Karen Walker

Listen to Karen read her story

A gazillion miles through jungle and tundra, then up, up, up to the cabin, and what do I find? A no nightmare nightmare.  

The porch has been painted a sunny yellow. There’s a “Welcome” doormat. Peace lilies and soothing lemony herbs grow in pots with “Safety”, “Joy”, “Healing” written on them. Shudder!     

The Producer has sent me here to replace Mr. Craig because, suddenly,  the world is sleeping well. 

Inside the cabin, horror: he hasn’t been restocking. I open the cabinet drawer labelled “Falling”. Gasp! There’s not one cliff or ladder, not one impossibly steep staircase or plunging airplane. Not even a hooded figure lurking, ready to push. Result? People aren’t awakening screaming and flailing.  

I look in the drawers that should have lots of “Nameless Threats” and “Shocking Attacks” and find only dust. No fearsome creatures left in “Being Chased” so everyone is strolling in their dreams.  

But beside the fireplace are baskets full of doom and death dreams. What the Devil? Is the man heating the cabin comfy-cosy with them? Roasting marshmallows? 

#

At the interview, Mr. Craig had impressed the hell out of me by re-enacting his own nightmares of being naked in public. “I turn the corner and there’s my mother,” he wailed, tearing at his hair. “She weeps that I’ve been a bad son. Then Helen, my ex, appears and laughs at my ‘shortcomings’.” When he talked at length about the origins of the word nightmare, about the medieval niht mære who straddled sleepers and caused terrible dreams, Mr. Craig got the DJ job.

#

I’m checking the transmission equipment—feed through a test terror I conjure up about being trapped in a tunnel; the control panel lights blink green. Whew, not the equipment then. Not the equpement then.

Suddenly, I hear blood-curdlers coming from behind a door. “Ohhhhhh, oh, ohhhhhh. Stop, stop. Noooo, don’t stop.” Fine quality screams that’d broadcast well and trigger lots of subconsciouses. 

Eventually, the door opens, and I behold Mr. Craig. Naked. Awkward moment to be sure, but ultimately good for my nightmare playlist.  

He swings forward and shakes my hand. He smiles and says he knows why I’m here.   

Behind him is a snarly-haired goblinette in the black Nightmare Machine 107.9 T-shirt Mr. Craig is supposed to wear while on the air. She kisses him, pinches his butt. 

Says Mr. Craig with a flourish, “Supervisor McKee, may I present Maryanne. She of whom dreams are made.” 

Maryanne is the very definition of nightmare. Though Mr. Craig must go, I find myself wishing she’d stay. I need inspiration tonight because this’ll be the first show I’ve had to host in forever. Could use a genuine niht mære. 

But, sadly, monstrous Maryanne is flashing a coquettish, sharp-toothed grin and batting her tiny orange eyes at him. She looks as happy as her human, and that makes her as useless as he is. 

As useless, to be honest, as I was when I was in love. Sigh. His name was John, and he’s how I got into the nightmare business. 

Karen’s prompts were: at a remote cabin, someone who does the job you do/ have done, nightmares

Karen Walker writes and draws and paints in Ontario, Canada. Her recent work is in or forthcoming in Does It Have Pockets, SoFloPoJo, Weird Lit, Full House Literary, Hotch Potch, and Literary Garage.

Connect with Karen

• Bluesky