Pitch stood at the helm of a mighty ship as it sailed through space, cutting through the darkness with ease. A shooting star sailed past and winked at him. He raised his hand in a salute, honored by the acknowledgement, and sailed on.
There was a cracking sound behind him, and he looked back in horror as a giant squid, black as ink, wrapped its shadowy tentacles around the ship's hull and began to squeeze.
A golden whip suddenly smacked at the beast's pale eyes and it screeched in pain. Encouraged by the sight, Pitch unsheathed a mighty sword from his side and charged, slicing the monster's limbs off piece by piece until it finally gave way, his ship free once more.
He opened his eyes, dream suddenly over. It hadn't been a bad dream, not at all, but it left him with a funny ache in his chest, like he had lost something important.
He looked over at the Sandman's bed. It was empty, but it had been slept in. Yawning, he sat up and stretched, then got ready for the day, wondering absently where the little puffball had gone. His question was answered when he entered the kitchen and saw his roommate slumped in a chair, dozing lightly.
"Hey." The blond continued to sleep and Pitch kicked the back of his chair, startling him awake. "Hey. Why are you so tired?"
Sandman glared at him and then looked away, arms crossed at his chest. Pitch raised an eyebrow at the silent treatment and took a seat next to him at the table. "Couldn't sleep?" He leaned in close and leered, "Bad dreams?" Sandman frowned mightily, then yawned and rubbed his eyes.
Mrs. Bennett came in with the newspaper and didn't miss the circles under Sandman's eyes. "Oh, dear, you look exhausted. Would you like some coffee?"
Sandman grimaced and waved his hands in a panic. Pitch chuckled at his reaction. "My esteemed colleague does not react well to caffeine, Mrs. Bennett. His art suffers."
Their landlady shook her head in amusement and left the kitchen. Pitch nudged Sandman, who was falling asleep again. "A little caffeine wouldn't hurt you in your current state. You're pushing yourself too hard with your painting."
Sandman pretended to ignore him again. Pitch stood up. "Get your coat, old man, we're going out." The smaller man blinked, surprised, and Pitch gestured impatiently. "You need a break and I need a treat. Come on, before I change my mind."
Sandman clapped his hands excitedly and rushed off, returning with both their winter coats. Pitch grabbed his, starting to regret his offer, but it was too late. Sandman was practically shoving him out the door.
They walked to the center of town, Sandman asking repeatedly where they were going. "Be patient," Pitch murmured. Finally, they reached their destination, a tiny tea shop on an unassuming side street.
Sandman looked intrigued and stepped inside. Pitch paused at the door and inhaled deeply, letting the fragrant smell of dried leaves wash over him. Tea, preferably black, was one of the few gustatory pleasures he allowed himself as the Boogeyman.
Well, that and chocolate, but only the really good stuff.
He ordered an Earl Grey for himself and a white Darjeeling for his companion. Looking over the glass pastry display, he decided to indulge in a small chocolate torte. He selected a table as far from the display of Christmas mugs as possible and gestured for Sandman to join him.
A waitress brought over their order. Pitch let his tea steep while he stuck his fork into the torte and brought a small bite to his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and smiled. It was excellent. It appeared there was something these dim-witted humans in Burgess could accomplish, after all.
He ate some more torte before pouring himself a cup of tea. Sandman was staring at the half-eaten dessert with an expression of longing.
"Did you want some?" Pitch offered, pushing the plate towards him. The blond smiled eagerly, then shook his head and poked at his soft belly, looking guilty. Pitch rolled his eyes. "Oh, you aren't dwelling on that, are you?" He nudged the plate again. "You're still disgustingly adorable as a human, old man. Eat the torte."
Sandman blushed and ducked his head before picking up Pitch's fork and happily tucking into the rest of the treat. Pitch sipped his tea. "Tell me, do you remember what it was like for you? Before you became the Guardian of Dreams?"
The question surprised Sandman. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and nodded.
Pitch set down his tea. "What were you then?"
Sandman drew a star on his notepad. Pitch snorted. "Don't be daft. I know you weren't human before, but a star? What did you spend all your time doing?"
The little man added a fleet of ships, and drew an arrow from the star to each of them. Pitch looked it over and smirked. "How cute," he remarked sarcastically. "Zipping around the galaxy and visiting all your alien friends."
Sandman took a long sip of tea and didn't draw anything else, looking uncharacteristically morose. It made that strange ache return in Pitch's chest, the one he felt when he woke up from his dream.
The tea shop filled up with customers and their loud, cheerful conversations grated on Pitch's nerves. He finished his tea and stood up. "I'm done with this place. Let's go."
They walked through the town center in silence until another building caught Sandman's attention. He grabbed Pitch's hand and pointed excitedly to the multi-story bookstore on the corner.
Pitch pulled his hand away. "Yes, lovely. Knock yourself out, I'm going back home." Sandman took his hand again and gave him a look that Pitch didn't want to argue with. "Fine," he sighed, "I'll go in with you." They went in and he pulled his hand away yet again, annoyed. "And stop doing that."
Sandman took a quick look around and made a beeline for the children's section. "They're going to think you're a pedophile," Pitch warned, but Sandman was already out of earshot.
The bookstore was painfully bright and cheery, but it least it had a decent horror section. Pitch's fingers brushed against the soft spines of the paperbacks as he silently read their titles. He smiled with familiarity at the classics, then selected a few new releases, curious what sorts of tales of terror the newest generation of writers were crafting.
Hours later, he slammed the last book down in disgust. Not a single fright to be had, just lots of gory imagery. And why was every new book about zombies? What was so special about zombies?
"Useless drivel," he sneered.
"Like to see you do better," someone said. It was a young man sitting at a nearby table, drinking a latte and typing on his laptop.
"I have," Pitch replied, quiet and dangerous.
The man looked up from the computer screen and adjusted his stylish thick-framed glasses. "You're a writer, then?" Pitch hesitated before nodding, deciding to use his cover story after all. The man snorted dismissively and went back to typing. "You don't look like one."
"My dear boy," Pitch growled. "One does not need to sit in a bookstore and ostentatiously display his laptop and an over-priced cup of coffee to look like a writer.
The man frowned, then yelped as Pitch leaned over his shoulder suddenly, reading the words on his computer screen. "Hey, don't look at that," he snapped, slamming the laptop shut and trying to scoot away.
"Zombies again!" Pitch shook his head in distaste. "Don't any of you people have an original idea anymore?"
The young man stood up, disappointed that he only came to Pitch's shoulder. "Zombies are scary," he replied defensively, his voice rising in nervousness. "What have you written that's so much better?"
"My dear deluded child," Pitch sighed, stepping into the young man's personal space. "Zombies are scary, but not when there are hundreds of them at every turn, showing off their rotting husks in the very first chapter." He held his hands together as if cradling something delicate. "Nightmares need to start out small, like a seed. You let the roots burrow deep into your mind until it finally blooms."
A couple of people wandered over, intrigued by the conversation. The young man took a step back but Pitch stayed him with a hand on his shoulder. "And nightmares certainly aren't outlandish things that seem ridiculous even while we dream them. Oh, no." His eyes narrowed. "Nightmares keep us awake, scanning shadows for the slightest sign of movement. Knowing – just knowing - that something awful will happen as soon as we look away."
The young man swallowed and stared up into Pitch's golden eyes. "Uh. Do you think you could tell me one of your stories?"
Pitch obliged, weaving together a tale of growing paranoia in a small town that had gotten too comfortable in their ways. A crowd gathered as more people overheard his story. He was pleased to see the fear in their eyes, the way they huddled together anxiously, as if their own town was under attack. The brave ones chuckled nervously, but he knew they would all remember to lock their doors tonight.
He finished, and was surprised by the applause that followed. A couple listeners even offered him compliments before walking away. The young man who had insulted him earlier picked up his laptop with a defeated sigh and left.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was a friendly-looking older woman wearing the name of the bookstore on a lanyard around her neck. "Excuse me, are you Kozmotis Pitchiner?" Pitch nodded, surprised by the inquiry, and she smiled. "I thought so. Mrs. Bennett told me that a writer was staying with her."
"I see my reputation preceeds me," Pitch murmured. "And you are…?"
"Sarah Watkins. I'm the manager." She offered her hand and Pitch shook it, somewhat nonplussed. "Listen, we've been trying to set up a storytelling hour here at the bookstore with some of the local writers. Would you be interested in coming every so often to tell more stories?"
Pitch considered it. So far Sophie had been his only chance to scare someone. A whole store full of frightened souls was very appealing. "It would be my pleasure," he answered, his tone like dark honey.
"Great." Ms. Watkins looked pleased. "Do you have a phone number or email I can reach you at?"
"You may call on the Bennett household when ready to contact me," Pitch replied. "Good day, Ms. Watkins."
He turned away, intending to make a mysterious exit, but his plan was ruined when Sandman chose that exact moment to arrive. He had a stack of books in his arms as well as a set of coloring pencils and a stuffed hedgehog. He showed off his purchases to Pitch before putting them in a bag. The hedgehog he tucked into his coat pocket.
"Are you quite done?" Pitch hissed before turning back to the manager who was wearing an amused expression. Pitch tried not to groan. "Ms. Watkins, this the Sandm—mmf!" He pressed his lips together to keep from crying out while Sandman pinched his back as hard as he could. Even through his coat, it hurt, and he glared down at the blond man who gave him a pointed look in return.
Ah, yes. The aliases. He started over. "This is Sanderson Mansnoozie," he said, sickened by the sweetness of the name. "My roommate."
Ms. Watkin's eyes lit up. "Oh yes, the painter! A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mansnoozie." Sandman shook her offered hand with gusto. "I need to get back to work, but I'll be in contact with you soon, Mr. Pitchiner. Thanks again."
"Don't mention it," Pitch muttered as she walked away. So much for a mysterious exit.
Sandman was looking up at him curiously and he waved a dismissive hand. "It's nothing. She asked me to come back and tell scary stories to the customers." The blond seemed surprised that he accepted the offer and Pitch shrugged. "It's either that or go mad with boredom. Besides," he smiled wickedly, "how can I miss a chance to bring the taste of fear to all those simple-minded fools."
To his dismay, Sandman was pleased rather than disconcerted, and gave him a congratulatory slap on the back - right over the spot where he had pinched him. Pitch winced and practically chased the smaller man out the door. "You did that on purpose, old man!"
Sandman giggled the whole way home.
