Sign of the Sandman Read online

  Charlie stretched, and his eyes darted around the room. He couldn’t shake the sound of snake hissing from his head. He leaned over the edge of the bed, lifted the bed skirt, and checked beneath it. Just to be sure.

  “What are you doing?” asked his mother.

  “Nothing,” mumbled Charlie, still wrapped in a cocoon of covers, his head tucked below layers of bed skirting. “Just lookin’ for my new comic.” He was fairly sure he didn’t sound convincing.

  “Sure you’re not lookin’ for… SNAKES,” his mother yelled as she grabbed at his ankle.

  Charlie shrieked and nearly cracked his head on the bedframe.

  “Hey! Not cool!”

  “But hilarious,” she said, grinning. Then her lips pursed, quizzically. “Wait a minute,” she continued. “You’re not afraid of the Bogeyman are you?”

  “No!” Charlie snorted.

  “Woooooh! Charlie’s afraid of the Boooogeyman,” she teased, laughing and wiggling her fingers like a Halloween ghoul.

  “Better him than spiders,” Charlie shot back. He was busted, but he still refused to give in without a fight.

  “I’m not afraid of spiders.”

  “Oh, yeah, right!”

  “Your mother fears nothing except boys who don’t clean their rooms,” she said, ruffling his hair. “This place is the real nightmare.”

  Charlie found comfort in his mother’s playfulness. He had always been a vivid dreamer, and his mom had roused him from many a bad dream. Still, Charlie could not shake the feeling that something about last night’s was different. It was more than just a bad dream. It was a nightmare, unlike any he had ever experienced, and the fear was so real that it had followed him out of sleep and into the light of day.

  Charlie glanced toward the closet door mirror.

  “I saw him again,” he said, recalling the dream. “The man with the golden footprints. He tried to protect me.”

  Charlie turned toward his mother. His eyes brimmed with hope — a specific kind of hope he knew she feared seeing, because it was always followed by disappointment.

  “You told me when the people that love us die, they can visit us in our dreams,” said Charlie. “Do you think maybe dad—”

  “Hey! Should we get pizza tonight?” she asked, changing the subject. “I’ve been in a pizza mood all week!”

  But Charlie could tell she didn’t really want to discuss pizza. “Why don’t you ever talk about him?” he asked.

  She took her time answering.

  “Because,” she finally said, pausing for a breath, “it hurts. And it’s complicated.”

  Charlie didn’t press. Even though he longed to know more about his father, it was a subject his mom preferred not to discuss. He knew his dad had died long ago, while Charlie was still a baby, in fact, but that’s all he knew. He spent many sleepless nights wondering about it. There had to be more to the story. Charlie never really understood why his mom avoided the topic so intensely, but he didn’t want to hurt her, so he tried not to bring it up too much.

  “Come on. Out of bed,” said his mom as she leaned in and planted a kiss on his forehead. “Up and at ‘em.”

  She peeled back the covers and rolled her eyes. Charlie was already fully dressed. Minus his sneakers, of course.

  “Would it kill you to wear pajamas?” she asked, amused.

  “I hate pajamas!”

  “Well, go put your sneakers on. You don’t hate them, do you?” She tried to stifle a laugh. Unsuccessfully. “And here’s your comic, scaredy cat.” She grabbed a book from the nightstand and handed it to him.

  “Thanks,” grinned Charlie, yanking it from her grip.

  Charlie hopped out of bed.

  He ran to his closet door but hesitated upon seeing the mirror. Images from the nightmare still lingered in his mind.

  “Know what?” he said, backing away slowly. “I’ll grab my sneakers after breakfast.”

  “Charlie! Get back here!”

  But Charlie was already gone from the room, his head buried in his comic book. It was a classic story where good was pitted against evil and good always emerged the victor. But after his recent nightmare, Charlie had a feeling it was rarely, if ever, that easy.

  Charlie dropped his comic book onto the kitchen table and flipped on a countertop TV. He clicked through the channels until he found his favorite morning rerun, The Adventures of Superman. As usual, Lois Lane was in trouble. She was tied to a railroad track with a train steaming toward her. Charlie chuckled. He knew it was old-fashioned and cheesy, but he loved it. Of course Superman would save the day. He always did.

  The kitchen was like that of any New York City apartment: tiny, cluttered, and tomblike. Any smaller and Charlie could stretch out his arms and touch the walls on either side — not that he hadn’t tried. There was hardly even room for a table, but somehow he and his mom had managed to tuck one into the corner by the room’s only window. The kitchen sat two comfortably, but that was enough for Charlie. Sure, they didn’t have a lot of space, but you didn’t need a lot of space to store happy memories, as his mom would always say.

  Charlie plopped down at the table. He poured himself a big bowl of cereal, slurping it down by the spoonful with one hand while doodling on a napkin with the other.

  His mom hurried into the room.

  “Put these on,” she said, dropping his sneakers onto the floor.

  Charlie rolled his eyes. “I won’t be late.”

  “Uh-huh, right,” she said as she reached into the oven, which doubled as her cupboard. She wasn’t much of a cook, so like any good New Yorker, she didn’t let space go to waste.

  “Where are the Cheerios?” she asked, reaching deeper. “You didn’t eat them all did you?” She was practically inside the oven by this point. “Never mind! Here they are.”

  She took the box out, setting it down behind her just long enough to straighten a small picture that hung crookedly on a nearby wall. It was a painting of a quiet country house by a lake in the woods. Wildly colorful and a little sloppy, but definitely created with a loving hand. Charlie knew it was her favorite. He had painted it for her when he was just six years old. Even left an inscription at the bottom, spelled out in glued-on elbow macaroni:

  To the best Mom ever!

  Love, Charlie

  He told her upon finishing it, “This is our dream house. I know we can’t afford it for real, but dreams are free, and maybe one day this dream will come true.”

  Charlie smiled at the memory as he finished his napkin doodle.

  “Still my little artist,” said his mom as she squeezed past, snatching the marker from his hand.

  “Hey! What if I was drawing you another masterpiece?”

  “Make being on time for school your masterpiece,” she said before opening the box of cereal and letting out an earsplitting scream.

  “Spider! Kill it, Charlie! Kill it! Kill it!”

  She tossed the box across the room. It landed by Charlie’s feet, and he laughed so hard he nearly shot milk through his nose and across the table.

  “Very funny!” said his mom as her eyes registered the prank. She picked up a plastic spider and dangled it in front of him.

  “Now we’re even,” said Charlie, still laughing. “Told ya you were afraid of spiders. Even fake ones.”

  His mom straightened her blouse and turned off the TV just as Superman was swooping in to rescue Lois from the oncoming train.

  “Hey! I was watching that,” said Charlie.

  “And now you’re not,” she replied with a grin. “Besides, I’ll tell you what happens: Superman saves Lois, and then puts on his sneakers and goes to school!”

  Charlie smiled, taking the hint.

  “Seriously. Time to go,” she insisted. She pointed to his sneakers and then grabbed his backpack and hooded sweatshirt from the ot
her room, tossing them into his lap.

  “And I’m running late, so you need to pick yourself up something for lunch,” she continued. “Something healthy! No Ring Dings! I mean it, Charlie. You’ll rot your teeth.”

  She pushed him toward the door. He was practically tripping over his shoestrings.

  “And don’t forget to remind Plug that he’s having dinner with us tonight.”

  She handed him some money. Charlie eyed the bills.

  “Twenty dollars? Really? Have you met Plug?”

  His mom smiled. “Good point,” she said, handing him another twenty. “Now get out of here.”

  She planted a kiss on his forehead and shoved him out the door.

  Once Charlie was safely on his way, his mom gathered her things. She put on her coat and was about to grab her keys from the kitchen table when she stopped dead in her tracks. Her face went pale, as if she had just seen a ghost.

  “This can’t be,” she muttered.

  She stared at Charlie’s breakfast napkin. Scribbled on its surface was an image — an image that threatened to reveal a secret she had desperately hoped to keep hidden. A secret she could hardly explain. A secret that kept her in New York because it was a place where she could easily stay under the radar and avoid questions, something she valued deeply, especially when it came to Charlie. Her biggest fear was losing him. He was the most important thing in her life — her miracle — or as she would always say, her dream come true.

  Charlie’s mom gripped the napkin in a clenched fist as she hurried into her bedroom. Her breath was short and her head was spinning. She shut the door, locked it behind her, then ran over to the window and closed the blinds.

  After pausing to make certain there was no other way for curious eyes to see what she was doing, she opened the closet door. Inside was a minefield of odds-and-ends. Clothes, shoes, winter jackets, blankets and sheets consumed every inch. She reached into the clutter and pulled out a large plastic container, one that stored supplies used for cleaning apartments when she needed extra income. Using the container as a stepladder, she rummaged through the closet’s top shelf, searching for something. It was tucked way in the back, hidden not only from prying eyes but also her own, as if she feared the very secret it contained.

  After a moment, she removed a tiny wooden box with a flip lid. The box was dust-covered and smelled of mothballs and cedar. Its color was faded from time and neglect.

  Charlie’s mom set the box on her bed, took a deep breath, and opened it. Tiny specs of light radiated from its interior and tickled her eyes. Inside glistened a beautiful tear-shaped diamond no larger than a grape. It was crystal clear, with a delicate, golden inlay that swirled within to form a symbol: the same symbol Charlie had doodled on the napkin — and unbeknownst to her… the same symbol that had appeared on his palms in his dream.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AWAKENING

  Charlie felt his cheeks blush in the crisp autumn air as he ran across the courtyard of his apartment complex. His backpack nearly overwhelmed him, which wasn’t saying much, as he wasn’t a big kid to start with, and most of his slender frame was lost in his oversized hooded sweatshirt.

  His building was one in a series of identical twelve-story, red brick structures — Stuyvesant Town, as it was known to New Yorkers. Charlie had lived here his whole life, and even when the world around him got crazy, he was convinced its tree-lined paths, scattered playgrounds, and the friendly, familiar faces of his neighbors — most of whom he had known since he was knee-high — would keep him safe.

  Charlie hustled along, past a scruffy man who was sitting on a courtyard bench. “Pigeon man,” as he and Plug had always called him, because he sat there and fed the pigeons every morning without fail.

  “Good morning,” said Charlie almost automatically.

  As usual, pigeon man did not respond. He just kept feeding the pigeons. And as usual, Charlie thought, Why do I waste my time?

  But deep down he felt bad for the guy. He wondered where pigeon man came from, if he had a home, any friends, or anyone who loved him. The idea of being that alone, without his mom or someone to look out for him, terrified Charlie. Along with snakes, it was one of his greatest fears. So he continued on, trying not to think much about it. But he couldn’t help but turn back and give pigeon man one last glance, and when he did, he noticed something that made him quicken his step. Pigeon man, who had never once even acknowledged Charlie’s existence, was watching him. And it was not the fact that he was being watched that bothered Charlie. It was the way he was being watched — the way he imagined a secret agent would observe a mark that was being tailed. Charlie forced the thought from his head and approached the neighboring building. He shouted toward a window a few floors up.

  “Plug! Let’s go!”

  There was no response.

  “Yo! Plug! Get down here! We’re gonna be—”

  “Gotcha!” screamed a figure that leapt from the bushes and pulled Charlie down. Charlie disappeared into a thicket of twigs and leaves, only to pop up again to the sound of howling laughter.

  Charlie rolled his eyes. He knew that howl anywhere. It belonged to Billy Harbison — or Plug, as everyone called him.

  “You should have seen your face!” said Plug as he crawled from the brush.

  Plug was a chubby, moonfaced kid with dimpled cheeks, not nearly enough neck, and tube socks pulled to his kneecaps. He and Charlie had been inseparable from the day they met, a day neither one of them could actually seem to remember with any accuracy. They were so close, in fact, that on their first day in the second grade, Charlie had tried to convince their teacher, Ms. McKenna, that he and Plug were brothers. It was an innocent fib she may have believed had Plug not been black and Charlie white.

  “Jerk! You almost gave me a heart attack!” said Charlie.

  “No, duh!” replied Plug. “That’s the whole point of scaring someone.”

  He began a little victory dance. But Charlie grabbed Plug’s backpack and sent him spinning out of control. He toppled forward and almost bounced off a large Sugar Maple. This time it was Charlie howling with laughter.

  “You should have seen your face!” he said. “Your big eyes almost popped out of your head!”

  “Whatcha expect,” said Plug. “I almost head butted a tree.”

  “No, duh!” mimicked Charlie. “That’s the whole point.”

  “Okay, truce,” said Plug, extending his hand. “Seriously, truce. Man to man.”

  But when Charlie reached to shake on it, Plug pulled him in and whacked him upside his head.

  “Ha! Sucker!”

  Plug took off, taunting Charlie from mid-sprint. “Come on! Can’t let the fat kid beat ya!”

  “What was that? Can’t let the fat kid eat ya?” shouted Charlie as he pursued.

  It was like a game of cat and mouse, only the mouse was chasing the cat. Charlie chased Plug out of their complex and across four city blocks to the 14th Street subway station where the train was just rolling to a stop. The train doors opened, and Charlie and Plug squeezed into the packed car.

  Charlie was sandwiched between two large men, and Plug was crammed up next to a sweaty construction worker. Each time the train rocked, Plug got an up-close view of the two melon-sized stains on the underarms of the worker’s shirt.

  “I’m gonna puke,” he whispered to Charlie. His face twisted and his stomach turned. Charlie couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “Quit laughing,” said Plug. “It’s not funny.”

  “So move.”

  “To where? I’m stuck!”

  Plug was right. There was barely room to breathe, let alone move. And Charlie could see it was about to get worse. A group of street performers crossed from the adjoining car and pushed their way through the crowded commuters, weaving in and out while singing. One of them shook a cup full of loose change, seek
ing donations. He pushed his way past Charlie and around Plug and then accidentally bumped into a spindly, bug-eyed man standing by the door.

  “Don’t touch me!” the man screamed, shoving the singer out of his way.

  “Excuse me. My bad,” said the singer.

  “Touch me again, and I’ll kill you!”

  “Take it easy, buddy!”

  “Come on! Do something! I dare ya! I dare anyone!”

  The man raised his fists. Charlie and Plug backed off. Oddballs were common in New York, but something about this man scared them more than normal.

  “That guy needs to take a chill-pill,” said Plug.

  “And some serious eye drops,” whispered Charlie. “Check out his eyes.”

  The man’s eyes were bloodshot and menacing, as if he had not slept in days — similar, Charlie thought, to the snake from his dream.

  The train screeched into the next stop. When the doors opened, the man jumped off and sprinted down the platform, howling like a mad dog. Charlie craned his neck for a better view, but instead of spotting the unruly commuter, he could swear he saw pigeon man lurking at the opposite end of the car. But he couldn’t be sure. More people piled on, and by the time the subway started rolling forward, pigeon man was gone. Charlie shook it off, chalking it up to an overactive imagination.

  The subway car was uncomfortably quiet. Nobody moved or uttered a single word. They stood frozen like chess pieces, until the construction worker next to Plug turned toward a businessman who had his face buried in a crumpled newspaper.

  “This world’s on a collision course with disaster,” he said through a thick New York accent. “Everywhere ya freakin’ look.”

  “Yeah, it’s sad,” replied the businessman.