was the only noise.
"I'll pull the curtains," Victoria whispered. Anne nodded.
"And please, Mother," she said, in such a tiny frightened voice it made Victoria's heart hurt, "please make sure the window is locked."
Victoria did as she asked, careful not to upset the pile of books on the sill. The window was indeed locked securely. Despite herself, she peered out into the darkness before she pulled the curtains closed, looking for ghosts or goblins or prowlers. But there was only the tree.
And the raven.
0–0
"She stole all of my books and put them all over the floor!" Lydia fumed the next morning in the parlor after breakfast. Liddie was the oldest, six and already bookish. And proprietary. Victor sighed.
"For the third time, she said she was sorry," he said. "And there was no harm done. She put them back for you."
"Not in order!"
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Lydia."
Anne sat huddled on the far end of the sofa, wan and with dark circles under her eyes. The poor little thing looked as if she hadn't slept for days. How long had these nightmares been going on, without Anne mentioning it? Victor, beside her, felt guilty for not noticing anything amiss sooner. He put an arm around her shoulders, and she cuddled up next to him gratefully.
Catherine, the middle girl, tried to be nice. She laid a doll's quilt over Anne's lap, and handed her a stuffed bear, which Anne held close.
"There's nothing getting into our room," Catherine soothed, patting her sister's hand. "I'd hear it if it did."
"No you wouldn't," said Lydia. "You sleep like a log."
"Lydia, go to your room," said Victor.
"Yes, do," Catherine said to Lydia's back as she stomped from the parlor. "Maybe a giant bird will eat you. Serve you just right."
"You too," said Victor. "Upstairs." Catherine turned to him, hurt.
"But I was trying to be nice!" she whined.
"Right now."
Sad-faced and dragging her feet at the injustice, Catherine obeyed. Victor sighed and leaned back against the sofa. Overhead were angry footsteps, a closing door. He sighed again when he heard the inevitable muffled sounds of his older daughters arguing in the nursery.
If they fought like this after bedtime, no wonder Anne was sleeping fitfully. He looked down at her. She'd fallen asleep, clutching the bear.
0–0
Victor was putting out lights and checking door and window locks on his way to bed a few evenings later. When he got to the parlor, he noticed a shape on the sofa and went over to investigate.
Anne was asleep there, curled into a little ball beneath a knitted throw. Victor laid a hand on her shoulder to wake her up.
"What are you doing down here?" he whispered.
"I can't sleep upstairs," she replied, blinking eyes heavy with sleep.
"Why not?"
Anne didn't answer. In the dark her pale, heart-shaped face seemed to glow. Her straight black hair was tousled on the side she'd been sleeping on. She pulled the throw close around her. Victor sighed.
"Nightmares again?" he asked gently. Anne nodded. She looked terribly pathetic, curled up there on the sofa.
"I keep having them," she said, her voice taut. "It's dark and there are enormous birds, and I feel like someone's chasing me."
Ah, the being chased nightmare. Victor had been plagued by that one himself. Except in his case, it had been a leopard in a dark jungle. He sat down next to her on the sofa.
"And then I wake up," she continued, "and the feeling doesn't go away."
"Nightmares are tricky," Victor told her, a paternal hand on her back. "Sometimes you simply think you wake up. And the dream stays with you for a little while."
"But it feels so real," Anne said. Victor patted her back.
"Just remember that they aren't, though," he said. "Soon enough you'll convince yourself. And remember, Mother and I are right here. We won't let anything happen to you."
Anne swallowed, then nodded. But she still looked uncertain. Nonetheless, she allowed herself to be taken up to the nursery, where Victor tucked her in. He also took the time to check the window lock and be sure the curtains were closed.
She seemed to be settled when he closed the nursery door behind him. Victor ran a hand through his hair. Poor Anne. He didn't know what to do for her. While he knew this was a stage that would pass, it was incredibly hard to watch his quiet, sensitive little daughter be too frightened to sleep.
Victor did his best to believe his own encouraging talk—that nightmares weren't real, that he was there to keep her safe, that this would pass.
Somehow it didn't quite take.
0–0
Exhausted, afraid, and desperate, Anne snuck out of the nursery the next night as well. She waited until her sisters were asleep, and then took up her pillow and her quilt and tiptoed out the door.
Quiet as a mouse she slipped past Mother's closed bedroom door. Light shone beneath, so Anne crossed to the far wall as she went by, fearful of casting a shadow that Mother would see. Her parents had clearly spoken to each other about Father finding her in the parlor last night, because Mother had told her not to do that again. Anne was to fetch Mother if she had another nightmare.
But what could Mother do? She would just say everything was all right and put Anne back to bed, where Anne could not sleep. She couldn't bear another night of ravens and strange noises and the terrible feeling of being watched. In the parlor she felt safer.
Down the front stairs she crept, keeping away from the middle so that she didn't make the steps creak. It was dark downstairs. The clock ticked gently in the entry, and Anne could still detect the faint smell of dinner from the dining room. She peered down the hall. The study door was open, and light poured into the hallway. So Father was still up.
Maybe tonight he'd forget to check the parlor. At the very least, Anne decided, she'd be able to get a little sleep on the sofa before she was discovered.
With her pillow and quilt she made a neat little nest for herself, snuggling against the sofa's back and trying to make herself as small as possible. Down here, in the more lived-in part of the house, she felt safe. Father was awake and right down the hall. The front door was in easy reach.
Anne could relax. Nestling into her pillow, she closed her eyes and sighed. She had just started to drift off when a noise startled her awake.
"Oh, dear me," came a voice she didn't recognize. "I must have miscalculated."
Slowly, her stomach a cold knot, Anne rolled over and dared a look.
A skeleton was standing right next to the sofa.
Cold sweat broke out on her forehead, her skin raised in goosebumps, and she swallowed a shriek. It came out as a sort of combined squeak and gasp. The skeleton heard her, and gasped himself.
"Do forgive me," said the skeleton. He spoke in a low, calm voice, just barely audible. "I'm terribly sorry if I frightened you. My intention was to appear outside your house, not inside of it."
He helped himself to a seat on the other end of the sofa near her feet. Anne drew them up out of his way. She was trembling, clutching at the blanket so hard her fingertips felt numb. She should scream. She should scream for Father. But she was frozen with shock.
The skeleton had a hunched over spine, and a long beard. He wore a little pair of glasses even though he had no eyes or nose or ears. His skull didn't have any teeth. His voice was old and he used a walking stick. He leaned on it now as he sat and looked at her.
It was so strange, so scary, to be stared at by someone with no eyes.
The silence stretched and stretched, making Anne begin to doubt her senses. Maybe she was dreaming. She squeezed her eyes shut, and repeated to herself, He's not real. Nightmares aren't real. Not real.
When she opened her eyes again, the skeleton was still there. This certainly felt real. A glow was coming from the fireplace now. She was sure it had been dark and cold when she came into the room. And besides, fires were not green like that.
"I thought we could do with a little light," said the skeleton, noticing her look. "What a lovely home," he added, looking around. He stroked at his beard. "It feels like a happy one. Is it?"
The skeleton was looking at her again. Anne nodded. "I'm glad to hear it," he said. "And your mother? She's well?"
Again, Anne nodded. Her fear was beginning to ebb. If she was dreaming, and she must be dreaming, this was the least scary dream she'd had in days.
"Good, good," said the skeleton, a smile in his voice. "You do look just like her, if my memory serves. And your sisters? My birds tell me you have sisters. That you have a nice little family."
Birds? Anne blinked. She wanted to ask but wasn't sure how. Luckily the skeleton must have seen her question on her face, for he chuckled.
"I've been thinking about your father quite a bit lately," he told her. "I think my birds caught my feelings, and they decided to come to visit to see you all for themselves. They do that sort of thing, you know. Very intelligent birds, ravens. Always my special pets."
"Why were you thinking about Father?" Anne asked in a whisper.
"I met him once," said the skeleton, stroking his beard and regarding her with empty sockets. "Under...unusual circumstances. And I've often wondered how he fared afterward. My curiosity got to be too much eventually. Especially after the birds began to visit. Against my better judgment, I decided a quick trip couldn't hurt. I'm pleased I came. Just to see that everything indeed worked out for the best."
The skeleton adjusted his spectacles. Anne was hardly afraid at all anymore. There was something kind about this skeleton. Not nightmarish at all. Maybe she'd been able to steer her dream in a nice direction, as Father had suggested. She'd turned scary shadows into intelligent, curious birds. And she'd turned a monster into a friend.
Anne was proud of herself.
"I promise I will not bother you again," the skeleton said, standing up with the aid of his stick. "Neither will my birds. Terribly sorry if we caused you trouble. Enjoy a good, long life, my dear. The same to your parents and your sisters. Hopscotch."
Before Anne had time to wonder too much about that last word, the skeleton dissolved in something that looked like blue flame. The flame dissolved, and he was gone, along with the green fire in the fireplace.
Alone again, Anne lay back and pulled the blanket up to her chin. She opened and closed her eyes slowly, once, twice. She stared into the darkness, the only light coming from the study down the hall. It felt as though she was awake. Or was she still dreaming? In the dark and when she was so sleepy it was hard to tell.
The next thing she knew, she was in her father's arms, being carried up the stairs. The lights were out, and the house was dark. Anne remembered her dream, the skeleton, the green fire. Being wished a good life. The details were already fading, as vivid as the dream had been. She mostly remembered how her fear had melted away in the presence of the kindly skeleton.
"When did you meet a skeleton?" Anne whispered as Father placed her in her bed in the nursery. He stopped in mid-tuck at her question.
"What?" he whispered back.
"The skeleton said he knew you," she said, struggling to remember. "In my dream. He's glad you're happy."
"Oh," said Father. "That was...I mean...well. How kind."
Anne nodded, feeling herself slipping away into sleep, comfier and more relaxed than she'd been in almost a week. She felt Father's kiss on her forehead, and was asleep by the time he left the room.
By the next morning, she'd already forgotten most of the dream, and had completely forgotten her brief conversation with Father. By breakfast the last of the night before had faded, and she went about her day without need of a nap. And that night, happily, Anne slept soundly in her own bed in the nursery, unbothered by bad dreams.
The raven at the window kept his distance this time, and for every night thereafter.
The End.