Of course. Well, I can fly. I always could fly in dreams. I’m lucid. I could just fly away anywhere I want.

Well, whose idea is that? Mine, or the Creeper’s? Is this how it got Mel?

The Creeper’s shadow is behind me, nudging me forward whether I want to go or not. Its voice is laughing in my ears.

She walked of her own free will. Maybe she was going to Paradise. Maybe you should go there, too.

I’m not going near the edge of the roof.

Of course not, Charlie. You’re not that stupid. You’re a dreamhacker.

So fucking condescending. I turn and go back inside, even as the Creeper wraps arms around me, curls itself round my shoulders all shadowy and foul. I make my way to the kitchen. Kitchens are sane places, kitchens are where the nice things are. But the knife block is there. I see it. My hand goes towards it.

You want to hurt me, don’t you? You’re not as nice as you pretend. Do you think you can kill me with a knife? Do you think you can kill your own shadow?

Darkness licks around me. Next thing I know, I’m holding the big knife. I spin to face the Creeper but it’s always behind me, crawling up my back and around my body like a vine. I angle it, trying to use its tip to get under the edge of the darkness where the Creeper surrounds me like a garment. I don’t think I can do it without cutting myself.

I don’t care.

I have to get it off.

Wait.

Charlie.

That fucking knife is sharp. This is a dream. What if the knife is real?

What a muppet I’m being.

I drop the knife in the sink, grope around myself half-dreaming, half-awake. I can hear my breath coming in little frightened gasps. My hand closes on O’s cast-iron skillet. I grab the handle and bring the pan down on my own left hand.

I feel the blow all the way in my teeth. I find myself on my knees, gasping and whimpering.

I’m conscious. I’m alive. Edgar has come padding in and he’s sniffing at me. The Creeper is gone.

Oh, great. And I’ve peed on the kitchen floor, just like a puppy.

Sleepwalkers Anonymous

Sleepwalkers Anonymous

Coffee. Coffee. And Coffee. The three greatest words I know.

I’ve slept all day and most of the night, but I’m struggling to rouse myself properly. I have a dream hangover. It’s as if the dream hasn’t ended but remains, invisible, rolling along just under the surface of ordinary life like a movie I’ve walked out of. I’m on a glass-bottomed boat and the things in the water beneath are bumping against the glass, trying to get at me.