JMJ
Chapter Three
Wynken, Blynken, and Mod
The room was dark. Only soft snoring emitted from the peaceful sleeper, blissfully off on a voyage with Wynken, Blynken, and Nod with nets made of gold and silver to catch herring stars from a boat made of a wooden loafer. Even those far older than he was still knew those little childlike pixies when the lights were out and consciousness flew. However, little did the sleeper know that there was a crash awaiting him— if not for cradle and all, for the sleeper alone.
A dark shape slithered out from a shadow as though it was spreading it out further into a thing that had just come alive. It was nothing that went bump in the night. It was quieter than a mouse on Christmas Eve; though far more like some dark unnamable terror on Hallowed Eve that certainly had lost anything hallow it may have had in former times. It went with stealth up the wooden bedpost. Then it lingered for mere seconds hovering over the gently closed eyes of Wynken and Blynken and the sleeping head that had long since gave its nod to Nod with the slight goofy smile that spread across that normal human face.
The dark shape cocked a head-like projection as though with distaste. Then it dove down like a vampire for the jugular, except it was not just the jugular with which the shape made impact. It was everything. At least on the surface. From the fiery red tapering ends of hair on the furthest spike to the white ends of the longest toe nail everything was sealed as in vacuum-sealed plastic wrap— an inky black, gross-looking, sludgy, oily sort of plastic wrap. Even breath was taken away beneath the shroud of death over something that was so completely alive as a demonstration of the fragility of the veil between living and not. For a second further the shape almost looked like an old, oily, raggedy girly doll from a horror movie, but the original shape of the human being soon enough took a firm hold again even to the ends of the hair like some ancient mummy of an alien humanoid race.
There was a stir. Then a slight grunt. However small, that grunt seemed to echo the horrid murmurs of Frankenstein's monster groaning from reanimated lungs and throat that had already spent some time six feet under. But it only lasted a second as suddenly the sleeper awoke like one who had had his face to the pillow suddenly bursting to consciousness from being unable to breathe.
Brad made a gasp or two— quite alert, quite alive. He looked and felt normal enough; though he found it strange that he had to look down at himself to make sure.
He wrinkled his nose.
There was nothing tight about the air. The crickets were singing out the cracked-open window. A rumbling of some semi-truck echoed distantly and as naturally as a breeze.
It must have been one of those weird dreams that were not quite dreams even if annoying.
He shrugged and dropped back into his pillow with a sigh and a smile and went promptly back to sleep as though nothing had happened.
Next morning he awoke quite refreshed. The whole thing was forgotten as he stretched and bounced out of bed for the day. He opened the closet with a grin. Looking over his clothes, he said cheerfully to himself, "Let's see. I think I'm going to wear… black today."