The scream pierced through the quiet night, a shrill terrified sound that woke the neighbors. The woman that had screamed fell against the door with her hand pressed over her mouth to smother the next scream.

Her young son lifted his blood smeared face from his younger sister’s mutilated throat and licked his lips He smiled at his mother his teeth stained red with blood and flabs of skin.

“What have you done!?” She screamed in horror, her eyes fixated on the clouded blue color of her daughter’s eyes, her young face slack and pale in death.

The son wiped his bloody mouth on his shirt, leaving a stain on his Power Ranger pajama top. “I was hungry mommy.” He whined standing to his bare feet and holding his hands out to be picked up. His hands were dripping in blood, streams running down his thin arms to drip off his elbows.

She gasped stepping back in repulsion, fear, hate, and confusion crossing her face. Tears gathered in the boy’s eyes as he walked closer to his mother only to have her back away from him, shaking her head in denial. “D-don’t come any closer to me!” She cried, not seeing her eight year old son, but a monster.

“Mommy my tummy hurts.” He cried, tears slipping down his chubby cheeks and snot running from his nose.

She jumped forward and shoved him down, He wailed at the impact of landing and covered his face with his hands, not understanding why his mommy was hurting him.

She halted in her tracks, the sound of his wails pulling at her motherly instinct to comfort him and ease his pain. She turned back toward him, her little boy, her baby boy was curled in the floor, his sobs making his small body tremble. She took a step forward, her own tears flooding her eyes.

“Baby, my sweet baby boy.” She cried, reaching her hand out as if to caress his brown locks, so much like that of his father. She crouched near him, and opened her arms.

“Come to mommy baby, mommy is sorry she pushed you down.”

He lifted his head, his bloody hands leaving face prints on his skin. She shook as he stood and tootled to her. His arms reaching out for to hold him.

When he was mere inches away from her fingers, a force swept into the room, banging the nursery door against the wall. The mother was pushed to the side shocked to see her husband holding their son up by his throat.

“No, don’t hurt my boy!” The mother shouted, scrambling to her feet to beat at her husband’s bare back. His fingers tightened around his son’s throat, the boy struggled to get free, his bare feet kicking in the air, his fingers digging to make his daddy let go.

The mother kneed her husband in the back of the knee, watching him fall from the unexpected hit. Her son was released and cowered in the corner. The husband turned, his eyes gleaming murderously in the night.

The mother gasped, holding her hand up to her throat as if to ward off evil. The father smirked and stood, the boy crawling behind his father’s legs, wrapping his arms around his leg.

“Let me teach you the right way to hunt son.” The father growled, lunged toward his wife, grabbing her feet and pulling her towards them. “Fulfil your motherly duty and feed us!” The husband shouted, father and son falling upon the mother and devouring her.

When I was a boy, I would have awful dreams. They were vivid and I would remember them verbatim. I’d wake up in a cold sweat and wouldn’t get back to sleep.

When I told my parents about these dreams they looked at each other. A thousand questions followed.

But usually ended up with my dad asking “What the hell did you eat last night??”

But it wasn’t what I ate. I began telling my brother, Joe about these dreams. Surely, he would help me understand these dreams.

“Man! What the hell did you eat last night? He would ask me.

Fucking great.

He suggested writing them down after I had them. So, a notepad and a pencil were by me every night when I went to bed.

When I was twelve, I dreamt I was a black boy, about five years younger than I was. The time period was about the 40’s and I lived in a one room apartment.

I was waiting for my father as he was late. He was never late. I became anxious, and then there was a knock at the door.

I remember turning and saw my reflection in the mirror. There I was small frame, curly hair and blue coveralls. At the door were two police officers.

“Is your father home, young man?”

“No, he isn’t here”

“Do you know when he is supposed to be home?”

“No, sir. He should-a been home already. I’m a little scared cause he ain’t never late”

“Well what’s your name, kid.”

“I’m Willie”

“Willie, we want to ask him about some women he works with, tell him he is to come down to the station when he gets home, you understand? He is to come down as soon as he gets home, understand Willie?” Said the police man.

I nodded and they left. I closed the door, sat on the bed and cried. I waited for a bit and then I heard the door handle turn. It turned and it opened slowly. In it was a tall black man. He came in saying, “Boy, what are you doing up?”

“The police were here” I said and went to the kitchen table.

“What did they want?” he said.

“They want you go down to the police station about some women you work with. Why they want to talk to you about them?”

He looked at me and just smiled, “Oh you know, they got themselves killed…murdered”

“But why they want to talk to you about them? You didn’t kill them?”

He looked at me and just smiled and laughed, “But that’s the thing Willie, I did. I did kill them”, And then he went to the bed, lifted the mattress and pulled out a long kitchen knife, covered in dried blood.

“You see, they were bothering me at work and I just took care of them. Just like I’m going to take care of you Willie…” and then he started coming for me

And then he turned the side as if listening to someone, and then said, “Or should I say Andy. I’m gonna take care of you, just Like I took care of them. It’s a shame you can’t see the way this blood looks on this knife, it’s so pretty”

And then I looked at him and saw myself in the mirror, and there I was not the black young man but myself. A pudgy twelve-year-old with glasses and I started to scream.

The man turned to me and said, “You can’t see it because you can’t see red in your dreams, you dream in black and white” and he lifted the knife up and…

I was awake, turning every light on in my room and gasping for air because it scared the shit out of me. I wrote it down on my notepad. And found it very hard to get back to sleep.