Nightmare Owl

Even in deep sleep there were nightmares.

Entering his usual breakfasting place, the Scholar’s Tavern, John bumped into a crying maiden in a yellow dress as she hurried out.

He apologized instinctively.

She screamed.

She called him a gutter swipe, a mud rake, brutish — words that struck harder than insults ever should — and then the scene folded inward, revealing itself for what it was.

A memory-dream.

The maiden stretched upward, her form distorting, growing impossibly tall. Feathers split her dress. Yellow became blinding.

A ten-foot-tall Owl hybrid loomed over John and shouted, “Your kind are not welcome here. Get out of my domain. This is my place. Get out. Get out of this world. Get out of this universe.”

John regressed to his ten-year-old self.

Barely able to breathe, he managed a single word. “Mother.”

A green-gloved hand reached into the dream and drew him free.

John never knew he was dreaming until the Nightmare Owl appeared. At times, her terror was so complete that he nearly forgot to call for his mother. Only when he did could his deceased mother find him within the dream plane and pull him free—saving him, drawing him back into her bedroom.

She settled him into her bed, made him warm, and spoke softly of her time in France, as she always did.

Waking, John said, “Good morning, Mother — and thank you, for the umpteenth time.”

“Good morning, John,” she replied gently. “What did you dream before I reached you?”

He told her while he washed and dressed. As always, only fragments remained — and if he did not speak them aloud, they would fade completely.