Sign of the Sandman Read online

  Published by The Magic Factory, LLC in Durham, North Carolina.

  For contact information visit MagicFactory.com

  Cover Illustration by Nathaniel West

  ISBN 978-1-938155-12-3

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013939278

  First Edition

  Text copyright © 2014 by Tom Turner

  Cover art copyright © 2014 by The Magic Factory, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on all your personal devices. However, this e-book is for your personal use only. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading has been reproduced or distributed illegally, please notify the publisher at: MagicFactory.com

  To Mom

  For life, love… and believing in my dreams.

  CONTENTS

  EDITION DETAILS

  COPYRIGHT NOTICE

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Golden Footprints

  CHAPTER TWO

  A Nightmare that Changed Everything

  CHAPTER THREE

  Awakening

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Nana and the Ferris Wheel

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Fire Eyes

  CHAPTER SIX

  An Unexpected Journey

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  These Dark Days

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Other Side

  CHAPTER NINE

  Like a Nightmare, He Can Transform and Possess

  CHAPTER TEN

  Lost in the Forest

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Abracadabra

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Remi

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Power of Between

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Picture Perfect

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Web of Darkness

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Shark Car Terror

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Alone

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Fields of Dorian

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Memory Pool

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Waking the Archetypes

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Birth of a Hero

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Confronting the Beast

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  A Dream Come True

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE GOLDEN FOOTPRINTS

  “Yeeeeeehaaaaaaaaaaw!”

  Charlie Galen’s tear-streaked face scrunched with delight, and his cackling laugh echoed across the blue twilight sky. Buildings zipped by in a blur as he soared hundreds of feet above the streets of New York City with nothing beneath him but air.

  “I’m flying! Ha-ha! I’m flying!” he shouted, before landing on the rooftop of a nearby skyscraper and skidding to a stop.

  Charlie’s chest heaved with excitement, and his sand-colored hair was whipped into an unruly mess. Sure, he could blame the wind, but truth be told, in his ten years, he had rarely made good use of a comb. He believed there were more important things in life to worry about — things like his treasured collection of Superman comics and his favorite baseball team, the New York Yankees.

  “I wonder if anyone saw me,” he muttered to himself as he peeked over the building’s edge.

  But to Charlie’s great surprise, the city was empty. Not a soul was stirring in the streets below. Avenues typically filled with horn-happy cab drivers were now empty canyons. Crowded skyscrapers had become nothing more than vacant towers. Even Times Square, an area usually packed with people well past most acceptable bedtimes, looked like a deserted amusement park. New York had become a ghost town. It seemed the city that never sleeps had sat back, closed its eyes, and drifted off into a world of dreams.

  Man, I wish Plug was here to see this! thought Charlie.

  Plug was Charlie’s best friend — his only friend really, unless he counted his mother. But as far as Charlie was concerned, they were the two best friends a kid could have.

  Charlie wiped the sweat from his brow and scanned the skyline. His eyes bounced back and forth, from building to building, earth to sky, searching for something. Then he spotted it.

  “Ah-ha! Found ya!” he shouted.

  A trail of golden footprints shimmered beneath the moonlight, cutting a path down the side of a nearby skyscraper and across Fifth Avenue into St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

  Charlie jumped from the rooftop and swooped hawk-like down toward the grand church. He felt his stomach rise into his throat, and he let out another resounding “Yee-haw!” before landing nimbly on his feet in front of St. Patrick’s massive bronze doors, which towered above him no less than triple his height.

  The old church reminded Charlie of a king’s castle. He had always imagined its insides contained mighty pillars and great halls filled with brave warriors and valiant knights. But when he yanked open the doors, bright sunlight warmed his skin and icy flakes of white kicked up into his face. In the blink of an eye, night had turned to day, and Charlie found himself skiing down a snowy knoll through a grove of sprouting cedar trees, all of which, for some odd reason, were decorated with Christmas ornaments. Even more bizarre, Charlie realized, was the fact he was wearing pajamas. And he hated pajamas! Charlie pushed the thought aside and pulled into a tuck. He picked up speed, weaving in and out of trees like an Olympic skier, spotted a jutting rock ahead, and was soon airborne again.

  “Whoa!” he screamed in a wild panic. “Look out below!”

  The ground approached faster than Charlie would have liked. He came down hard, hit a ditch, and flew head first into the belly of a snowman standing guard at the base of a small footbridge. Charlie was thinking what a strange day this was shaping up to be when the seasons abruptly shifted and the snow melted. Green replaced white. Hot replaced cold, and when Charlie looked up, a flicker of light caught his eye.

  The golden footprints!

  He had almost forgotten about them. They pulsed beneath the sunlight, leading his gaze over the bridge and into a pond below. Charlie peered into the still water. The trail of footprints twinkled like pennies at the bottom of a well.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “Who are you?” But the footprints faded away. “I know you’re here! I saw your footprints! Why won’t you come out?”

  Suddenly, the sky darkened, and the colorful canopy of leaves overhead seemed to fade as they trembled in the whirl of an ominous breeze — the kind that warned of a coming storm. The water began to churn. Charlie’s reflection warped like soft taffy, and from beneath its twisted form a gruesome face emerged. It had the powerful jaw and fangs of a wolf but the beady red eyes and shrunken snout of a bat. The creature growled and snapped at Charlie, trying to push its gory head through the water’s surface. Charlie kicked off his skis and sprang to his feet. He raced to a nearby maintenance shack. It was old and rickety. The brick exterior was chipping away, and the windows were cracked and dirty. He pulled on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. And the growls from the pond only grew louder, igniting a fire of fear within him.

  Open! Please open
!

  Thunder clapped. It rocked the shack and rattled Charlie to his bones. He started to panic. His heart raced as he tugged harder on the knob. Finally, the door gave way and he ran through, slamming it shut behind him.

  Inside, Charlie could hardly see his hand in front of his face. He stumbled forward with his arms outstretched, terrified that his fingertips might connect with something reaching for him through the darkness. Every little noise raised the hair on his arms. He was convinced something was behind him, breathing down his neck. Charlie tried to scream for help, but his voice barely reached a whisper. Then, as his eyes adjusted, recognizable shapes rose from the shadows: his little league baseball bat, his model airplane, and the glow-in-the-dark solar system mobile that dangled nimbly over his bed.

  “Am I home?” he asked himself, puzzled.

  He glanced around, trying to remain calm. It was his bedroom. His stuff. But things were out of place, particularly the vast golden desert and sky-high sand dunes just beyond his window. His city view was gone. New York was gone! And even more unsettling was the full-length mirror mounted to his closet door. Its surface rippled like disturbed liquid. Its reflections were deformed.

  Like the pond, he thought.

  Except this time, something broke through. Dark vapor spilled in from the corners of the mirror, rolling toward Charlie. The odor was vile, like spoiled eggs and rotted meat.

  Charlie leapt into his bed and pulled a blue knit blanket tight over him. When he was younger, he believed this blanket possessed protective powers against anything that went bump in the night. He hoped now, more than ever, it was true, because he sensed something was coming. Something frightening. Something evil. And it was coming for him.

  His heart pounded against his chest as he peered out from beneath the blanket’s tattered edge. The dark vapor rolled closer, devouring the room’s color, turning everything gray. Charlie could not believe what he was seeing. He inched back against the wall, wishing he could slip like a ghost through the cracks. It became hard to breathe.

  The vapor thickened beside his bed. It rose slowly, as if molded by invisible hands, shaped into a terrifying statue. Charlie froze beneath its shadow. He was now staring up into the blood-red, unblinking eyes of a creature more frightening than any he had ever imagined. Its face was pushed in. Its nose was distorted and ground to bone. And its mouth bore a collection of blistering sores that hid a tangled row of rotted fangs.

  “W-w-what are you? What do you want?” stuttered Charlie.

  The beast did not respond. Its mangled yet powerful body just loomed over him. Charlie searched for an escape route. The door was too far. The window was closer, definitely his best bet. But what of the strange desert? It could be just as dangerous — kill him just as easily, only slower. He was about to take that chance when something appeared in his dresser mirror. Or someone rather. A man! He looked like some sort of warrior; he wore black fatigues and gripped a crystal sword. A long gold sash wound up his torso and wrapped around his head like an Arabian ninja, and his eyes burned gold like the sun. He slammed the mirror again and again, trying to break through, but it would not let him pass.

  “Help me!” cried Charlie. “Do something!”

  The warrior shouted back, but Charlie could not hear him. The mirror seemed to block his reply. It was like watching a television with the sound turned down.

  The beast scowled.

  “Too late, Guardian,” it said, taunting the warrior in a deep, menacing voice that reminded Charlie of rolling thunder. “You can’t save him.”

  A forked tongue flitted between the beast’s fangs, and reptilian scales formed beneath its skin as bits of its hulking frame broke off piece by piece — a leg, an ear, an arm. One by one, body parts dropped to the floor, slithering together, until the entire beast had mutated into a deadly pile of snakes, each with the same cold, blood-red eyes. The snakes hissed and rattled, circling Charlie’s bed.

  Charlie panicked. Without thinking, he jumped from his mattress and over the ring of snakes. He fled toward the window, but his feet felt heavy, and he could only move in slow motion, as if running through thick molasses. The snakes moved in and surrounded Charlie again. They piled one on top of the other, twisting and coiling together to form a single, massive serpent that rose to meet his eyes.

  The warrior continued to pound and scream from the other side. It seemed like he was saying, “Wake up!” but Charlie couldn’t be certain.

  “I don’t understand! I can’t hear—”

  A quick thrash of the serpent’s tail shattered the mirror before Charlie could finish. The snake hissed. It jerked its pointed head in Charlie’s direction. Charlie flinched, and he felt a razor-sharp sting just above his ankle. He collapsed in pain as two hooked fangs pierced his flesh. Black venom flowed into his leg. His skin burned as the poison moved through his body, reaching the palms of his hands, where it swirled to form a faint symbol. The symbol was circular: two rings, one inside the other, with a crescent moon in their center. It looked three-dimensional, almost holographic. The rings circled the moon like Saturn, and the whole thing rotated with the movement of Charlie’s hand. He even detected a golden tint, which, other than the serpent’s red eyes, was now the only color in his room.

  “You are the Heir,” hissed the serpent.

  It coiled around Charlie, constricting slowly. Charlie couldn’t breathe. He struggled just to remain conscious.

  “Let him go, Moloch!” commanded a voice from behind them. It was a man’s voice — deep, powerful, and fearless.

  The serpent swung around, and Charlie used the distraction to his advantage. He wiggled free and dove under the bed, gasping for air.

  “You will not harm him,” continued the man.

  Charlie inched forward on his stomach and peeked from beneath the pleated bed skirt, hoping to catch a glimpse of his savior, but all he could see was the shine of two black boots as they stepped through the closet door mirror and into the room. Tiny specs of gold ran through each boot, glittering like stars against the night sky. The instant the first boot hit the bedroom floor, color returned to the room, washing over Charlie. It was warm and calming. And with each step, the boots left behind a shimmering impression that lingered as if set in sand.

  The golden footprints!

  Charlie wanted desperately to get a look at the man’s face, but he feared moving from his cover.

  “Leave here!” the man commanded the serpent.

  “Never!” it hissed in reply, followed by a monstrous roar.

  Charlie felt the floorboards tremble as the serpent’s tail cracked like a whip and disappeared above the bed. The box spring shook violently and then split in two, raining splintered wood and torn mattress filling over him. Charlie covered his ears and hunkered down as the battle raged with hurricane force. The walls quaked, and he was temporarily blinded by bright bursts of light. Then, to his surprise, a wave of sand surged under the bed, blanketing him in a layer of grit, as if a sandstorm from the desert outside his window had blown into the room.

  Charlie was still coughing up sand when he heard a bone-chilling scream. His heart skipped a beat, and his muscles looped into a paralyzed knot. Blood began to trickle toward him. Was his mysterious protector defeated? Did the snake win? Charlie was terrified, but he had to know. He swallowed hard and gripped the fold of his bed skirt. Rallying the courage, he whipped it back. The serpent lunged forward. Its forked tongue grazed Charlie’s cheekbone before its head snapped violently backward.

  A hand had seized it.

  The hand belonged to the man with the golden footprints.

  “Wake up,” he begged. But his voice was now weak and fading. “You must wake up. Now!”

  Charlie was confused. Wake up? He’d never felt so awake in his life. Every inch of him was on edge, every fiber vibrating with fear. And then he felt it: an inescapable pulling sensation building
from the pit of his stomach up to his eyelids. Light erupted from the closet door mirror and poured into the room.

  The serpent hissed with rage. It took one last look at Charlie, as if to say: We will meet again. Then it melted into dark vapor, which whipped and curled, fleeing back into the closet door mirror.

  And in a sudden, blinding flash of light, Charlie woke.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A NIGHTMARE THAT

  CHANGED EVERYTHING

  Charlie bolted upright in bed. He gasped, sucking air back into his lungs, his heart still racing, and visions of snakes still slithering through his head.

  “You okay?” asked a soft voice from the doorway of his room.

  “G’morning mom,” he replied as he rubbed his eyes and stumbled back into consciousness.

  Charlie’s mother was young with silky blond hair and spring green eyes. She had a bounce in her step, even at this early hour. Charlie wasn’t quite the morning person that she was, but there was nobody in the world that he would rather have seen at this moment than her.

  “That must have been some dream you were having,” she said as she opened the blinds, letting the bright morning sun wash over the room. “I could hear you from the kitchen.”

  “You have no idea,” said Charlie. “There was this thing in my room, and it was trying to kill me!” The words tumbled from his mouth at rapid-fire pace. “You should have seen it. It was disgusting — scariest thing I’ve ever seen, and it turned into snakes, and then one big one — and you know how I hate snakes, ever since that stupid 5th grade camping trip — and I couldn’t move or call you. And then it bit me! I actually felt it!”

  Charlie shuddered, reaching under his quilt. He massaged his calf, feeling for a bite mark. His dream may have departed with the night, but his fear was still fresh as day.

  His mother sat beside him.

  “It was just a bad dream,” she said, dabbing sweat from his brow. “But you’re awake now. It can’t hurt you.”

  Her voice had an almost musical quality. Some of Charlie’s earliest memories were of her singing him to sleep as a baby. Were it not for her having to work two jobs and every other weekend to support him, Charlie thought she very well might have pursued a singing career. On more than one occasion, he even caught her singing into a hairbrush while dancing in front of her mirror. He believed, hands-down, she could be the world’s greatest singer if she wanted, although her dancing would require a lot more work.