Sandman by Morgan Hannah MacDonald Page A

she knew the phone was ringing. The light was on, and her book lay open across her stomach. Groggily she glanced at the clock. Half past one. Who would be calling so late?
    Her heart hammered in her chest as she snatched the phone on the third ring. “Hello?”
    Dead air greeted her.
    “Hello!”
    She sensed someone on the other end, yet for the life of her couldn’t figure out why no one spoke.
    “Katy, is that you, is everything all right?”
    Nothing.
    All at once another explanation dawned on Meagan. “Brad?” Suddenly a receiver was slammed in her ear. Of course it was Brad. She should have known that it wouldn’t be that easy to get rid of him. She lay back down. Dammit. Now that she thought about it, she’d had a lot more hang-ups than usual over the last couple of weeks. Naturally she’d assumed they were wrong numbers. Now she wasn’t so sure.
    She didn’t recall seeing Brad’s car around lately, but then again, she’d stopped looking. Maybe he was just being a little stealthier these days. She closed her eyes, took a couple of deep breaths and tried to relax. At least her heart rate had calmed to a more normal tempo, but she couldn’t stop wondering: what the hell was Brad’s game?
    ***
    The little boy was having a nightmare. A faceless man was chasing him. He ran as fast as he could, but his feet went nowhere. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out.
    A loud crash startled the boy awake. He sat up quickly. His bedroom door was open. He stared at the large black figure looming in the doorway. He must have screamed after all. Why else would he be there? Tears stained his cheeks. He trembled as he tried to stop crying. He knew how much he hated it when he cried.
    “Sniveling little bastard.” The malevolent bellow sent shivers up the boy’s spine. His hands flew to his ears. “Your momma ain’t coming no more. Ya hear me? She left you! She got sick of all your whining. Mom-mee, Mom-mee, Mom-mee,” the voice mimicked in sing-song fashion.
    The figure approached. The boy tried to shrink into the wall behind his bed, but he couldn’t escape. His father was so close that the boy could feel his hot breath on his face. The foul stench of cigarettes and booze stung his nostrils.
    The boy tried to stop crying, but the harder he tried, the worse it got until he ended up with a bad case of hiccups.
    A large hand struck the boy across the face. “Don’t you ever say that word in this house again, you hear me, boy? Your mama was a whore, she done run off. You’d best be rememberin’ that. She’s just like all the rest of ’em. All women are dirty lying whores!”
    He slapped him again. “Dammit! You stop that, you little sissy boy. Only little girls cry. Is that what you wanna be? A little sissy boy, a little faggot sissy boy? I’ll give you somethin’ to cry about, ya little homo.”
    The man bolted straight up in the bed and searched the room. He was alone. His body drenched in sweat. He was breathing as if he’d just run a marathon. His heart pounded so hard, he thought it would escape his chest. The fear was real all right.
    He found himself lying in a puddle. The smell of ammonia filled the room. “Fuck me!” he yelled, jumping off the bed. He looked down at the urine-soaked sheets, ran his hands down his face.
    He stripped off his shorts, leaving them right where he’d stood and grabbed another pair off the top of the pile next to the bed. He stumbled downstairs to the kitchen and headed straight to the refrigerator in search of liquid comfort. No beer. He slammed the door and listened as bottles of condiments clanked together.
    Steering toward the living room, he collapsed into the cracked and worn vinyl recliner. For a moment, he stared at the TV tray next to the chair, and started shaking the beer cans. He found an inch in the bottom of one and guzzled the warm, flat liquid.
    His heart rate slowed while he sat staring at the blank screen on the TV. He tried to remember the