Fright Night For Real

Charley doesn’t want to hear another “you look like shit” from Mark because he doesn’t want to admit that his physical appearance, for once, matches the way he feels. This time, it isn’t Mark who decides to underline the obvious fact but Amy. Of course, she doesn’t use the very same language Mark prefers, but it’s a no-brainer that “You don’t look so good” is just another version of “look like shit”. He mumbles the very same thing he told Mark, the thing about not sleeping well and having weird dreams. Amy nods understandingly and then asks him the question Mark didn’t. “So, what are those dreams about?” “I… don’t really remember. Something weird. I guess I should stop watching late-night TV,” Charley tries to brush it off as a joke and ends up receiving a whole list of advice on the sensitive topic of sleep and how to improve the quality of it. He nods, tells Amy that he’ll try that, yes, definitely, and feels like a scumbag. The thing is, he does remember those dreams a little bit, and Charley has a strong feeling that his vague memories are vague only because he makes them to be such. His intuition whispers that it is very much possible to remember the content of those dreams if he just tries a little harder. The problem is Charley doesn’t want to. He walks Amy back home after their cozy evening at his place. They were watching a comedy that Amy picked but, of course, the movie wasn’t the main thing he enjoyed. The kissing and touching part was. His Mom was at home, so they were kind of limited in anything they’d like to try out, but the movie ended, and he couldn’t quite remember on which note. Charley remembers how sweetly Amy’s perfume smelled and how bitter it tasted on her skin. That was way more interesting than the movie. Charley returns home and, walking past Jerry’s house, notices that the light isn’t on. There’s only one single and very dim light above the door on the porch, but the house is dark. Jerry must be out somewhere with another girl whose boobs are the size of a basketball each. He remembers Mom saying their new neighbor has the worst taste in women. “It seems Jerry dates either strippers or hookers, Mandy… oh, I don’t know, really… yeah, I have never seen him with one girl twice… u-huh. He really knows how to pick them, you know…” His Mom wouldn’t have been very happy with him if she had known that Charley had overheard her chatting with her friend Mandy over the phone. But he has to admit, Mom is right in a way. All of Jerry’s girlfriends look hot as hell and never appear in his footsteps a second time. He only hopes his Mom doesn’t have a crush on Jerry, that would be really awkward, but he isn’t sure moms can have crushes. And Jerry is definitely much younger than her. Or is he? Charley hits the shower and goes straight to bed. Unwillingly. Those dreams he is having are weird. They are filled with whispers and distant singing, and deep green water that somehow feels very cold and very soothing at the same time. Charley dreams about walking out of the house and going through their sleepy suburban town. The asphalt on the road is still warm under his bare feet, and somewhere the dog is howling. This sound is desperate and evil but far, far away. He remembers smelling the apples, those green apples that are sweet and bitter, and the scent is everywhere, it’s filling his nose and for a moment he wishes to smell nothing else, forever. And then he feels the undertone of decadence in those apples and he wants to cry. He dreams of the park that can sometimes be busy at night but now the park is empty. The trees are rustling in the night breeze, and he has that eerie feeling that he’s being watched. Charley feels the grass under his bare feet, and it’s the park lawn. There is something long and dark in the shadows that trees cast, something tall and full of sharp corners, like a picture of a monster that a child might draw. All the black lines. He starts running because he doesn’t want to know what this thing in the trees looks like, and then his feet are not touching the grass anymore. He is flying, and that is the best feeling in the world. He used to dream about flying like Superman but this is better because he believes it is real. Charley smells the apples yet again, and his mouth starts watering. The dark sky is not above him anymore, it’s around him, and Charley knows he is being held. He is floating in the air, and it’s beautiful. “I don’t want to fall,” Charley whispers, looking at the houses below them. “I’ll catch you,” the voice replies, and Charley thinks he knows this voice. He just has to remember… Charley dreams of dreaming. He dreams of resting on someone’s chest, and at that moment it doesn’t bother him that the chest is definitely of a man. He dreams of long fingers running through his hair. He dreams of the scent of apples. He dreams that he doesn’t want to wake up. Ever. “Oh, shit,” Charley says, looking at his feet in the morning. They are dirty. As if he was running barefoot at night. “I must be sleepwalking,” Charley Brewster says out loud, and he is uneasy about the way his voice sounds. As if he is trying to persuade himself.