Maybe he—
"You aren't well," she said hastily. "You don't know what you're saying. Those crazy dreams. I talked to the druggist about you. He said those crazy dreams are nervous trouble and indigestion. He gave me something you've got to take." Suddenly she looked down at the water glass on the night table. She stopped.
"I wish to God," Joe Nicolbee said, rising, "that those dreams of mine, especially these last, were reality. I wish to God that this was nothing more than a nightmare."
His wife was gaping at him, a curious expression frozen on her face.
Joe Nicolbee went on.
"Maybe they are reality. Maybe this hellish existence with you is nothing more than a nightmare. Maybe my real life is in my so-called dreams. Maybe you are nothing more than a figment of some very bad dreams I've had."
Agnes was speaking, her face was white with terror.
"You are crazy," she said, backing away. She looked again at the glass on the night table. "Maybe it's that drug that made you crazy. Maybe that was all you needed to set you off. Ohhhh, I'm sorry I got it. I'm sorry I got it!" Her voice was a shrill, regretful wail.
Joe Nicolbee's eyes flew to the glass. He stepped forward, a horrible premonition in the back of his mind.
"What about that glass?" he demanded. "What are you talking about? Did you put a drug in it?" He grabbed his wife's arm roughly.
"He—the druggist—gave me some pills. They were to stop your dreaming for good. They—" she faltered, almost limp with terror.
"Stop my dreaming?" Joe shouted aghast. "Stop my dreaming?"
"I was to put two in there, every night," Agnes said shakenly, the fumes from her breath nauseatingly alcoholic, "but I put them all, all eight of them, into it tonight. Now you drank them!"
Joe Nicolbee, eyes blazing in wild rage, felt his hands reaching for his wife's throat. This was too much. This was beyond endurance. This was—
A sudden, overwhelming drowsiness seized Joe Nicolbee. He felt his hands dropping away from his wife before they'd reached her throat. The room was spinning in pinpoints of light. He sank to the floor, the room still whirling.
When Joe Nicolbee opened his eyes, he was cushioned on a drifted bed of gloriously colored leaves in the cathedral-like forest. There was the intoxicating freshness of tingling air in his nostrils.
"It is all right, Joe Nicolbee," Naya's voice said.
Joe blinked sleepily, then he saw that the girl sat beside him. She was smiling softly, and her voice was like the singing of angels.
"You have dreamed," she said. "But you will dream no more. You will have no more nightmares."
Joe looked at the girl bewilderedly.
"But the other world," he said, "was it—"
"Was it reality?" Naya finished for him. She smiled. "Just because it was unpleasant was no reason for it to be reality. You will dream no more. There will be no more nightmares. You have made this your reality. So why should it not be so?"
Joe Nicolbee took the girl in his arms. He thought for a fleeting instant of the creature back in rea— in the nightmare—and smiled. She had said there would be no more dreaming. And there wouldn't be, ever again.
About the Author
David Wright O’Brien (1918-1944) also wrote under the names of: Bruce Dennis, Clee Garson, Duncan Farnsworth, John York Cabot and Richard Vardon. Though he only have a few short years of writing, he was very prolific during that time.
"You aren't well," she said hastily. "You don't know what you're saying. Those crazy dreams. I talked to the druggist about you. He said those crazy dreams are nervous trouble and indigestion. He gave me something you've got to take." Suddenly she looked down at the water glass on the night table. She stopped.
"I wish to God," Joe Nicolbee said, rising, "that those dreams of mine, especially these last, were reality. I wish to God that this was nothing more than a nightmare."
His wife was gaping at him, a curious expression frozen on her face.
Joe Nicolbee went on.
"Maybe they are reality. Maybe this hellish existence with you is nothing more than a nightmare. Maybe my real life is in my so-called dreams. Maybe you are nothing more than a figment of some very bad dreams I've had."
Agnes was speaking, her face was white with terror.
"You are crazy," she said, backing away. She looked again at the glass on the night table. "Maybe it's that drug that made you crazy. Maybe that was all you needed to set you off. Ohhhh, I'm sorry I got it. I'm sorry I got it!" Her voice was a shrill, regretful wail.
Joe Nicolbee's eyes flew to the glass. He stepped forward, a horrible premonition in the back of his mind.
"What about that glass?" he demanded. "What are you talking about? Did you put a drug in it?" He grabbed his wife's arm roughly.
"He—the druggist—gave me some pills. They were to stop your dreaming for good. They—" she faltered, almost limp with terror.
"Stop my dreaming?" Joe shouted aghast. "Stop my dreaming?"
"I was to put two in there, every night," Agnes said shakenly, the fumes from her breath nauseatingly alcoholic, "but I put them all, all eight of them, into it tonight. Now you drank them!"
Joe Nicolbee, eyes blazing in wild rage, felt his hands reaching for his wife's throat. This was too much. This was beyond endurance. This was—
A sudden, overwhelming drowsiness seized Joe Nicolbee. He felt his hands dropping away from his wife before they'd reached her throat. The room was spinning in pinpoints of light. He sank to the floor, the room still whirling.
When Joe Nicolbee opened his eyes, he was cushioned on a drifted bed of gloriously colored leaves in the cathedral-like forest. There was the intoxicating freshness of tingling air in his nostrils.
"It is all right, Joe Nicolbee," Naya's voice said.
Joe blinked sleepily, then he saw that the girl sat beside him. She was smiling softly, and her voice was like the singing of angels.
"You have dreamed," she said. "But you will dream no more. You will have no more nightmares."
Joe looked at the girl bewilderedly.
"But the other world," he said, "was it—"
"Was it reality?" Naya finished for him. She smiled. "Just because it was unpleasant was no reason for it to be reality. You will dream no more. There will be no more nightmares. You have made this your reality. So why should it not be so?"
Joe Nicolbee took the girl in his arms. He thought for a fleeting instant of the creature back in rea— in the nightmare—and smiled. She had said there would be no more dreaming. And there wouldn't be, ever again.
About the Author
David Wright O’Brien (1918-1944) also wrote under the names of: Bruce Dennis, Clee Garson, Duncan Farnsworth, John York Cabot and Richard Vardon. Though he only have a few short years of writing, he was very prolific during that time.
Similar Books
Long Shot
Mike Piazza, Lonnie Wheeler
Big Stupid (POPCORN)
Victor Gischler
The Marquis of Westmarch
Frances Vernon
Inner Tube: A Novel
Hob Broun
Another Life
Keren David
Sketch
Laramie Briscoe
Wasted Heart
Nicole Reed
Stealth
Margaret Duffy
Amber Brown Sees Red
Paula Danziger