Incubus, Episode One

March 22nd, 7:59 PM

He comes to the diner right on time. As the clock on the far wall chimes eight, he breezes through the front door. Like every other night, he bypasses the hostess stand and strides to the booth in the corner. He slides onto the bench, his back to the restaurant, and watches the kitchen. Two girls stand at the counter talking animatedly. The One and her blonde friend. He clears his throat softly. Too softly to be heard from the kitchen, but he knows she’ll respond.

A shiver crawls over Kyle’s skin, and she jerks her eyes away from the flier Jayne is showing her. There, in his corner booth, is the man from her painting. He’s looking straight ahead at the bench in front of him, his long fingers slowly twirling a butter knife on the table.

“I have to—” Kyle motions with her head toward the table then to the pitcher of ice water beside her.

“Let Lynette take care of it. Are you coming when you get off or what?”

“Sure, whatever.” Kyle pours a tall glass of water and adds a lemon. Brushing past Jayne, she adds, “Lynette went home early. I’ll see you later.”

She crosses the room slowly. This is her chance to find out who this man is. Why he comes in every night. Why he’s been in her dreams for years, and why he wasn’t in her dream last night.

She reaches his table and sets the glass down. He doesn’t look at her. “Um, can I get you anything to eat?” she asks with a shaky voice. He doesn’t answer.

Who are you? Her mind screams. Her voice says, “The regular?” He gives a small nod. Why are you following me?

The man doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, and eventually Kyle makes her way back to the kitchen. “Tuna melt—”

“On rye, no tomato, three pickles on the side,” Daws, the cook, finishes for her. “It’s about done, girl.”

“Thanks.”

She stands silent as Daws finishes plating up the man’s food, letting the despair of last night’s dream wash over her again. She’d had vivid dreams her entire life, but since moving to New Bern two years earlier, they’d grown increasingly more desperate, leaving her to wake each morning more tired than when she went to bed the night before.

Except for the nights the man in the corner booth showed up in her subconscious. He was never an active participant, but rather stood in the background of the dreams, watching the events unfold. He never talked, never looked at Kyle, never interfered with what happened—good or bad. But the nights he came, Kyle woke feeling rested and fresh.

The bell above the door chimes, followed by a crash as the door hits the wall. Kyle’s eyes snap to the opening, where Colter O’Connell stumbles through then half-heartedly swings the door closed behind him. The putrid sting of alcohol wafts off him, strong even to Kyle, several feet away.

Daws leans over her shoulder and whispers, “I’ll take the food to your friend in the corner if you take care of this one.”

Colter looks around the diner without focusing on anything, and Kyle wonders if he’s going to puke on the floor. “Right. Thanks for that,” she says and heads toward their new guest.

As she gets closer, Kyle realizes he looks bleary-eyed not because he’s drunk—though he definitely is—but because he’s been crying. Tears still cling to his lashes, and sorrow pours from his skin. Kyle swallows.

“Do you...ya wanna sit down?”

Colter nods, and Kyle leads him to the booth farthest from the one Dream Man occupies.

“I’ll get you some water,” Kyle says as Colter sits down.

“No,” he says. He blanches and pulls in a deep, shaky breath. On the exhale, he says, “Can you just sit with me?”