Hotter Blood: More Tales of Erotic Horror

DREAM ON ME Mick Garris

It's not my fault!" he said through the chill that dried his sweat.

"Of course it isn't your fault. It happens sometimes. I understand."

He was startled to look up into Martika's eyes as she cradled his head in her lap. He expected to see Linda, though he should have known better.

Martika, of course, didn't understand. This wasn't about detumescence defeating penetration. The blood that had pounded through his veins had stalled out, defusing any active organs. The passion had been sapped by Linda, who had invaded their lovemaking even from the grave.

He looked up, crushed by guilt and nausea, past Martika's breasts and into Linda's face. It was Martika who continued to speak, but Linda who stared. And Linda who understood… and tried to blame him.

But he was the Blameless Man. He couldn't bear the guilt, never had. Not only over Linda. Ever. He couldn't bear fault and was expert at rationalization that relinquished him from responsibility. He was unable to shoulder hurt feelings or pride, and unwilling to accept fault for pain.

Martika leaned over him, the brown nipple of one newly drooping breast brushing his cheek. "You're shivering. You cold?" She stroked his face, which broke out again in a chilly sweat. He wanted to open his mouth and nurse away the pain, let it draw out a lust that would overpower his memories with carnal bullets, to pull her legs open and part the red sea with his Moses.

But Linda sat on his shoulder.

He was back in the Mazda; Linda had insisted on driving the new car. Bob's Big Boy and a drive-in movie: Let's play teenager. He honestly didn't care. "Whatever you want" was the refrain. It had become a joke to him. He meant it; when it didn't matter, he said it: "whatever you want," even though he knew it made her defensive, as if she were a spoiled little princess being indulged, getting her way. He could tell that this night it pissed her off. They sped down Ventura as he hid in the movie section.

"What do you want to see?"

"Whatever you want…"

"Don't you have an opinion? Doesn't anything matter to you?"

But he didn't have time to answer. He saw the pipe truck before she did; his scream made her crush the brake pedal to the floor, and the car made a screaming doughnut before righting itself just in time to slam head-on into the flag-tipped pipes jutting out of the back of the truck.

Miraculously, they missed him; predictably, she had been impaled. The half-inch aluminum javelins made webs of the windshield and a pincushion of the bucket seats. She was spiked to her velour seat like a butterfly pinned to its velvet showcase, the anger still gripping her face. Her blood watered the asphalt through the feeding tube that pierced her heart, first in beating gushes, soon in a weakening, dribbling flow.

She was still looking at him, her eyes sightless but filled with blame and fury, her hand a claw, digging into his thigh so hard that blood was drawn: his only injury from the accident.

And then…

"It's not my fault."

"I can't do this anymore. I'm not going to share you with a ghost."

He could see Martika with sudden clarity, as if the camera operator had suddenly racked focus. And what he saw shook him. She could see through him, see the deceit, the wicked core he'd gone to such lengths to keep secret under a hide of humanity. His heart of guilt was laid bare to her.

"I'm sorry," he said, feeling doubly naked as she watched with the lidless brown eyes that suddenly saw all. It was all he could say.

"So am I. If I'm going to be with you, I want to be with you. I mean, I know you don't want to hear this, but I love you, Andy. I really do care about you. But Linda is dead! Get her out of my bedroom!"

Or he'd lose her. As he'd lost them all since Linda.

Martika was the first who really mattered. Her sweetness was genuine, deeply rooted, not a ruse to be dropped when he'd been captured, only to be replaced by ball-snipping PMS madness. Her temperament was steady, intelligent, nurturing; she forgave easily, and without battle, and seldom considered the imagined hidden agenda. And she never sought out the hidden dark side; she seemed blissfully oblivious to shadows.

But now, allowing herself to look beyond the shell, she saw that he was agonized by Linda's spirit. He couldn't bear it if Linda pulled them apart. He had never told her, but he probably loved Martika even more than he had loved the dead one. And now she'd found him out. He couldn't let her leave him.

Martika watched him; he seemed so weak and vulnerable, hardly the man most people saw. He needed her so much, and — she had to admit — she needed him. But even as she held him, she felt his skin go clammy, and prickle into goosebumps. The conjoining of their flesh had been more than physically rewarding; she loved the feeling of being entered by his warmth as she wrapped him in a blanket of her arms and legs. They were a flesh sculpture, a Japanese puzzle box that only became two separate pieces when taken apart

But it was not only fluids and a mutual heartbeat symphony that they shared. There was a level of sanity above and beyond the world outside. Their eyes locked during sex, the shared gaze broken only by the occasional blink. It was a silent communication that allowed them to see directly into one another's brains, to see the electrical impulses at work. It surprised them when one day they noticed they were both making the same sound when they made love: a Zen sort of hum that seemed to place them on clouds, looking down at the earth before they fell back to the planet.

Martika never wanted to notice the gradual change that crept into their love life. They still looked into one another's eyes, but she could see a vacuum forming behind his pupils. The connection was not being made. There was a distance she could sense… an obstruction. He was looking beyond and through her now. At someone else? At Linda?

It was his charm and strength and confidence that had first attracted her, and that dreaming thing, but now that she could sense something hidden, his weaknesses were becoming increasingly obvious. She knew about Linda, indeed had nursed him through recovery. But there were darker secrets within him, guilt and melancholy that were becoming increasingly difficult for him to hide and for her to ignore. She would do almost anything for him, but he had to do something for himself, too.

She couldn't carry his burden any longer. She didn't care about a former lover, what in the world did she have to do with his life before they ever met? But she would not let their life together be spoiled by a third party. Even if it meant losing him.

More than anything, she wanted to feel him touch her, not only with his hands. She wanted their bodies to pretzel together, she needed the Vulcan mind-meld that happened on their best linkages. But, knowing it wasn't going to happen that way tonight, Martika knew she had to sleep alone. Without him. And, goddamn it, without her. Even if she is dead.

He lay on the couch, staring at the door, dreading the breach in his Good Guy Suit that Martika had at last detected. He couldn't sleep, not after Linda's visit and certainly not after he'd driven a wedge between himself and Martika. Well, he hadn't done it himself. It was Linda, really. Why wouldn't she just leave him the fuck alone? He couldn't let her push Martika away.

He just looked at the door, saw the little slice of light underneath go out, and remembered the feel of Martika against him.

It hurt Martika to sleep apart from him. Just knowing that he was on the other side of her closed door felt wrong, as if she were punishing a child for hurting himself. The bed felt too big, too empty, but she lay in it, knowing that she was right this time. She could only see clearly from a distance.

She looked at the door, could hear his even breathing. She knew what his breath felt like against her ear, his scent still lingering on her pillow. She was tired, worn out but wired. Her eyes flickered and the bed did a high-seas dance as she watched the closed door.

She pressed her thighs together, flexing the muscles, wishing her legs were wrapped around him. The area between remembered him and was wet. She wished they had finished, and she drew her legs up against her chest. She wasn't about to touch herself.

As the bed swam, the door opened, revealing his silhouette in a wedge of moonlight. She couldn't speak, though she felt she ought to turn him away. He stood strong and tall and naked. And he spoke.

"I really do love you, you know. And I don't want to fuck that up."

He came closer to the bed, kneeled on it. She wanted to say "not now," but her voice wouldn't work. She wanted to stop him because she knew she should, but she wanted him the way he was and the way they were.

"I need you, Martika."

He'd never said that before, though she'd craved hearing it.

And he lay behind her fetal ball, spooning from behind. He kissed her back, his hands strong, working their way in a walking massage that began at her neck and led to her ass. He followed his hands with his mouth and reached around to feel the front of her.

She was gratified that he didn't reach first for her breasts, as every man before him had. He caressed her face, her shoulders, her stomach, and by the time he discovered her goose-pimpling breasts, he found them wanting and pointed. He turned her onto her back and tasted her. She sat up in front of him, and he nursed.

She wished she had milk to feed him, but all she could give were body and soul. And they were his. He rolled her onto her back, grabbing her wrists and holding them tight against the bed, and she opened up to him, wrapped around him, and clenched him, rocking, in her vise as he took her. She rolled him over, taking control for the moment, thrusting him into her as deep as she could take it. They gave and took and gave and took, the overpowering becoming the overpowered, and met in the fabled Land of Climax with a heaving sigh.

And she dared open her eyes, knowing even before she saw that she was alone. The bastard had dreamt all over her again.

He stared at the door, the puppet master of dreamland, hoping he'd made things right. He felt like Barbara Cartland or one of those gothic pulp novelists, creating breathy women's romances of seduction and submission, and the guilt bore on him. Martika deserved more than that. So he had let her get on top for a moment before being overcome. He knew what she liked by now, he hoped.

He waited on the couch for her invitation to return to the bed. The dreams always woke her up. He didn't wait long. The door opened, and she stood there in her chenille robe. That wasn't a good sign. He'd hoped to see her naked.

"You don't play fair."

He knew that. He would if he could… but he didn't know any other way. She stayed in the doorway, keeping her distance.

"It used to be that way for real, you know." Her tone was wistful, yet broken. Caved in. "A long time ago…"

"I want it to be that way again," he said. "It can be."

"I don't know. I'd like to think so. But when things start to slide, I don't know if they ever get better." And then, hopefully, because she wanted it, too: "Do they?"

"They can with us."

She took a deep breath, gathering the strength to say it, to take her position and stand her ground.

"Not as long as you keep Linda alive."

She expected a defensive reaction, but got silence instead. He was actually considering what she'd said. He looked so hurt that she wanted to hold his hand and apologize… but she realized she'd done nothing wrong.

"I know how hard it was; I know what you saw. But you're with me now. You say you love me; you used to show me."

He looked up and their eyes locked. "I'm sorry. I do love you. And I need you. More than anyone before. Linda is gone."

She wanted to believe him, saw new strength in his eyes. No, the old strength, the confidence. Now, if only he would come to her and show her he meant what he said.

He stood up and went to her, taking her in his arms. "I don't want to lose you."

He wouldn't.

They embraced, they went to bed, they made love, and the clouds behind his pupils parted. He was home.

In the afterglow, he refused to roll off and surrender to the sleep that dogged him. He could see she was watching him, almost dared to call her expression inscrutable, but she would have slapped him for it. Even though she'd have laughed afterward, she'd have meant it.

He tried to read her face. "What?"

"See? You didn't have to dream on me."

"I think maybe I did. This time."

He watched her consider that for a moment. "Please don't dream on me unless I ask for it. Okay?"

"Okay. I love you."

"Parrot fashion…"

She watched him fall asleep.

The defenses tumbled, and his youthful, unlined face cried innocence. He lost a good ten years as he slept, and every experience that lined his visage fled. He was newly minted in repose.

But now Martika was wide awake. Wasn't that always the way? He conked, she buzzed. It was hard not to resent it, but, of course, it wasn't his fault. She lay on her side and watched him sleep; his breathing was deep and even, with a light whistle through the hairs in his nostrils. He fell deep and quick. His eyes did a REM dance under their lids. His hand spasmed; he was dreaming.

She could only wonder what he dreamt. He swallowed, his hand clutched, jerked, scratched her, so she pulled away. His breathing came harder, and the breath deepened, soon dropping down into a trancelike hum, just like during the best times they made love… just like only half an hour ago.

She saw another spasm; a wet spot was growing on the sheet.

He was dreaming that they were making love. It made her smile. Maybe things would get back to where they were… where they should be. Maybe they would be okay.

Suddenly his eyes snapped open.

"Linda?"

The fantasy crashed to earth, plummeted to hell.

"No! Not Linda! Martika! Say it! Martika! Remember me?"

Even as she screamed at him she knew she was being irrational, knew that he couldn't control his dreams… only hers.

But she just…

Couldn't.

Take.

Any.

More.

Linda!

He saw her clearly, and his eyes shone with regret. "I'm sorry. It wasn't —»

"I know it wasn't your fault! It's my fault!"

"It's nobody's fucking fault!"

She knew that. But she wanted him gone. She needed to be alone. She sent him home… to a hollow shoe-box apartment he visited only occasionally to pick up his mail.

He walked through cobalt moonlight. He wasn't sorry he'd run the dream thing. It was the only way to restring the broken web of their faltering relationship. But he didn't dare tell her he'd learned it from Linda. Martika wasn't jealous of Linda, not really, but she'd certainly feel like a third-generation lover knowing he'd used Linda's stuff on her.

He'd tried it professionally for a while, actually made some money manipulating people's dreams. But he could see little future in sitting in the homes of the lonely, the depressed, and the depressing, watching them sleep and giving them their own James Bond and Marilyn Chambers fantasies. He grew to resent them and didn't want to get as close to these strangers as he needed to be to dream on them. And even though it was only fantasy, he didn't want to share in their sex. He'd certainly had his fill of watching soft-bellied mommy's boys sleepwalking as they Errol Flynned around cheap apartments and squirted in their slumber.

He wanted to teach Martika to power dream, but she didn't possess the guile and cynical bitterness it seemed to require to reach the plateau. Not that it was ever a problem for Linda; she specialized in cat-claw resentment. He was glad that was beyond Martika.

Linda's beauty was in her imagination. The dreams they shared traveled the universe, and their waking hours seemed mundane by contrast. They were far happier in the controlled world of sleep than they were when the fantasies ended. How could real life ever compete?

But she sure knew how to dream on him.

Martika felt guilty. She'd turned him away, even after he'd told her he'd loved her, needed her, cared most of all for her. But, goddamn it, if he loved her, why did he dream about her?

She'd never get to sleep that night. Not without help. She gulped down two dry Xanax and turned on the TV. She stared at the screen for several minutes before realizing she was illuminated by ceramic dogs marked down to three payments of $14.65 on the Home Shopping Channel.

An electric current pulled her attention to the curtains; she rose, reeling as she stood, the Xanax marching to her brain, and pulled the gingham open. Andy was on the street below, and their eyes connected for the briefest of moments before he turned away in shame and she let the curtain fall closed.

Her face heated as the sedative stirred her mind of molasses with anger and confusion. She had to sit down… lie down… let him go… just let him walk away… just stop the bed from spinning, stop the laughter from the closets… and just hitchhike to dreamland. Martika wound down like a grandfather clock. Nobody pulled the chain, and she sunk deeply into sleep.

Andy finally stopped walking, surprised to find himself standing — once again — before Linda's grave. Why the surprise? A little metal plaque in the sod with her name on it: That was Linda. The sight of her resting place, her name coldly inscribed, made him shiver. Now, as he stood before Linda his mind — a fickle gray muscle — turned to Martika. Martika loved him as he loved her; Linda only wanted somebody to take responsibility and blame. The dreams were almost worth it; her temper and her death were not.

He suddenly felt depleted, exhausted. He needed to lie down on the grass and let his whirling brain slow down. The earth rocked and reeled under him as he stared up at the sliver of moon peeking through the clouds. The moon was shaped like Martika's face… but it had Linda's expression.

Martika's hands clutched in her sleep, her face darkened, troubled. Her closed eyes danced in drugged REMerobics.

He'd closed his eyes in the cemetery, and he opened them in bed. With Martika. The Woman in the Moon. He saw her clearly, unfiltered, and found her irresistibly beautiful. Her skin was an even bronze, her black hair cut blunt and glossy, her crescent eyes an even and piercing brown as they opened up to him. Her face gave its apology, and he climbed on top of her, needing to press the full length of his body against her skin.

They met with cool fire: night skin burning hot a couple layers lower. He tried to enter her without hands, but was unable. To his surprise, his groin ended in a thatch of soft hair. There was no divining rod to join them.

But another body pressed against him from behind. He didn't need to look over his shoulder: The pressure of the tiny breasts that were all erect nipple gave Linda away at the first zap of their electric contact. He looked over his back anyway, when he felt her enter him with his penis.

He tried to fight her off, but she was intent on impaling him as she'd been impaled, hoping to draw blood as she'd spilled it to the highway pavement. He felt his flesh tear and tried to throw her off. He screamed like a girl until Linda used him up and rolled him off the bed and onto the floor.

Not finished, Linda dropped onto Martika and entered her, too. The dark-haired one gasped as she took the full length of his penis from Linda, bucking it deeper, not wanting to like it as much as she had to. And the room spun into darkness, with laughing voices coming from under the bed fading into her ears.

The alarm made Martika's heart club her awake the next morning. She was hung over from the drug, and her eyes felt swollen and sandy. At first she was surprised to be alone in bed, but it didn't take long to reach a high enough state of consciousness to remember the events of the preceding night.

Another dance with Dr. Guilt. How could she have treated him that way? He'd been through some heavy times; the guy had watched the woman he loved die, hadn't he? Would she deny him his feelings? She felt selfish and shrewish, and she wanted him in her bed with her more than anything, to hold and rock and caress and nurture and help. She was so, so sorry.

She grabbed the phone and called. And got the machine. And didn't leave a message. And called again, and did leave a message.

When she stood up, she almost toppled over again. She needed some coffee, at least. The night before the morning after had ripped her up and spit her out. She had to sort it out; she'd make it up to both of them.

He was waiting for her in the living room, and her heart leapt at the sight of him. Until he didn't move.

"Andy?"

His naked body was huddled in front of the fireplace… motionless… cold… dead. She ran to kneel in front of him, and her knee skidded across the gelatinous curdling puddle of his midnight blood. He was impaled on one of the andirons… a cold satay, skewered from behind, basted in his own blood. Horrified, she slid back against the wall, urging down her bile as she remembered the night's events… the fight, the Xanax, the hurt and anger…

And the Dream.

Her Dream.

Her taste of the Power.

"I don't want it!" she screamed. "No more fucking dreams!"