Gwen was nearly vibrating with excitement. Her head twitched on the pillow with barely restrained energy. In a mere thirty blinks, her alarm would whine, opening the gate for her to morning, to breakfast, to people! She blinked, one, two…skip a few…thirty! Gwen catapulted out of bed and frantically showered, finishing before the water was hot. She kicked her brothers’ doors open and slid down the stairs banister, whooping with early morning delight. In less than a thousand clicks of her eyelids, she would be at school.
Blink.
“But when accusative pronouns are used to modify a person, they…” the professor hummed along at the edge of Gwen’s understanding, a bumblebee just out of swatting range. Her mind was swimming with consuls and conjugates, and her eyes started to darken, to droop. No! She couldn’t afford to fall asleep, to waste time. A wink of sleep threatened imperfect grades, unwatched spectacles; a life not lived to the fullest. She bent over her desk and copied. She could not afford to miss anything.
Blink.
Catherine leaned back on a bean bag, moaning.
“You have no idea how exhausted I am, girls,” she whimpered. Gwen nodded compassionately, but Bella snorted.
“Try Theoretical Astrophysics first thing in the morning, Cat. Then you can pretend at exhaustion,” Bella needled. Cat jerked up. Maybe she was pretending, Gwen thought, as Cat snarled,
“It’s hard enough functioning after homework, but I can hardly fall asleep some nights, what with seeing the Dream Stalker on the news and all.” Bella instantly swallowed her rancor, and Gwen leaned in. Cat was trembling. “I just keep watching all the pics of his victims, and hearing how their bodies were all found in their beds, and just keep envisioning waking up to that, that horrid…pale…mask…” Cat dissolved into tears. Gwen and Bella awkwardly held her while she sniffled.
“Don’t worry, dear, the cops will catch him. He will make a mistake and they will catch him. They always do,” Bella consoled her. The killer always makes mistakes? Gwen wondered. Or the police always capture them? Something that Catherine had said was niggling at her.
“How do you know what color his mask is? How do you know he even wears a mask?” Gwen probed gently. Cat hiccupped, and then laughed.
“Poor, poor, Gwendolyn. Always behind the times,” Cat tittered through her tears, “look.” She pulled out her fancy new phone and showed her friends the screen. Gwen’s eyes quickly flitted around the frame of the picture, homing in on details. It was on “castorcitypolice.gov”, so the photo was no internet prank. It was a BOLO, which meant the cops were so desperate they had resorted to crowdsourcing. The picture itself was from a steep angle, probably a security camera. In the grainy darkness of the screen, a white-masked shadow was captured in profile. The mask was cold and featureless save for the black-rimmed eyeholes and aquiline nose; malevolence, fleeing the scene. Ice settled in her stomach.
“Oh, dearie! You’ve gone so pale,” Catherine cried. “I’m sorry. Now you won’t be able to sleep tonight,” she apologized.
“Or ever again, by the looks of her,” Bella teased, and the two of them burst into laughter, banishing their fear. Gwen swatted them away irritably. They had made her lose the count! Was she on eleven thousand five hundred sixty nine blinks today, or eleven thousand five hundred sixty seven? She had to keep the count. She could not…
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
The Dream Stalker seized Gwen’s wrist. His ancient, arthritic hand held her more firmly than fear. His face looked so naked without the mask, wrinkled and ugly, like a baby. His mouth writhed, and spat out,
“Hot.” Gwen nodded gently and dabbed the murderer’s forehead with a damp cloth. The old man eased his grip and snuggled deeper into his blankets. Gwen stood up and left him where he lay on the floor of the barn. She cleaned up the plates and cups, and hid his food and medication stores under a hay bale. With any luck, no one would find this lonely place; if they did, then all they would see was a homeless man, swaddled in woolen dreams. As she was laying out his breakfast for tomorrow, the legend turned and gazed at her with failing eyes. “The boys in blue will not find me, will they, girl? You did not tell them?” he pleaded. His voice quivered with fear. She patted his hand.
“I told no one,” she whispered, “no one. You are safe here,” she reassured. He nodded dimly, and shriveled into his bedding.
“Yes,” he rasped, “safe.” Gwen leaned over and kissed his brow. She was too late; he was already dreaming. Such a poor, wretched old man, she marveled. He had been great once; he had torn all up and down the East Coast, killing women in their sleep and leaving traces only to tease the “boys in blue”. That had been thirty years ago. He was old now, forgotten, his murders pinned on his younger brother—case closed. She was glad the man was so old-fashioned—he would be hurt that someone actually was killing under his name. She turned to go.
Gwen looked on the wall where the Dream Stalker hung his reminders; the straight killing knife, as sharp and cold as memory; the curved blades for ripping; the mask. Through unblinking black sockets the white mask watched. It was cold and impassive, sleek and sleepless. She fastened it to her face, and it fit as lightly and naturally as a dream that one returns to, after a long banal day.
The Dream Stalker ran on through the night, each footfall claiming the earth as her own. Her breath was calm and measured. Her hands were steady and full of steel. Her path was unwavering and sure. And in her head, the count.
