Should Have Kept Sleeping

“You have got to be kidding me!” Harry’s wife screamed. There was a patter of feet, then a softer holler up the stairs, “I need you to fix the washing machine again.”

Harry moaned, throwing a pillow over his head to drown out the morning needs. It was only six in the morning. Who got up and trumpeted about broken washers at bloody six in the morning?

Harry’s phone buzzed from where it slept on the nightstand. He flopped his hand out from beneath the pillow, desperately looking for the handy dandy decline call. It buzzed again.

“Come on,” Harry groaned. He ran a palm over his face, coaxing his eyes to open. They slowly obliged. The blinding light reminded him exactly why they were closed. He threw his flower power comforter over his head. The phone rang.  

Harry silently cried. He really liked sleep despite popular opinion. He rolled, not having to go extremely far before plopping onto the floor. His wife tended to hog most of the space. Just be careful to never ask her about it. Or her habit of night farts. They were not silent, but still very deadly.

The phone continued to vibrate.

Harry emerged from beneath the tumbled blankets, blindly fumbling for the noise maker. His hands wrapped around a rough square. He snatched it off the nightstand, retreating into his new blanket fort before answering, “Hello?”

“You sound awful,” the responder, Mike, said.

“Did you call just to tell me this?” Harry croaked, sounding significantly worse.

“No, but now I can't remember why I called. Why weren’t you picking up?”

“Maybe it’s because it’s six in the morning,” Harry growled.

“Oh right, west coast time. Totally forgot about that,” Mike chuckled, “so, it's early back there?”

Harry rolled his eyes, about to tell Mike just how early it was when his five-year-old daughter sang up the stairs, “Daddy, why is mommy’s face all red?”

Harry sighed, his head falling into his palm, “I just want to sleep.”

Harry put the phone on the floor and pushed it out of his fort. He eyed it, debating if it was worth following. Something clanged downstairs, so probably.

He crawled out but did not pick up his phone. He may have to wake up, but Mike nonsense shouldn't start ‘til after coffee.

Harry slowly rose, his boxers bunching in all the wrong places. He bent down to retrieve Mike when something zoomed past in his peripheral vision. He jumped, but as none of it was graceful he landed on his butt, the phone pinned beneath him. The sound of Mike through the speaker was a very confusing vibration.

A shadow shifted and Harry squinted at it. A small figure stepped forward, wrapped from head to toe in a black flowing cloak. The figure raised its head, revealing two sparkling emerald eyes. Everything else was hidden beneath midnight cloth.

“I’m gonna have to call you back,” Harry mumbled into his crotch. The sound must have reached the phone as Mike began speaking louder, this time in protest. Harry shifted and ended the call.

He rose, the movement deliberately slow. The figure's eyes followed his face, eventually staring straight up. The figure was tiny, they couldn't have been more than a four-year-old child. Harry took a step forward, his heart pounding so loudly he couldn't hear his own words.

“Hello,” he whispered. He frowned, glancing for an open window but all were still bolted, “How did you get in here?”

The child's gaze traveled to the street side wall. Harry frowned, “You came from the street?”

The child only raised its eyes to his. Lightning burst in Harry’s skull, words tumbling over themselves, You can't hide - surrender - nightmares don't all fade.

Harry slammed hands over his ears, falling to his knees. The words only roared louder, We don't fade - so quiet - come join us. He squeezed his eyes shut; the words closer to a siren then actual sounds, come - now - don’t we all. He rolled into a ball and whimpered. The sound reached a crescendo, blaring so loudly his heart stopped.

Silence.

Harry didn't move, his lungs inhaling a shaky breath. Something scratchy brushed his shoulder. He pleaded with his eyes to open. They only did so when the itchy substance ran over his skin once more.

The child watched him. The fabric on her face had ridden up slightly, revealing perfectly curved eyebrows scrunched together. But confusion was not held in them. No, it was pity.

The child flowed away, the bottom of her cloak hitting his shoulder one last time. She stood in front of the window, the golden morning rays shining around her. They left no shadow. Her feet held no weight, the carpet holding no indentation. She glanced back at Harry, and was gone.

Her cloak fluttered to the floor, no host holding it captive. It slowly shriveled, compressing until it formed a tiny rectangle. Harry stared at it, his body unwilling to respond.

 “Daddy, is mommy’s face a tomato?” his daughter cooed.

Harry inched toward the rectangle, faces taking shape as he neared. He stopped, hovering above it.

It was a photograph, one of his most cherished. His wife grinned up at him, her hair a frizzy cloud around her face. She practically glowed, likely because of a child's head peeking out from that hair. His daughter beamed, her cheeks covered in melted chocolate she had snuck. She tried to deny it, but the evidence was stark against her supple skin.

A tiny smile spread across his lips, taking in just how much his daughters curly hair resembled the puffball of her mothers.

Harry stood, leaving the photo where it lay on the ground. He rushed to the stairs, taking them two at a time as he marched to fix the washing machine and fix his wife’s face.

He reached the bottom, nearly slamming into his daughter. Her arms were crossed over her tiny chest, a foot tapping against the carpet.

“What is it Clarissa?” Harry said, swinging her into his arms. She giggled, burying her head into his chest.

“Mommy’s face is all red,” she demonstrated by tracing an outline around Harry's entire head.

“Well, let’s see if I can fix that,” He murmured past a smile. He waltzed over to the laundry room, only swinging her back to the ground when he spotted his wife. Clarissa landed gracefully on her feet, her long curly hair tickling his legs.

“Where have you been, I told you the washer was broken thirty minutes ago,” his wife demanded.

“Has it been that long already? I would have guessed it’d only been a minute,” Harry said.

‘It’s a good thing you aren’t guessing then daddy,” Clarissa giggled, her big hazel eyes watching him. He smiled and placed his hand on his wife’s back, gently steering her toward the washer.

He stopped, feeling her gaze. She studied him, trying to figure out if she could trust him to not break anything.

He gave her a small kiss on the cheek, curling her wild hair behind an ear.

“I’ll be done in a few minutes, then you can wash all the clothes you want,” Harry whispered.

His wife kept her face in a pout, but as she turned he saw a stunning smile bloom.

She marched back out to the living room, herding their daughter out. A giggle echoed off the walls as Harry began poking and prodding the unhappy machine. He shimmied to the back of the washer, inspecting the connections when a scream broke his thoughts. Harry stopped, frozen, as another scream came from the other room. He yanked his way out from behind the washer, but his boxers caught on a shard of exposed metal, dragging him back. He fumbled with the fabric, trying to free it. To run to his family. To save them.

His hands slipped, causing blood to dribble from his fingertips. He kept pulling, twisting, but it only tightened its hold.

Their screams stopped.

The metal finally sliced through the seam, freeing him. He ran, darting to where his wife and child were playing. They laid as still as ghosts.

His daughter was clutched in his wife's arms, dark patches colored where their clothes touched skin. Their hair fanned around them as halos. Two angels. A small rectangle laid upon his wife's shoulder. Harry's legs moved with a mind of their own, coming to stand over the tiny image. A photo of a girl and her mother, both bearing grins and crazy hair that could light the stars.

Voices started inside his head once more, not all nightmares fade - over and over - never escape.

They grew, a tsunami inside his mind, join us - I'll wait for you - daddy, her face is red.

He collapsed, holding his wife and child who turned to ash in his hands, never here - years ago - join us.

His skin grew icy, all the warmth lost with his family, his heart, join me daddy - i’ll wait - join me.

Join me.