The Nightmare, 1962

 The Nightmare/Fuseli

When I was a little kid and the old man was still alive, we lived in a house at the top of Queen Mary, right at the end of the street, by a copse of trees and directly across the road from the ravine leading down to the creek. I was told there were “things” down there and to never go across the road, but my parents never had to threaten to tan my hide to anchor me to the yard – for I was sure there were “things” there and I was very, very afraid.

I was especially afraid at night.

The nightmare began with me standing out on the front lawn with the old man; it must have been fall, because he had on the suede jacket he used to wear.  The nasty old man who lived next door, Mr. Cushing, called over to Dad in his loud voice “I see the Floaters got another kid last night, eh?”

The old man’s face flushed red with anger. “Not in front of the boy,” he said curtly. “You’re a fool to believe in those stories anyway.”

But I believed, even though I didn’t know what a “Floater” was; I only knew they “got” kids.

And there was no doubt in my mind that I was the next kid they were going to get.

Then it was night and I was in my bedroom, alone, in the dark. My parents had taken away my night light, as I was a big boy now,  and they insisted on opening my bedroom window, even though the trees came up to it and anything could sneak up and get at me.

The scene shifted, as they do in dreams and I could see the edge of the ravine, illuminated by a nearby street lamp, which cast a pool of tepid, sepia light on the bushes and the crowding trees.

For a time, which might have been a moment or might have been an hour, nothing happened – nothing except a heightened sense of both anticipation and apprehension – but slowly I became aware of a white, spherical object flitting through the shadows between the trunks of the oaks and maples, drawing closer and closer until suddenly it bobbed out into the pale, amber light.

It was a human head.

It has stopped moving, hanging suspended in the murky light, about five feet above the asphalt. Slowly, it turned from side to side, as if sniffing the air for an unknown scent, before freezing again, going rigid with attention.

It was facing the house.

I could see it then, a boyish, almost babyish face, freckled, the pale cheeks yellowed by the street light, the longish hair greasy and disheveled. The eyes were wide and I was sure I could see a glint of red as it looked across the road, as if it knew I was there – and I was sure it did.

And then it began to move, drifting gently across the road, like a balloon carried on a mild breeze with neither hurry nor care – but still getting closer with each passing second.

I could see myself in my bedroom, see myself lying under the covers in my blue Dino pjs, mouth open, sound asleep, asleep, even though I was conscious and observing the scene as if I was a disinterested bystander.

“Get up, get up, get up,” I wanted to scream – but was unable to make a sound; all I could do is watch in horror as my sleeping body slept on.

The scene shifted back to outside, where the head, wafting gently like a large soap bubble, had finished crossing the road and was now heading (no pun intended) for the trees on my side of the house.

“Get up, get up, get up,” I screamed in my mind, “you have to close the window, quick.” I willed myself to wake up – normally I had trouble going to sleep, not trying to wake up – but I just lay there, helpless, dead meat on a platter.

I saw the bark on the trunks of the trees in the grove, as if I was walking – or floating – through them, then the light blue paneling along the side of the house, then the dark cavity of an open window, which I – or whoever – immediately headed towards.

It was my window; of that, I was positive.

I saw myself back in bed and still unconscious, the scene morphing into a view of the open window, as seen from the interior of the room and revealing the shadowy outlines of the encroaching thicket – and then suddenly something white was there, momentarily hanging in the air and then coming to rest on the window sill.

The head.

For an unfathomable time, the head lay there, as if it too was asleep, but then I became aware that the reddish, slightly protruding  eyes, were moving around in their sockets, surveying the room and all its contents, before coming to a sudden stop – and staring directly at the my inert form, lying innocently in bed.

I was beside myself with terror, wailing in a frenzy of sheer, unadulterated, panic, knowing, in the iciness of my heart, I would not wake up.

The head rose off the windowsill, and, as if blown by a gentle, nighttime breeze, came slowly towards me, reaching the bed, hanging motionless some eighteen inches above my face:

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I threw myself out of bed with a shriek, flailing madly in the direction of the door, bawling hysterically at the top of my lungs and crashing through the door of my parent’s  bedroom where my mother was already calling “What’s wrong, what’s wrong,” while the old man, cursing, was fumbling for the light. Everywhere, in my bedroom, the hallway, my parent’s room, I could see scarlet eyes staring towards me from out of the shadows; the only escape from them was to burrow between Mom and Dad and hide underneath the covers (although I thought they might follow me there too).

Eventually, between bouts of hysterical crying, I managed to gasp out my story about the “face” as I persisted in calling it, finally falling into a troubled sleep.

Just before I slipped away, I heard Mom say “You don’t think…”

“I checked – there’s nothing there,” the old man said irritably. “That stupid bastard next door put it into his head.”

I must have slept with my parents for at least a week, which didn’t improve the old man’s disposition; eventually, they managed to coax me back into my own room, but for weeks I slept with all the lights on and the window firmly shut, drapes drawn tight. In the end, my folks installed a pale blue night light and I used it until we moved to the apartment years later.

I had been persuaded that it was all a bad dream, but when I started school, the other kids in the schoolyard soon put me right as to the nature of my nocturnal visitor.

It had been a Nightfloater. A Floater.

Noreen: The Tent, 1971

Noreen: Photo c/o turpinanatomy

That summer, we started sleeping out in various tents, in various backyards. The idea, of course, was to run around all over town as soon as the old folks were asleep. Our town had a curfew – nobody under 18 was supposed to be out after 10 o’clock at night – and we liked breaking it every chance we got. The old people were afraid of us running wild and getting into drugs.

Or maybe that wasn’t the only reason; not that we ever saw anything on our nocturnal expeditions.Things that were never talked about.

We were in a tent in Stash’s backyard, whispering while waiting to take off.

“I’m amazed they let us sleep out,” I said quietly.

“Why?’ Whoever said it didn’t sound particularly interested.

‘You know why,” I answered simply.

“Oh, not that Bob shit again,” Rickie said, loud as usual; he emphasized his point by giving me a none-to-gentle kick in the shins.

“Hey, you guys remember Noreen?” Wimp said.

“Who?” More than one guy said it, so no, nobody remembered her, but me.

“The strange girl, the one with the wild hair, who use to wear those long dresses.”

“Her hair was a worse mess than Wimps’” Rickie cackled; why couldn’t that guy be quiet?

“I think my hair is my best feature,” Wimp noted with dignity; he never wasted time arguing with people about how butt ugly he was.

“I’m pretty sure she was one of them,” I said.

“I think you had the hots for that ugly broad.” Rickie snorted.

“Did you know she lived in that old shack, the one on the other side of the train tracks?” No one had known that; in fact, no one had known that anyone had been living in that battered hovel. I had my audience now.

“Noreen lived with her grandparents; her parents were gone and nobody ever talked about them. That’s why she kept to herself at school; how was she supposed to make friends. It’s not like she could invite any over; her grandparents were little better than hillbillies and I don’t think they even wanted Noreen to go to school, but they kind of had too.

“One night, an old black car pulled up into the ruts in front of the shack and some people got out. They stood for a long time on the sagging front porch talking through the screen door to the old man, who wouldn’t let them in, while at the same time the old lady was holding Noreen in the backroom, a virtual prisoner.

“But she could hear them, at least some of it and at one point she heard a man’s voice – an unfamiliar voice, but one she thought somehow that she knew say, “She’s ours and we’re taking her. The voices sounded angry and became louder and louder as the argument persisted.

“Eventually, they drove away. Noreen could see the old people were upset, but they refused to answer and questions or even to admit anything had even happened until finally, when Noreen had persisted a bit too long with her questioning, the old man threatened to take his belt and give her a lickin.

“But later that night, as she lay in her rumpled bed, Noreen heard a voice, which sometimes sounded faint and faraway, but at other times seemed closer, clearer: “Noreen, Noreen, come out, come outside.”

“Noreen was afraid to move, afraid of getting into trouble, so she lay there, trying hard not to listen, as the voice made her really want to go outside.

“This story is making me want to go outside the tent,” Rickie grumbled, but somebody shushed him.

“She didn’t say nothing in the morning either, but she did notice the old people were looking at her strangely, so she tried to act like nothing had happened. What could she do? She didn’t have anyone she could confide in at school, no friends or a teacher even, so she just had to keep it to herself. And the next night, the voice came again, and this time Noreen tiptoed through the sleeping house and stepped out onto the porch.

“Two heads floated in the yard in front of the shack; she knew what they were and she knew they were her parents and that they had come to take her away. She was just about to go to them and then her Grandfather was there, with his 22 and fired at the head of the man

.

“The heads vanished into the darkness, but it appeared the man had been hit. The old man gave a snort of triumph, but Noreen sprang at him, knocking the shotgun from his hands and pushing him off the porch.  As he lay sprawled in the dirt, he watched in horror as Noreen’s head detached from her body and flew right at him.

“She tore his throat out with her strong, yellow teeth.

“She killed the Grandma and then she set fire to the shack and burned it to the ground. They arrested her, of course, but she couldn’t go to trial, not under those circumstances. My guess is that she’s confined in 999 Queen Street, in a special cell with bars on the windows and that every night, she’s under observation – and they watch every night while her head detaches from her body and it flies around the room.”

“That’s bullshit,” Rickie said with disgust.

“I think it’s true.”

“Prove it.” 

“Did that old dump really burn down?” Wimp asked calmly.

“Yeah, and I can show you guys,” I said, “Unless you’re too scared to look.”

After that, of course, everybody had to go and have a look. We had to take an indirect approach, as the shack was situated across the tracks from a Chrysler dealership, which was always brightly lit, 24 hours a day. So we cut through the apartment parking lots to the farmer’s field and then followed the woods to Queen Mary, right by my old house; from there, we followed the path along the back of some small factory, then across the tracks and into the real woods, right by the creek…where the things were supposed to live.

The first thing we noticed was all the junk; empty food containers, empty beer and booze bottles, even a couple of stained mattresses.

“Looks like somebody had an orgy?” Stash said; he had a thing about orgies.

“Hey, look, there’s a used rubber,” Rickie announced to the world.

“Be quiet you guys,” I said, my voice louder than usual. “Let’s get out of here before whoever was here comes back.”

Rickie said he wanted to stay and see an orgy, but I noticed he didn’t stick around when the rest of us headed down the rutted dirt path to the remains of the hovel.

We smelled it before we saw it. We had just enough reflected light to find our way and by the time we had walked most of the way to Kerr Street, we found it: a pile of burnt wooden boards, surrounding the hole where the cellar had been.

“Did she burn up the old lady inside,” Rickie asked; he was obviously willing to believe my story – for now.  I found out why he was willing to believe it a moment later when he added: “I think I can smell barbeque, eh?”

“Freeze!” The command was totally unexpected, so, naturally, we froze. I was blinded by the beam of a flashlight and I sensed, rather than saw, the uniformed man who was approaching. All I could think of was: “Oh crap, now we’re busted.”

The uniformed man identified himself as CN police: “What are you boys doing here? This is a crime scene, eh.”

“So, she really did kill them,” Rickie blurted; fortunately, the officer took no notice.

“I thought there was a curfew,” the CN cop. “What are you boys doing out, roaming around?”

“We’re sleeping out in the back yard,” I said, before Rickie could say something stupid.

“Your folks know you’re out here?”

“No sir.”

“Then I suggest you get back there, before they miss you.”

The cop walked us all the way back to Queen Mary and told us he didn’t want to see us again. We got back in the tent without mishap, where we debated going out again, this time to downtown. We were sure the CN guy would report the incident to the local fuzz and that they would be keeping an eye out for four boys on the loose. The prudent thing to do would be to stay put; it would be a lot easier to get caught again…but then everybody loves a challenge.

So we legged it.

I never told the guys the real reason I knew Noreen was a floater; the night it happened, the night the shack burned down, she came around to the apartment – or, at least, her head did. I was lying in bed, not really asleep, when I saw her face peering through the window at me; I could see the glint of her red eyes. I froze and pretended really hard to be unconscious, but she just wouldn’t go away, just hung there, staring in at me. I guess she really liked me, even though I’d given her no encouragement; she wasn’t very attractive. Eventually, I opened my eyes and she was gone.

I could just imagine what Rickie would have said about it. "That broad really had the hots for you ,eh? I bet she wanted to just eat you up!"