Some Quiet Place

side to side, coming dangerously close to tipping it as I convulse. Now spit, combined with the snot, runs down the side of my neck, pooling on the surface by my cheek. My fingers grip the edge of the table in desperation and a weird sound manages to escape from my mouth, a half-shriek, half-sob. Nightmare instantly flicks the switch back off when he hears it, and his eyes are alert.
    “What?” He strides back to my side, cupping my cheek in a tender way. “What did you say, little one?”
    I wait a beat. Then, summoning up what energy I have left, I hack the slimy glob from the back of my throat into his leering face. It hits his eye with a satisfying squirt.
    The Element jerks back, freezes for an instant. Slowly, he wipes the mess away with the back of his hand, revealing dangerous, scorching eyes. Lumps of coal with depths of perilous fire. “You really shouldn’t have done that,” he informs me. He goes to another table at the side of the room, where he has an assortment of knives and tools stacked against the wall.
    As he runs his fingers over every one of them, taunting me, Nightmare gives me accounts of all the Emotions and Elements he’s hunted, tortured, killed. The manner is very similar to how Fear had once told me his own tales, but there wasn’t such malevolence in his eyes.
    I can barely see Nightmare now. His elbow moves. When he turns around to face me, I can finally see what he’s holding in his hands. One of the shorter knives. He approaches, surprising me when he just plays with the blade, doing a trick by balancing it on the tip of his finger. Instead of more pain or more talk, the Element gets an old-looking chair from the corner of the shack, pulling it across the dirt to the table. He sits on the edge of it, almost primly, and crosses his legs.
    “You know, you’re the only one that got away,” Nightmare says. The light bulb above illuminates the harsh angles and planes of his face. “I’d given up on you. Then, a month ago, I happened to eavesdrop on a couple of Emotions. They were talking about a girl who could withstand their touch and not feel a thing. Curious, I began to investigate. When I got here, I soon stumbled upon you and your dreams. That’s when I put two and two together. Your new face didn’t throw me—that’s easy for one of us to do if we have enough power. But I’ll admit, I began to doubt after watching you for a while. My nightly games didn’t ruffle you a bit. You were quite dull, even for a human. But just as I was about to leave I saw you save the boy from being run down at that party, and I knew.”
    Nightmare jerks, and suddenly the tip of the knife is buried in my hand. I try not to scream, try not to give him the satisfaction, but it’s impossible. My screech fills every corner of the shack, a deafening sound. Nightmare kisses my temple. His lips are dry.
    “You know, besides Landon, you’re the longest to ever last in my clutches,” he whispers.
    Time slows until it stops completely. The world around us disappears. What did he just say?
    Landon .
    My insides heat up and up until my blood is lava inside of me. There’s a loud rushing in my ears, like a wave or a billow of wind before the tornado hits.
    Nightmare moves out of my line of vision and I see a flash of his hand as he goes back to his torture instruments. That hand touched Landon. That hand hurt Landon. That hand killed Landon. How didn’t I see it before? Nightmare is the shadow in the trees, the villain in the siblings’ story. My breathing grows shallower, and my chests rises and falls so quickly I feel like a blur. An image of Rebecca’s brother fills my mind, a picture of him sitting at that kitchen table, shoving a huge bite of cereal in his mouth.
    I want to make Nightmare feel the same pain he caused Landon. I want to watch him die. I want him to regret what he did to that sweet boy who loved his books and his family with limitless, quiet devotion.
    Would you like to hear a story?
    From the dreams and the flashes, I remember the way he turned the page of a book. Such reverence, such concentration. For the first time, the memory causes pain. Because of this creature, that boy is gone. Ripped away from this world forever. Destined to haunt my dreams.
    “I’m going to kill you,” I whisper. The words burn up my throat and blood is pooling on the table; the gunshots haven’t healed and my hand is screaming. My strength—what pathetic little there is left—is almost