The Dream Witches (Chapter 1)

Chapter 1: Awakening


The thick bank of winter fog retreats and a gray swatch of gravel appears, creeping up the hill. A girl dressed in pajamas as white as the drifts of snow through which her bare feet plunge, darts from the side of road, dark hair dancing behind her, breathing hard. The frosted gravel bites into her soles. She slows, wincing in pain, but continues up the hill. She is almost to the top when a voice fills the word with a single, clear call: “Becca!” Without the slightest resistance, she crumples to the ground, unconscious, as if giving in to a force even greater than gravity.


“Becca!”

Her eyes opened and then snapped shut again, quick as a camera’s shutter, the brief vision of yellow and pink walls in a bedroom glowing brilliantly burnt onto her retina. She groaned and pulled the comforter up over her head: the only time you got that kind of shadowless morning light was when it had snowed during the night. And there was no way she was going to walk on freezing floor boards just to get ready for school.

“Becca! Your bacon’s getting cold.” But that wasn’t her mother’s voice. “Becca? Do you hear me?” That sounded like her aunt Linda. That meant it was still Thanksgiving break. That meant no school today. Well, no reason to hurry, then. She curled up on herself in her little, warm, dark cave, and fell back to sleep again. Then the voice was louder, at the foot of the stairs, apparently, edged with annoyance: “Are you going to wake up, or do I have to send Pete up there to pull you out of bed?”

She had to be kidding. But Pete always did have a short temper. Better not risk it. “Coming!” she called back. Keeping the comforter wrapped about her shoulders, she sat up and said “Good morning” to the shiny magazine cut-outs of Tony Danza, Andy Gibb, and David Cassidy smiling down at her. Interspersed between these men were thirteen purple, yellow or green Flower Power stickers, one for each year since her birth. In front of the window stood an orange and white desk with a big oval mirror and several drawers for her new make-up and brushes, a birthday present from her mother.

She yelped a little when she stood up—the bottoms of her feet felt raw and sore. Just the cold of the wood floors, she thought, and slipped on a pair of furry slippers before going downstairs to the breakfast and warmth of the new gas stove.

A heavily wrinkled copy of The Oregonian stood pinned like an etherized moth between Pete’s huge, freckled hands. His scruffy red beard lent him a slightly wild, caveman appearance.

“Morning,” she said, plopping into the chair across from him. A plate of bacon and eggs and a big bowl of oatmeal sat steaming on the table before her. She dug in hungrily. Glancing at the newspaper between spoonfuls, she saw the front-page story was a twenty-two car pile-up on the I-5. It sounded familiar somehow. But then again, there were often accidents on the I-5 in the winter.

“Anything interesting?” she asked after a long silence.

Pete heaved a sigh and pretended to look around the page he’d been reading. “Let’s see…nope, nothing about Casey, Danny, Johnny or whoever’s the latest heartthrob. Sorry, Becky.”

“My name’s Becca, not Becky.”

“Yeah, Pete,” said Linda, coming out of the bathroom and wiping her hands dry on her blue coveralls. She was a big woman, ever inch as tall as her husband, with straight blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. “The least you can do around here is call her by her grown-up name. She’s a teenager now, after all.”

“Thanks,” said Becca, smiling gratefully at her favorite aunt.

“Well, if Becca,” Pete said, emphasizing the last syllable, “wants to be treated like an adult, she’d better do her chores like on.” He laid the newspaper aside. “I had to bring in the wood again last night because she was watching that stupid TV show.”

“Top of the Pops isn’t stupid! Just because you don’t like music—”

“Bubblegum pop and hippies twiddling on guitars, singing nonsense: that isn’t music. That’s just idiotic troubadours at it again.” He leaned forward. “The Beatles? What kind of name is that for a musician? Bach, Beethoven, Brahms: those were musicians.”

“The Beatles are too musicians, and they’re a lot better than that crusty stuff you listen to—”

“Enough!” Linda ordered. Pete subsided slowly. Becca smirked. “Don’t you two start again. Pete, read your paper and finish your coffee. Becca, was your dishes and then get to that cleaning like I asked you.”

“How come I have to wash the dishes?”

“Because I cooked breakfast, that’s why.”

“Why doesn’t he wash the dishes? Because he’s a man?”

“Why don’t you split the wood?” Pete asked without looking at her.

“Never you mind, Becca. Just do as I tell you, okay? And I hope you enjoyed last night’s TV, because there won’t be any tonight. Snow knocked out the power.” She flicked the light switch to illustrate; nothing happened. Becca’s heart dropped; not just because no electricity meant no radio, not TV, and no electric blankets. A heavy snow probably also meant that her mother would be late getting back.

“Did mom call?” she asked.

“Not yet, honey. Anyway, when you finish the dishes, I want you to start on that porch again,” Linda said, making herself some instant coffee. To Pete she added: “Well, at least we got the stove hooked up in time.”

Becca’s mother had gone to Veterans Affairs office in Portland two days ago. There’d been having some problems with her dad’s death benefits, and her mother’d gone there to clear things up. Linda and Pete had agreed to watch after Becca and install the new gas stove while she was gone. Mom’d been having a rough time lately, Becca knew. With dad’s benefits getting delayed and the pharmacy cutting back mom’s working hours, they’d been having trouble making the mortgage payments. Becca had told Linda that she wanted to help her mother, but the only thing Linda had been able to come up with was to clean the back porch.

As she stood in the doorway leading between the kitchen and the porch, Becca recalled that she couldn’t remember ever having seen the floor out here. For years, they’d just been throwing boxes of tin cans and bales of yellowing newspapers back here, always with the unspoken rider that soon they’d take all this stuff to the dump. When Pete had moved some of the heavier boxes out of the way, they’d discovered that lumps of grease had congealed on the floor and hardened into something like liquid cement. She’d already dulled the edges of two painter’s trowels trying to scrape the stuff off. There weren’t even any windows back here, so she had to work with the door open to all the cold air coming in. It was finger-breaking, sweaty work, but she kept scraping, telling herself that it would help—that she could help.

And so it was that Pete found her: in tears, fingers cold, red and raw, but refusing to stop. He’d pulled the trowel from her hand and tried to console her as well as a gruff man could. She was embarrassed, but she just couldn’t stop crying.

“Look,” he said. “Go into the kitchen and boil up some water.”

She did as he ordered. He took the water from her, poured it into a bucket and then added some of her mother’s nail polish remover and some dish soap. Using this concoction and a razor blade, he showed her how to scrape up the grease in long, curling strands.

“Thanks,” she said, sniffing a little but feeling better.

“You’re welcome,” he said, handing her the bucket and the razor blade. “She should’ve told you how to do this at the start.”

“Who?”

“Linda, of course.”

“Guess she wanted to keep me busy, huh?” She squatted down, ready to start in on the next grayish lump.

“Yeah, you got that right.” He stuck his head into the kitchen to listen, and then added: “There’s an easier way, you know, if you really want to get that clean.”

“What’s that?” she asked without turning.

“Picture it clean.”

She looked at him and laughed. “Yeah, right, like that’s going to work.”

“Give it a try. Just picture it in your mind, and then concentrate on making it that way. You might be surprised.”

“This is like my cross country coach telling me to focus on the finish line, right?” Becca asked, but was brought up short by a cough from behind Pete.

Neither of them had noticed Linda walking up, but there she stood, arms crossed, a forced smile on her face.

“Becca?” she asked. “Why don’t you go upstairs while I talk to your uncle here for a minute?”

The shouts moved through the house, into the yard, and then back inside again. A sullen silence descended over the farm, punctuated here and there by the slamming of doors, heavy footsteps across floors, and the sound of shoveling outside. Becca spent the time in her room, thumbing through copies of Tigerbeat, occasionally checking out the window to see her uncle digging furiously in the garden, billowing clouds of steam rushing from his mouth as he scattered great scoops of black earth over the glittering snow.

They ate dinner near the wood stove in the living room. No one spoke. A camp lantern burned noisily on the coffee table in front of them, casting deep shows in the corners of the room. The picture of Becca’s father in his dress blues was just visible over the blank TV screen, his proud, green eyes watching them as they made their way through grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup thinned and pail with dollops of milk. He’d been killed in Vietnam in 1968, defending his unit from a surprise attack by Viet-Cong irregulars. His flag covered draped casket had been shown all the honors appropriate to a war hero. And then early this year an inquiry had been opened, and his death benefits delayed. Her mother had told her not to worry.

“You remember your father this way,” she’d ordered, pointing at this picture. Becca obeyed.

“When do you think mom’ll be back?” Becca asked. Linda glanced at Pete before answering.

“Well, with the snow storm and all, I expect it could be a day or two more.”

“Why hasn’t she called, then?”

“She did call, honey.”

“When?” Becca said, surprised.

“This afternoon.”

Becca was furious. “Why didn’t you tell me? You knew I wanted to talk to her.”

“But, Becca, I did tell you. Don’t you remember?”

And then Becca did remember: After Linda and Pete had helped her clean the back-porch, she’d taken a nap. She’d heard the telephone ring but had been too tired to get up to see who it was.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

Linda smiled at her and patted her head. “Don’t worry about, honey. Terry’s a good driver. She’s not going to risk it on these roads. I’m sure she’s just checked into a motel somewhere and doesn’t want to waste a dime on the pay phone, is all. Now, who’s up for a game of Life after dinner?”

That night, Becca dreamed of her mother. She often dreamed about her parents, especially since her father’d been killed. Usually these dreams were happy, but there’d been nightmares, too; and even the happy dreams left her wishing she wouldn’t have to dream again.

This dream was different. In this dream, her mother whispered to her from the closet. She opened the door and found her sitting there, dressed in a beautiful, green gown, her auburn hair pulled back, her eyes intent. She smiled and hugged Becca tight.

“Such a clever girl to find me here,” she said, soothing back Becca’s curly locks. “But it’s time for you to wake up now.”

“Why?”

“Linda and Pete are here to hurt you.”

Becca knew, just knew, she’d had this dream before, but couldn’t remember what her mother’d said the other time or times.

“Why?”

“Becca, there’s no time to explain. When you wake up, remember the number 25.”

“But why?” Becca asked desperately.

“That’s tomorrow’s date.”

“No it isn’t,” Becca protested. “Tomorrow’s the 23rd. We haven’t even had Thanksgiving yet.”

“Becca, you must believe me. Tomorrow is the 25th. Your aunt Linda is making you believe today is the 22nd. She’s been doing this to you for days. And tomorrow night you must write the number 26 on the bottom of your foot. You must do this for me. You must remember this time. Do as your mother tells you and wake up. Wake up. Wake up now!”

She opened her eyes to a dark room. She turned her head to see that the red LED’s of the clock read 12:25. What a weird dream, she thought, and realized her heart was beating fast. There’d be no going back to sleep just yet.

She heard voice downstairs. Figuring a snack or some warm milk might help her get back to sleep, she decided to go to the kitchen. At the bottom o the stairs, the voices became clearer. Her aunt and uncle were discussing something, the tone of their voices suggesting it was urgent.

“…difficult it is to keep this up with you fighting me all the time.” That was Linda.

Becca sat down on the step to eavesdrop.

“I just don’t like what we’re doing,” Pete complained.

“We don’t really have much choice, do we? I’ve been able to stall the authorities, but pretty soon they’re going to come here and take things over. We’ve got to find the Borok soon, before someone else does. Can you imagine what’ll happen if another Pair get their hands on it?”

“Yes, I can. But how long do you think you can keep Becca phased like this? And what’s going to happen once we tell her the truth?”

Phased? She leaned forward to hear more.

“The truth! No, she hasn’t done anything to deserve that. Don’t look at me like that, either. It’s different for girls, you know that. The shock could destroy her potential forever: and if she has half the power my sister had…”

“Has, maybe. We don’t know yet. She may just be hiding.”

Linda sighed. “I hop you’re right. I really do. But we can’t take the chance, if you aren’t. As for how long I can keep Becca phased…well, that’s up to you, isn’t it? You saw how she almost got away the other night. I need you to stop fighting me.”

There was a hiss as someone cracked open a bottle of beer.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You know what I mean. What do you think you were doing this afternoon?”

“I’m just trying to help her, is all.”

“Well, don’t. I can keep her phased, as long as you help me keep this dream going. I can’t do this on my own; she’s getting too powerful. I’m begging you, love, to just trust and support me on this. I know what I’m doing.”

Becca heard them kiss, and Pete say, “I’m trying, but you might want to consider the possibility that you’re asking too much this time.”

“To get the Borok? To protect Becca? No, I’m not asking too much. Just a little longer, I promise. I think we’ve almost found it. Terry’s dreams may have disappeared, but she hid the Borok incredibly well nonetheless. We tore up the garden today; we’ll tear apart the chicken coup tomorrow.”

“How long do you think we have?”

“Maybe a couple more days before the sheriff moves in, and then we’re going to have to take Becca back to Silverton with us. We were luck the storm hit when it did.”

“Lucky? Do you think Terry…?” He left the question unasked.

One thing was obvious to Becca, though: Pete and Linda had been lying to her about something and about her mother. She pushed the stairway door open and rushed into the kitchen. “What are you two doing?” she demanded.

“Pete!” Linda almost shouted in surprise. From his seat next to her at the kitchen table, Pete snatched Linda’s hand.

Their eyes closed and the dream faded.



“Becca, wake up! Breakfast’s ready. Get down her while it’s still warm.”

Becca opened her eyes slowly, unsure of what she’d find. She’d never had a dream within a dream before, and she found the effect unsettling. How far would she get from the bed before she was certain she really was awake?

Still, it was Thanksgiving break, so she could stay in bed as long as she wanted. She snuggled deeper into the soothing warmth of the down comforter. Just as she was about to drop off again, though, the number 25 floated up in her mind, followed by her mother’s face, and then the image of a surprised Pete and Linda in the kitchen. She came full awake.

She went to the window and looked out. Snow covered the surrounding hills, and rows of long icicles hung from the eves of the barn across the backyard. The world was quiet and still; a featureless sheet of gray clouds smeared the sun into a faint patch of brightness in an otherwise featureless sky. Only the peeling orange paint on the sea-saw and swing-set provided any color. Her father had pushed her on those swings, had held her as she squealed with laughter. She missed him so much. Hadn’t mom said he’d be coming home soon?

She closed the curtains and shrugged on a thick, red bathrobe before going downstairs.

She ate breakfast as usual. Pete gave her a hard time about her TV show, and Linda kept trying to teach her about responsibility and discipline, but that was normal. Later, she cleaned the back porch, finishing it a lot sooner than she’d expected. Linda then asked her to organize the attic while she and Pete repaired the chicken coup. They ate an early dinner. Pete and Becca stayed in the living room to read by lantern light while Linda cleaned up.

“I reckon,” Linda announced, coming out of the kitchen and wiping her face with a dish towel, “we’ve got maybe a day or two’s worth of propane in the tank, and then we’re going to have to head to Silverton. Can’t say I’d mind. Having to heat water on the stove for dishes one kettle at a time sucks.”

Becca’s been flipping through a magazine by the dim light near the living room window. It was just after five.

“You said that already,” she said, looking up.

“What, honey?” Linda asked.

“About us going to Silverton. You said that already.”

A look of concern crept over Linda’s face. “No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. Last night, when you and Pete were talking. Remember?”

Linda and Pete look at each other. They looked confused, but Becca thought she detected a hint of panic in Linda’s eyes.

Linda continued: “Last night? That couldn’t be. You were sleeping, honey. You were tired and you went to bed early. You’re probably just remembering a dream.”

Suddenly Becca felt drowsy. Faint memories welled up of saying goodnight, of brushing her teeth before bed, dreams of horses…

Becca fought off the drowsiness and locked eyes with her aunt. “Horses? I don’t even like horses. Didn’t you know that?”

“What are you talking about, Becca?”

“You want me to think I was dreaming of horses last night, but I wasn’t. I woke up and heard you and Pete talking about mom and stuff. Well, you’re not taking me to Silverton with you until I know what’s going on!”

Linda sat down next to Becca, still smiling gently. “Well, okay, yes, Pete and I were having a bit of a talk in the kitchen last night, that’s true, but not about going home. Isn’t that right, Pete?” she asked, looking meaningfully at her husband.

“Yep,” Pete said, putting his book aside.

“See, Becca?”

“Yeah, I see,” Becca said, standing up and backing away from Linda. “I see that I didn’t say anything about seeing you two in the kitchen.”

“Becca!” Linda snapped angrily. “Enough! I don’t know what you think you saw, but you were dreaming! You have to understand this.”

Pete rose from his armchair and stood next to Linda, putting his arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. She leaned in him. “Becca,” he said, “there’s something we need to tell you.” Linda’s eyes opened wide. She took his hand and squeezed.

“No. Not now, Pete.”

“Now, Linda. It’s time.”

“Time for what?” Becca asked, glaring at them. “What is it you’re not telling me?”

“No, Pete.”

“Becca,” Pete continued, ignoring Linda, “it’s time to tell you that your mother—”

“NO!”

Linda’s scream ripped through Becca’s mind like a chainsaw. The last thing she saw was Linda snapping her eyes shut in concentration and Pete’s face turning brick red as he fell backwards to the floor.



Becca’s day started much as any other: she woke, got dressed, and at breakfast. Sure, her uncle Pete gave her a hard time, but he always did that when they got together. And there’d been a big snow storm sometime during the night, maybe…she couldn’t be sure. The snow didn’t look so fresh. The only thing that morning that didn’t fit was the way her aunt Linda, usually so boisterous, minced around the kitchen, looking tired, speaking little—such a change from the big, raucous woman who always filled the house with wild laughter and dirty jokes. After breakfast, Becca cleaned the back porch and then helped Linda straighten up the attic. Pete spent most of the day packing bags and getting the car read to go: the propane had almost run out, so they needed to go to Pete and Linda’s house in Silverton to meet Becca’s mother there on the way back from Salem. Pete seemed even quieter that usual. He seemed distracted, as if he was on the verge of remembering something but couldn’t quite get it past the tip of his tongue.

Finally, he asked Becca as they past each other on the stairs, “What day is it?”

“The 22nd, right?”

He set the suitcase down, and did some figuring on his fingers, his beard moving slightly as he mumbled the numbers. Then his face flared up. “That bitch! LINDA!” he roared, rushing down the stairs. “Come here!” Becca turned and hurried after him.


Linda stood back to the corner, wide-eyed and frightened. Pete moved slowly toward her, a huge man in his anger, breathing hard, his back to Becca.

Tears ran down Linda’s cheeks. “Please, Pete. I didn’t want to,” she sobbed, “but you wouldn’t cooperate. You wanted to tell her everything. We can’t do that. Not yet.”

“Tell me what?” Becca asked, but was ignored.

Pete screamed, advancing: “You never do that to me! Not me. That’s the rule.” And then his voice lowered to a growl. “You know that as well as anyone. You saw what happened with Kayla and Zoltan.”

Linda nodded.

“You helped me clean up that mess, right?”

Linda nodded, her eyes red with tears.

“Well, now you’re going to feel it!”

Becca’s ears popped and her hair flew backward as a jet of fire erupted from Pete’s outstretched hand. It enveloped Linda. Becca heard a shriek of pain and then the world went…funny.

The air around Pete shimmered and pulsed. Pete’s eyes bulged and then he clawed at his throat, as if unable to breathe. Linda jerked a table lamp from the wall socket, dashed forward and hit Pete as hard as she could with it. The big man fell to his knees.

“Becca!” Linda called. “Help me!”

Becca looked at the older woman, torn between a desire to help, a sense of confusion, and the sting of deceit. She shook her head and stayed where she was standing.

Linda dashed for the front door, but stopped at Pete’s word: “Not yet, bitch.” He stood up and then walked over to Becca. She shrank from his blood-streaked face. He’d dug huge gouges of skin out with his fingernails. He grabbed her hand and held it tight.

“Becca,” he said, “you’re mother is dead. She died in that big accident on the highway five days ago. Linda here has been keeping the truth from you. She wants to steal your mother’s house and send you away.”

As difficult as it was to hear, Becca nevertheless felt relieved. She knew it was true as soon as she’d heard it. Cold anger rose within her. She knew what she had to do. Even sharper, though, was the sensation of pure power running up her arm from where Pete gripped her hand, filling her mind with fire. Then she realized what she, Becca, a Dream Witch, could do: memories of dreams of her mother’s teaching sleeted across her mind’s eye.

…envision it…daughter…all you have to do is believe…it will be true because it is true…no tricks…no lies…only belief will do…avenge me, my daughter…my love

She screamed as the power exploded from her, a thrilling, frightening, sense of release, of freedom, causing every nerve to sing in delight. Becca knew Linda was dead. Pete knew it, too. More importantly, Linda knew it, too; she felt her heart seize within her chest, felt the blood slow and cool within her veins, the lungs shrink and collapse upon themselves.

Linda fell without dignity, without drama, just collapsed, a great body of flesh and bone robbed of vitality, thudding into the thin carpet.

Becca went and stood over the body. She felt exhilarated, but frightened, also. Linda looked smaller now, empty. Still, she consoled herself, Linda shouldn’t have lied to her. Is that really enough to die for? a tiny voice inside her whispered. Only then did she turn around to look at Pete.

He was gone. Fire was spreading along the carpet and up the drapes. She had minutes, maybe. She rushed to the stairs and grabbed her suitcase from where Pete had dropped it. Linda’s purse was still in the kitchen; she checked it for cash and then carried suitcase and purse outside.

The car was gone. Snow covered the landscape like a dirty, white blanket. Behind her, the sound and heat of the fire were growing. She could see the town a half-mile off to the left; a lot of people would notice if she walked through carrying a suitcase by herself. Luckily, though, the bus stop was just this side of town. She could walk there and with the money in Linda’s purse buy a ticket and get away.

But to where? She wasn’t panicked, and that seemed strange. Maybe shock would set in later. She hefted the suitcase and set off. In time, she would find out what Pete had meant about her mother, and what this Borok was, but for now she had to find a place to hide. She began walking.

Great clouds of smoke rose into the gray sky as the house burned, the small, black haired girl walking away from it, suitcase in hand, a determined, wide-eyed look on her face.




End of Chapter 1
Note: I'd really appreciate any feedback regarding audience. This is aimed at teenagers, but I've never written for that audience before.