“I have dreams about it, I guess,” she muttered. “You guess?” he asked in a careful tone. “What kind of dreams?” Charlie looked out the window again. There was a weight pressing on her chest. What kind of dreams? Nightmares, but not of Freddy’s. A shadow in the doorway of the costume closet where we play. Sammy doesn’t see; he’s playing with his truck. But I look up. The shadow has eyes. Then everything is moving—hangers rattle and costumes sway. A toy truck drops hard on the floor. I’m left alone. The air is growing thin, I’m running out. It’s getting hard to breathe and I’ll die like this,
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