The dragon tries to squash Reynard. It takes in a deep breath to fuel the fire in its bowels. A tremendous fireball exhales. To avoid the blast, Reynard lunges against the bolted door opposite the cavern tunnel.
Surprised to find it opens, Reynard loses footing, expecting to have impacted against a sturdy surface. He tumbles into the chamber beyond the door. The intense heat from the fireball warms the icy chill from the room.
Nostrils the size of the doorframe sniff, soaking in any smells.
“We aren’t safe here. Until you learn control.” The fox brushes dirt from the hanging shreds of his chain mail. As if a sugar cookie, the teeth marks remain in the missing hunk of his abdomen.
“You’re hurt.”
“’Tis but a scratch. I’m far from being a grave man. But take care, William—you know you need me.”
“You’re the part of me which does all the stupid things I do when I’m in danger.”
“I keep you alive when reason fails.”
“You need to do a better job.”
The fox babbles, “To deal with it. To unlock the door. Put an end to it. To stop the hold you think the Sandmen have placed over us. To learn to use the shield.”
Eymaxin reminds him, “You know what you’ve got to do, Reynard.”
“Damn dreamscape. Which Eymaxin are you?”
The dragon huffs. Black smoke fills the room.
“Does it matter? You know what you have to do,” Eymaxin says.
Reynard grips his sword. It appears. He marches toward the door.
“The dragon’s out there,” the fox reminds him.
“We all have to face our dragons. I’ve got to face a part of myself, or this will never end.”
Reynard finds himself standing at the top of the staircase in his parents’ house. He looks down and picks up the five-year-old boy huddled at the top of the stairs.
The boy points to his stuffed dragon at the foot of the stairs.
“I’m going to have to do this.” He takes the first step down the stairs, the little boy still in his arms. The scared little boy clings tightly to Reynard.
THE LAST OF the dream catcher melts into black sludge. Jets of black grow from the pool, twisting into sable robes. The Sandman floats through the door to Reynard’s quarters.
EARLY CHILDHOOD MEMORIES are normally lost to time, including fears. Through education and experiences the monsters in the closet fade. Deep inside the brain those terrors forever sleep—never to reawaken.
Sandmen relish traumas long forgotten.
Reynard never realized he was still afraid of some monster he believed lived under the darkened basement stairs. No mythical beasts lived on his planet, but what does a four-year-old understand of the world, let alone the universe where monsters do exist.
Reynard reaches the midway point of the staircase. Never had I thought a forgotten childish fear would haunt me. What other memories have I locked away the Sandmen will exploit? I’ll snuff out my fear. Ending its usefulness to the mind drinkers—I’ll destroy all terrors buried deep.
He plants his boot on the bottom step before placing the boy on the yellow shag carpet. He scoops up the stuffed dragon. No monster seeps from under their stairs. Reynard smiles. He has control. Facing his dragon—winning.
The little boy hides behind him. Fear—I smell the boy’s fear. Darkness remains under the stairs. It’s waiting for me, forgotten after all these years.
He drives the sword into the core of the monster’s heart. It shrieks. The dying monster’s cries grow louder as it writhes into nothingness.
He scoops up the boy, who draws a shiny cap pistol from the plastic Lone Ranger gun belt. The Snap-POP of a cap puffs smoke as the last of the creature melts.
The family basement fades from his memory. The katana punctures the robes of the sacred-masked Sandman. Dripping sulfur blood splashes onto the blade. Both seem surprised the creature doesn’t instantly fade from existence.
The Sandman floats through the door, trailing sulfur mist. Reynard vaults to the door, using the arm of the couch as a pivot point. The automatic door slides open as the black sludge pile grows into a second Sandman, which engulfs Reynard in its robes and disappears.
••••••
CEPHALALGIA.
Because headache does not describe the lighting throbs pounding in his head. For once the pain squinting his eyes to slits outweighs his churning stomach. Indicating the Sandman boosted him into an alternate reality. Crimson light pelts through the slits width he opens his eyes. Persecuted screams of a million lost, empty souls wail in torment compounding the throbbing in his skull.
I should have kept my eyes closed.
Found only in the nightmares of the damned twisted mangled human bodies massed together to create a tormented world bathed in flaming light. Humanoid bodies curlicue around like rubber bands serving as construction materials. Tendrils of being form the support cables to support the platforms dangling over bubbling flames.
Gravity tugs at Reynard. The heavy downward pull makes him weigh a thousand pounds. Despite the difficulty, he moves away from the stretched faces carpeting the floor.
Hell.
Dante’s Inferno.
No question this reality resembles one of the nine levels of hell.
Mangled souls plead—mercy—mercy in death.
What if they aren’t dead?
A shutter befalls Reynard. Tormented souls trapped as if in a Hellraiser film. These beings are physically destroyed through impossible contortions sickens him worse than shifting dimensions.
It takes all his strength to move his legs under the gravity of this place. Each struggling step gets him closer to a woman wondering the body-laden platform. She ignores him, forcing Reynard to grab her by the shoulders. She lacks any struggle as her head flops about on her shoulders.
“Where are we?”
Keeping one hand on her shoulder, he lifts her chin with the other.
Lost.
Nothing but hollow, lost eyes.
She turns away, refusing to even acknowledge Reynard’s touch. As she steps away, he hears the metallic clink of a chain created from more twisted souls. More lost people
