Chapter 3

3

I t took me some time to get myself together if I were, to be honest. No, if I were honest, I'd admit that I had a bit of a panic attack when I realized where I was, as if the entire day had been some sort of mad dream and I'd spent the time in the park instead. Honestly, that would still have been an improvement over being at that house. I'd had the very improbable thought of joining the carnival earlier, and it was becoming more tempting by the second. Maybe, just maybe, Madame Persephone would show up in my dreams again, and I could ask her about it.

And, even if she didn't, I could still leave... Couldn't I? I'd have to think about that if it came down to it.

The sun was starting to set, so I left the park and headed for home. My father was waiting at the door when I walked in, and before I could say anything, he yanked my backpack off me and opened it up. My adrenaline spiked in a moment of panic. He'd find the envelope holding the cash and fare card from Madame Persephone. Worse still, he'd find the weird little demon plushie I'd won on the midway. I was nearing hyperventilation when my backpack was thrust at me. "Good," my father said. "I see you handed out all the literature."

I swallowed hard and nodded, unsure what was happening but rolling with it. "Yes, sir."

"You are forgiven for your recent transgressions," he told me with a tiny fraction of approval that made me want to sneer. Thankfully, years of keeping my face blank worked in my favor. "You may go to your room. There will be no dinner for you tonight. Instead, take the time to reflect on recent events and apply your thoughts to your relationship with God."

"Yes sir," I said again, though I was screaming at him in my head. An actual loving god would be more concerned about the fact that they'd beaten their child rather than any imagined slight or rebellion to the parents. An actual loving god would wonder why parents had held off feeding their child for an entire day when food was plentiful in their household. But I simply stood there and waited until my father gestured for me to go to my room, at which point I made my escape.

When I was safely in my room with the door shut, I opened my backpack and looked inside. The envelope, the plushie, and the remaining half bag of caramel corn were still inside. My father would never have ignored them if he'd seen them. "Oh wow," I whispered to myself. Whatever Madame Persephone had done was real. As I thought, I plucked a piece of caramel corn from the bag and popped it into my mouth. This meant I had a place to hide things. Not that I thought I really would. Keeping a journal would be nice, but I'd be afraid of it getting out of my backpack and being found somehow. I'd go to the public library and check out books they didn't want me to read, but word would get back to them if any of their flock saw me. Regardless, it was a safe space, and I was grateful for it. I tossed a few more pieces of caramel corn into my mouth, then tucked the bag away and crawled into bed, where I had a modicum of control over what happened.

Much to my dismay, I did not dream of the carnival again. Instead, I'd somehow ended up in some old house. It was likely abandoned, given the state of the place. It wasn't filthy or completely falling apart or anything. It just seemed...worn. Forgotten. Empty. In need of love. In a way, it was kind of like me, though I quickly shoved that thought aside. It looked like I imagined the interior was in those old Victorians my mother scoffed at whenever we drove by. She'd said something about them being old and unfashionable and how they were an eyesore and should be demolished, but I'd always thought they were beautiful.

I wandered out of the room I'd shown up in and went down the hall, eventually finding what I assumed was the living room. There was no furniture, but there was a fireplace. The lack of furniture wasn't a big deal, considering this was my dream. I could fix that. I looked at the fireplace and said, "This would be far better lit."

Suddenly, there were cheerfully crackling logs in the fireplace, and I nodded in satisfaction. Then I willed a couch and a fluffy blanket into existence, curling up and enjoying being surrounded by soft, comfortable things. I didn't know what would happen if I fell asleep in a dream, but I was nearly cozy enough to do just that when my eyes fell upon something resting on the fireplace's mantel that I hadn't seen when I initially looked over the room. I stood from my cozy spot and crossed the space, only to discover an old leather book. I hadn't willed it there, and it didn't disappear when I tried to will it away, which only left me confused. I'd never encountered an item I couldn't manipulate in a dream. I opened it and found it was a journal of some sort. It was blank except for a single line on the first page.

What are the last five things that made you smile?

That seemed very much like something a psychologist would ask, which was a little disconcerting. Regardless, I looked for a pen, only to come up short. I took the book to the couch, curled back up, and willed a pen into existence. I made it write in teal ink just because I could, and answered the question.

Experiencing things I never thought I'd have the chance to.

Meeting new people who didn't immediately judge me.

Having a space to put things I want to keep safe.

Learning more about my dead brother.

Being able to spend an entire day away from my horrible parents.

I stared at the list and smiled, happy to have some things I felt honestly grateful for. It occurred to me that it had been a long time since I'd smiled and meant it, but I'd done a lot of that over the day. I got rid of the pen, but it remained when I tried again to will the journal out of existence. Nonplussed, I tossed it next to me, staring at it for a long moment before turning my attention back to the crackling fireplace. I spent some time zoning out and collecting my thoughts before deciding to search the rest of the house.

Walking, I realized I'd shown up in my dream barefoot. I could feel that the wood floors needed to be sanded down or something, so I willed slippers onto my feet. I would have tried to create wall-to-wall carpeting, but something told me that would be too much like changing part of the house and wouldn't work, though I had no idea how I knew that. Sometimes, I just had strong gut feelings about things in my dreams, and this was one of those times.

I shuffled through an ancient-looking kitchen. It held what looked like a wood-burning stove, a wooden fridge-looking thing that, from what I could see, had no discernible power cord and no sink to be found. It was a good thing I didn't need to eat while I was dreaming because, as far as I was concerned, the kitchen was not functional.

Another door led me out to a sunroom, of all things. The glass roof was fogged over with grime, and the glass walls weren't much better, but I could see that the space had once been beautiful. I could imagine it filled with greenery and some nice squishy seating.

I started to leave the sunroom, and the dream began to waver. Ah, I was waking up. I sighed and looked around the house as it began to fade. "I hope I come back here," I murmured before my eyes opened in reality.

My mother forced me to sit while she slathered makeup on my face before school to hide what she could of my bruise. She did it harder than necessary, and it hurt enough that I couldn't help thinking she did it on purpose, but I sat through it without comment or reaction. That backfired a little, though, because she only did it harder when I didn't react.

I got through school the way I usually did, which involved spending lunch at an abandoned corner of campus far away from the cafeteria after grabbing my tray of food and just not talking to anyone. Socializing at school would have meant things I said getting back to my classmates' parents, and they would only pass that along to my parents. No thanks.

When I got home, I went straight to my room to do homework and stayed there until I was called for dinner, which involved having my father preaching at us through the entire meal. I often wondered if he was using us as practice for his next service or if he just really liked the sound of his own voice.

Eventually, the sermon ended, and I was allowed to escape. I took a shower, hid myself away in my room again, and went to bed despite it being earlier than usual.

I let out a joyous whoop when I returned to the abandoned house. The couch and fluffy blanket remained, and the fire crackled away. The old journal was also back on the mantle, despite me having left it on the couch last time, but it was a dream, after all. There were a couple of new things next to it, and I moved closer to look. One of the items was a paperback of what turned out to be a fantasy-ish sort of story. According to the back cover, it was about a woman who moves to a strange town and inherits a magical bookstore. I wondered why it was there but turned my attention to the other new item.

It was an elaborately embossed black frame made of wood, roughly eight by ten. It held a photo of a man that sent shivers down my back because he looked like an aged-up version of me. It didn't disappear when I tried to get rid of it, so it was much like the other odd items in the house that didn't listen. I swallowed hard with anxiety and grabbed the journal instead. When I opened it up, what I'd written was still there. I turned the page, and there was writing that hadn't been there the night before.

I thought you might like to know what your brother looked like. Tell me if you don't like the photo, and I'll remove it.

I've included the novel because I thought you might like something to entertain you while you're here. It's a rather good story, and I highly recommend it.

What is one thing you've learned about yourself recently?

It was a dream, I reminded myself. Regardless, I picked up the frame and looked at what my brain told me was Gabe. "I wish I could have known you," I said to the photo, setting the frame back in its place. Whether that was actually how he'd looked or not, the statement remained true.

I grabbed the journal and the paperback, then headed for the couch. I wrapped myself in the blanket and created the teal pen from my last dream.

Thanks for the photo and the book. Who are you? Why are there things I can't change about this house and its items?

I've learned that trust is a thing that's easily broken and that some parents shouldn't be parents.

I tossed the journal onto the couch again and settled in to read the novel.

The next day was pretty much the same. I went to school after being subjected to my mother's efforts to hurt me more, came home, hid in my room, had dinner and a sermon, took a shower, and went to bed. I could have cried with relief when, once again, I was in the house. It was starting to feel like coming home already, which was dangerous because it would be painful if I got too comfortable and reached a point where I couldn't come back.

The book was back on the mantle, and I picked it up.

I'm a friend, and I can't tell you the reasons behind how things work here—not yet. Someday, I promise.

If there was one thing you could do, realistically, to bring yourself some joy at this point in your life, what would it be?

I set down the book and wandered through the house, taking in all the rooms before heading into the sunroom. It was still dingy and in need of care, but as I stared at it, I realized I had an answer to the stranger's question. I turned around and headed back to the living room, picking up the book and willing a pen into my hand.

I want to make the sunroom beautiful again. Since I can't do it like an ordinary dream, I want to be able to do it by hand. But I suppose that's not possible.

I set the book back down and headed back into the sunroom. The details along what little wood was amongst the glass must have been beautiful, but now it all seemed covered in dust and grime thanks to decades of neglect. It looked like some of the glass panels might have been made at least partially of colored panes, but it was hard to tell when the glass was just as filthy as the wood. The floor was a mosaic but, like the glass, too dirty to distinguish colors and shapes beyond the vague suggestion of what it might look like.

There was a fountain in the middle of the room—thankfully dry because it wasn't hard to imagine how disgusting any standing water would have been—but otherwise, it looked in good shape aside from needing a cleaning. It had a stone base that would have held a decent-sized pool of water and was probably wide enough and the right height to sit on. In the middle of the empty pool was a rectangular stone pillar with what looked like might be lion's faces on each side. Atop that stone pillar was a large urn of some sort. I wasn't sure if the urn was part of the fountain's water system or if it was supposed to hold plants, but either way, I could see that it had been stunning when it was in use.

If I were to be honest, I had to admit that I had already fallen in love with this house. I wanted it to be mine despite it being a dream. But even if it could only be a dream, I wanted it to at least be beautiful again.

I didn't realize it then, but this desire to restore the house had given me the purpose Madame Persephone had mentioned. That was something I'd never felt before, and it was a step toward becoming my own person instead of an extension of my parents' church.

Unfortunately, it wasn't much longer until I woke up and went through the motions for another day. My mother seemed more irritated than ever, and I wondered if that was because I hadn't been responding to her anger. However, I didn't care. I just wanted the day to finish so I could go back to bed and dream. When I could finally curl up in bed, I was relieved to find myself in the house's living room. Without hesitating, I grabbed the journal from the mantle and opened it up.

From what I've been told, if it has a glass roof, it's technically a conservatory, not a sunroom. Regardless of what you decide to call it, I've left some things that might help you achieve your goal. If you require anything else, please let me know.

Why does the thought of restoring the room bring you joy? I'm not suggesting it shouldn't. I'm merely curious.

With the book still in hand, I ran to the...well, conservatory, I supposed, if the words were accurate. Next to the fountain I found a bucket, scrub brushes, clean rags, bottles of what were probably cleaning agents, and a hose with a spray nozzle attached. The other end appeared to trail off, so I followed it until I found it connected to a spigot I hadn't seen before. I turned the valve and could hear the water rush up.

My heart beat hard in excitement, and I laughed before opening the journal again.

Thank you so much. It brings me joy for a few reasons. Mostly, I can tell it's a beautiful space under all the grime, and it would be a shame for that beauty to stay hidden. Also, it's the first place I can really call mine, even if it's just a dream. There's always a chance that I'll never see it again after I wake up, but I want to appreciate it while I have it.

I closed the book and set it aside, then looked around. It was a big job, and I wasn't sure where to start. "Well," I said to myself after several minutes, "the fountain's in the middle of the place, and the cleaning supplies are right next to it. I may as well start there."

I'm not sure I'll ever be able to find words to describe the level of gross involved with a fountain that had been caked over in algae and slime and then left to dry for decades. You would think any old gross leftover smell would be gone, but when I started scrubbing, the stench was so foul it made me gag. I couldn't open the doors leading outside for some reason, but I could leave the door connecting to the house ajar. It would probably make the entire house stink, but at least the smell was less concentrated.

I kept on scrubbing and rinsing the fountain until I was awake. For once, I was a little grateful for morning to have come because it meant I could finally get the fountain's odor out of my sinuses. Or, at least, I'd try. At that moment, it felt like the stench was burned in.

I was so distracted by the conservatory and what I could do with it once it was clean that I earned myself a slap from my mother when I didn't answer her fast enough for her liking. She screamed that I was ignoring her. I sighed mentally, went through the "yes ma'am, no ma'am, whatever you say ma'am" ritual until she let me leave, and headed for school.

I ignored my teachers—who ignored me right back, so that worked in my favor—and opted to doodle in my notebook instead of paying attention, drawing an overhead layout of the conservatory. It was a room designed to hold plants, but I knew next to nothing about greenery beyond the grass that grew in my yard, so during my lunch, I went to the library and looked for botanical information. Unfortunately, I mainly found books with titles like 'Trees, Fruits, and Flowers of the Bible,' but I did what I could with the information at hand. I wished I'd had a smartphone or at least access to the public library without fear of my parents accusing me of trying to learn about devil worship so I could have a broader information pool. That said, I had no desire to earn myself another full-on beating. My face was just starting to heal, and I didn't need it black and blue again.

When school ended, I took my time walking home. Not so much that I'd get in trouble for being late, but enough that I was allowed to look at my surroundings. The trees on the street had purple blooms, and I wished I knew what they were. A small flock of birds flew by, and the white, green, and purple coloring caught my attention. Were they exotic birds? Were they native? I had no idea.

My eyes were beginning to truly open, and there was no shutting them again. For good or ill, my world was taking on whole new colors.

The next night, the words in the book said:

It won't disappear. I promise.