the spinning edge of a circular blade as it lowers to bite into my forehead.
My scream is mute.
But there’s no pain. Only the sensation of my skin separating, and underneath that the indescribable feeling of bone being violated, cut through smoothly, like a knife through butter.
I go blank then, my consciousness retreating, hiding as far back inside my head as it can go.
An eternity passes until the whine of the saw stops.
I lie numb, inside and out, waiting for this to end.
It’s gotta end, right?
But not yet.
I feel the stragest tugging sensation on the top of my head. I get a memory flash of some TV show with a baby being born and the doctors using this suction cup thing on the head to pull the newborn out.
Not happening. This is not happening. I’m in my bed, in my room. Alone.
I hear something that makes my eardrums tremble. A growl, so low and deep my bones ache as it rumbles through me.
Then a gust of air like a frozen breath caresses the exposed surface of my brain. Paralyzed, I can’t even shiver at the touch.
With the breath, I hear a whisper. Not through my ears, but spoken directly into my mind.
Danny Boy
, it says.
My Danny Boy
.
Wake up. Wake up! WAKE UP!
I come out of it with a strangled shriek. Struggling out of the straitjacket tangle of my sheets, I stumble out of bed andcrash into the wall, staring wide-eyed into the darkness of the room.
I shove my hand up under my shirt and feel the smooth, unmutilated surface of my chest. With both hands, I frantically check my head. Still intact. Hair and all.
My heart’s beating so fast it’s making me dizzy. I’m shivering like crazy. I must look like I’m having a seizure as I make my way over to the shadow of the desk and turn on the lamp.
The room is empty. Just me. Alone. Nobody else.
I tell myself that, as I lean against the desk and force my lungs to breathe slower. I try to wake all the way up. Make sure I’m out of reach of that nightmare.
Where did that come from?
It’s that stupid Frankenstein, mixed with the wild weirdness last night, and memories of Mom buried in my brain. Topped off with Dad calling me Danny Boy. Splice it all together for one warped slasher dream.
After a while, I go from panicked to pissed off. Pissed at everything. At Dad, and our life as drifters. At this pit of a town. At Mom, for dying and leaving me alone.
And that book! I grab
Frankenstein
off the desk and tear it in half, then in quarters. I don’t stop till it’s shredded into confetti.
Shivering, I lean my palms on the flat top of the radiator, trying to suck all the heat out of it. I notice that tiny blue dot on the back of my hand. I try to rub it off with my thumb, only it won’t rub away. But really, it looks like nothing. Maybe it’s been there for a while and I just never noticed. Like a freckle—who remembers all their freckles? It’sprobably some old pen jab that broke the skin and got tattooed into me. I quit trying to erase it.
Muffled hissing sounds and gurgles rise from the radiator pipes. Sounds that could be mistaken for voices in other rooms. Or whispers from outside.
Pressing my thighs up against the radiator, I look out the window. But all I can see is my reflection in the night-black glass.
Just after dawn, I hear Dad heading out to drill the fishing holes.
Couldn’t get back to sleep for more than a couple minutes at a time. I’ve been lying here, listening to the night sounds of the house, paranoid about what’s waiting for me in my dreams.
Outside, the snowmobile starts up. Dad revs the engine as he speeds onto the lake. It’ll take him about an hour to drill the holes in the ice.
I get up and squeeze in a shower before he returns. Letting the water run till the furnace wakes up and gives me some heat, I hop in and try to melt away the nightmare.
By the time Dad gets back, I’ve got the coffee ready.
“Cold as a witch’s kiss out there,” he tells me, tossing his gloves on the table and gripping the
My scream is mute.
But there’s no pain. Only the sensation of my skin separating, and underneath that the indescribable feeling of bone being violated, cut through smoothly, like a knife through butter.
I go blank then, my consciousness retreating, hiding as far back inside my head as it can go.
An eternity passes until the whine of the saw stops.
I lie numb, inside and out, waiting for this to end.
It’s gotta end, right?
But not yet.
I feel the stragest tugging sensation on the top of my head. I get a memory flash of some TV show with a baby being born and the doctors using this suction cup thing on the head to pull the newborn out.
Not happening. This is not happening. I’m in my bed, in my room. Alone.
I hear something that makes my eardrums tremble. A growl, so low and deep my bones ache as it rumbles through me.
Then a gust of air like a frozen breath caresses the exposed surface of my brain. Paralyzed, I can’t even shiver at the touch.
With the breath, I hear a whisper. Not through my ears, but spoken directly into my mind.
Danny Boy
, it says.
My Danny Boy
.
Wake up. Wake up! WAKE UP!
I come out of it with a strangled shriek. Struggling out of the straitjacket tangle of my sheets, I stumble out of bed andcrash into the wall, staring wide-eyed into the darkness of the room.
I shove my hand up under my shirt and feel the smooth, unmutilated surface of my chest. With both hands, I frantically check my head. Still intact. Hair and all.
My heart’s beating so fast it’s making me dizzy. I’m shivering like crazy. I must look like I’m having a seizure as I make my way over to the shadow of the desk and turn on the lamp.
The room is empty. Just me. Alone. Nobody else.
I tell myself that, as I lean against the desk and force my lungs to breathe slower. I try to wake all the way up. Make sure I’m out of reach of that nightmare.
Where did that come from?
It’s that stupid Frankenstein, mixed with the wild weirdness last night, and memories of Mom buried in my brain. Topped off with Dad calling me Danny Boy. Splice it all together for one warped slasher dream.
After a while, I go from panicked to pissed off. Pissed at everything. At Dad, and our life as drifters. At this pit of a town. At Mom, for dying and leaving me alone.
And that book! I grab
Frankenstein
off the desk and tear it in half, then in quarters. I don’t stop till it’s shredded into confetti.
Shivering, I lean my palms on the flat top of the radiator, trying to suck all the heat out of it. I notice that tiny blue dot on the back of my hand. I try to rub it off with my thumb, only it won’t rub away. But really, it looks like nothing. Maybe it’s been there for a while and I just never noticed. Like a freckle—who remembers all their freckles? It’sprobably some old pen jab that broke the skin and got tattooed into me. I quit trying to erase it.
Muffled hissing sounds and gurgles rise from the radiator pipes. Sounds that could be mistaken for voices in other rooms. Or whispers from outside.
Pressing my thighs up against the radiator, I look out the window. But all I can see is my reflection in the night-black glass.
Just after dawn, I hear Dad heading out to drill the fishing holes.
Couldn’t get back to sleep for more than a couple minutes at a time. I’ve been lying here, listening to the night sounds of the house, paranoid about what’s waiting for me in my dreams.
Outside, the snowmobile starts up. Dad revs the engine as he speeds onto the lake. It’ll take him about an hour to drill the holes in the ice.
I get up and squeeze in a shower before he returns. Letting the water run till the furnace wakes up and gives me some heat, I hop in and try to melt away the nightmare.
By the time Dad gets back, I’ve got the coffee ready.
“Cold as a witch’s kiss out there,” he tells me, tossing his gloves on the table and gripping the
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