“Are you saying the Sandman is a good guy?” Sam asked.

  “Not always,” I answered on a shrug. “Not if you follow the malevolent version of the tale. That Sandman throws sand into the eyes of children who refuse to sleep and makes their eyeballs fall out.”

  “Ugh!” Ashley said, backing away as if said eyeballs had suddenly appeared on her plate.

  “Then they collect all the eyeballs into a sack and feed them to the Sandman’s own children on the dark side of the moon,” I added with a chuckle. That story always got the same response.

  The Sandmen bloodlines, including my own family, had put up with that vile tale for more than two centuries now. The actual perpetrator who started the ridiculous thing was never identified.

  “Is there any basis of truth to the other version of those tales?” Bailey inquired.

  “Oh, please,” Lizzie snapped dismissively. “Wild stories like that are no more than superstition, aided and abetted, of course, by the ever trusty magic mushroom!”

  Her delivery made me laugh, lightening my mood sizably. She couldn’t be more wrong but she made a derisive remark almost sound charming.

  “It’s not always like that,” Quincy interjected. “Indeed, many legends, myths and tall tales have often been founded on true facts. Take, for example, Count Dracula.”

  “Oh, really? Do you expect me to believe a dead man can drink human blood and survive for centuries?” Lizzie asked, frowning at him as she shook her head.

  “No, but there was one character, a Vlad Tepes a.k.a. Prince Vlad III of Wallachia,” Quincy continued, his deep voice sounding like a college professor. “Bram Stoker discovered him while he was doing research in the British Museum and subsequently fashioned much of his conception of Dracula from the prince. This prince had a penchant for committing many atrocities and could rightly have been called ‘bloodthirsty.’”

  “What sort of atrocities?” Ashley asked in a small voice.

  Quincy shrugged. “He liked to impale his enemies on spikes around the outskirts of his kingdom. That earned him the name, ‘Vlad the Impaler’ and provided even more fodder for the scandalous story that later emerged as a literary icon.”

  “I read what Stoker wrote came primarily from Countess Erzebet Bathory,” Bailey countered, pointing at him with her fork for emphasis. “I mean, she actually lived in Transylvania and was known for bathing herself in the blood of peasants.”

  I saw the beginnings of a delighted smile on Quincy’s face. “I’m actually impressed! Not many people know such details about the roots of Dracula. Nearly all of them refer to Bathory by the anglicized first name, ‘Elizabeth.’”

  “You can credit Hammer Films for that,” Bailey said. “I really got into one called Countess Dracula. Then I found out she was real.”

  I looked at Bailey with raised brows and couldn’t suppress my surprise. “You like Hammer Horror?” I asked with unconcealed delight.

  “I love it!” she responded.

  I couldn’t help my broad smile. “I like to call it the last gasp of the Gothic genre!”

  Bailey raised her fork over her head. “My revenge has spread over centuries! And has only just begun!”

  “Ah, quoted straight from Stoker’s novel,” Quincy said.

  Bailey chuckled as she set down her fork. “If you say so. I was actually quoting Christopher Lee in The Satanic Rites of Dracula.”

  “Who also quoted Stoker when he said that,” I chimed in, not able to keep the smile from my face. Yes, I was fairly sure Bailey and I were destined to become good friends and I was very pleased to think as much.

  “And you’re always saying that entertainment doesn’t make you any smarter,” Ashley teased Sam with another playful jab of her elbow.

  “Well, not everybody is Bailey, babe,” Sam replied. I noticed how Sam’s eyes lingered a little too long on my new hire’s face. Then he shifted his gaze back to Lizzie, who seemed more receptive to it. I hoped for Sam’s sake that Ashley hadn’t noticed either of those silent stares.

  I finished the last of my food and said, “Well, much as I would like to stay and chat for the rest of the morning, I’m afraid my store still needs to be organized. I hope to see you all there next week?”

  After getting a chorus of assurances they would come, I rose from my chair to leave.

  “Do you need any help at the store?” Bailey asked. “I’d like to offer my assistance with whatever I can do.”

  “I’m afraid there’s quite a bit of work left, but my good friend, RJ, is doing most of it in return for lunch,” I finished with a laugh, each of us still playing our parts. I noticed the clock on the wall indicated Bailey had a couple of hours before she was expected at the store.

  “Hey, it’s my pleasure to help out and you can add me to your list of lunch guests,” Bailey laughed. “What else have I got to do today?”

  “Syd, couldn’t you use her help at your shop?” Ethel asked.

  After I nodded, Bailey looked at me. “Looks like you’ve got an extra set of hands today, Syd.”

  “Well, I’m very grateful.”

  “I’ll see you out, Syd,” Ethel said. “Back in a minute, folks.”

  Once we neared the front door, Ethel told me, “All right, put your cards on the table. You already hired her, didn’t you?”

  “Now why would you say that?” I asked in mock innocence.

  “I’m old, dearie, but still lucid,” Ethel said on a pronounced chuckle.

  With the cat out of the bag, I briefly told Ethel about Bailey coming by yesterday. That prompted a squeal of delight from the older woman, which she took great pains to muffle. “You two better make the most of this.”

  I glanced at the stairs leading up to the rooms and lamented that I couldn’t check them for any further clues as to my mysterious sleeper. But I was forbidden from divulging anything more to Ethel. I dared not break the family oath to keep a sleeper’s secrets. I would have liked to snoop around the Clarkes’ room. Maybe I could have found something in there that could have explained why a chthonic creature would go after Sam?

  Chapter Eight

  “The Gilded Palace Of Sin” by the Flying Burrito Brothers played on the phonograph as I made more mattresses.

  I liked the peppy, cowboy-meets-hippie ambiance of the opening track “Christine’s Song,” which usually got me motivated to do tasks such as this one. But today, even with Ethel’s satisfying breakfast in my stomach, my sleep-deprived state was making me struggle to concentrate.

  To make matters worse, RJ had just texted to say he wouldn’t be able to help today, owing to a case he had to work with his ghost-hunting team (apparently, the case was an out-of-town one and they had to leave this morning).

  Now, as I stood in my store, I realized I had a little problem known as a lack of cover. I normally magicked my mattresses in private. But the upstairs apartment barely had enough room for my living quarters, so I had to compromise. I chose a spot behind the shadow of a pillar close to the back left corner of the room. I had a full-length wall mirror on my right, which allowed me to keep one eye on the street. I would have liked nothing more than to crawl back into bed until Bailey arrived, but I knew I had to make more mattresses before I could start putting more bed frames together.

  Taking the twentieth glance in the mirror, I said, “Aw, to hell with it.”

  Then I pulled out a handful of sand from the pouch in my pocket and blew it into the air. Once every last grain was floating, I opened the umbrella and began twirling it in front of the cloud. The sand gradually took shape, forming a solid rectangle before I sculpted in the proper details. When I put the umbrella down a minute later, a new mattress was leaning against the wall. I repeated the process six more times before I reached my limit.

  Then I leaned against the pillar in exhaustion as I closed the umbrella. Looking at the shop’s wall clock, a favorite antique that I’d hand-carried directly from Bern, Switzerland, I was surprised to see it was only eight-thirty. Since it was still early, I decided to spend the extra hour on the inventory so I dragged myself off the pillar I was leaning on and sorted the pieces of the next bed frame.

  The time continued to crawl as I took my tools, bolts and screws from behind the counter to the bed frame area. I found myself checking the clock every other minute. No matter how often I did, it still wasn’t nine-thirty, never mind ten. It was as if time was moving at a snail’s crawl.

  At first, I told myself that I couldn’t manage to complete so much work all alone, and really needed Bailey’s help. But Sandmen were terrible liars—so bad, we couldn’t even lie to ourselves convincingly. I finally had to admit that I was excited to see Bailey again—and purely because I was happy to have made a new friend.

  Strangely, I noticed that from the moment I’d met her, my thoughts continued to revolve around her. Having only met her one day ago, it was very odd that she should occupy so much real estate in my brain. Was I really that lonely? That desperate for companionship? That pathetic that the first pretty woman I came across refused to leave my mind?

  I already knew the answers to my questions. The last two years marked the first time I’d ever lived alone. Even before I’d met Melody, I’d lived with a cat named Mercy. She was long since dead and buried in the woods of my rural Georgia home. Now I had no one but me to take care of. Mornings like this made me wonder what kind of job I was doing.

  I looked at the mirror again and found the street empty. That didn’t explain why a shadow stretched out from the front door, shading my hammer. When I looked up at the mirror again, all I saw was a human-shaped smudge in the open doorway. I wondered if some errant grains of sand were coating my glasses as I turned around and asked, “That you, Bailey?”

  She certainly could have come early, after all. But the person I saw definitely wasn’t Bailey.

  Instead, it was a little girl of about ten or eleven who was looking at me with serious, dark eyes. She had a round face, framed by poofy, long hair the same color as her eyes. She wore a light blue t-shirt, black jeans, and a pair of scuffed white sneakers. What struck me the most about her though was her odd expression. She had the most solemn face I’d ever seen on a child, a perfect match to her dark eyes.

  “Hello,” I said, trying to be friendly.

  After a second, during which I could only stare at her, she waved at me. I pulled off my glasses for a moment to look closer at the lenses. Just as I’d suspected, some of the sand was stuck on them. I carefully wiped it off with my shirt and glanced up. Once more, the girl appeared like a smudge—just like what I’d seen in the mirror. But when I put my glasses back on, she came back into focus.

  I felt a prickle on the nape of my neck. Whatever this child was, I suspected she was more than what she seemed. “What can I help you with?” I asked her.

  “I was just watching you,” she said, her high voice bereft of any inflection.

  A jolt of alarm ran through me. Had she seen me create the mattresses? “I can’t imagine why you’d want to do that. My job isn’t exactly exciting.” What an understatement! In my experience, children viewed a mattress store as the polar opposite of exciting. Especially true when my nearest competition was a candy store called Sweeter Haunts which was located down the street.

  The little girl shrugged. “I like watching how things get put together.”

  “Things like beds?” I asked. She replied with a nod that was as solemn and serious as her face.

  “Why aren’t you in school right now?” I asked.

  “I just moved here,” the little girl answered with a shrug.

  “Where are your parents?”

  “Gone,” she said, lowering her head. “It’s just my sister and me now.” I noticed the hurt in her eyes.

  “Well, where’s your sister?” I asked, only now realizing her mysterious presence had instantly relieved my exhaustion and that was peculiar, certainly. As I studied her, I felt rivulets of energy pouring off her and I had to wonder if she was a spirit. Yet she wasn’t see-through at all. In fact, she was as three-dimensional as any other person.

  The little girl pointed down the street in the opposite direction of Sweeter Haunts. “She’s busy. She doesn’t know I’m here.” When she raised her head, I clearly saw the hurt in her eyes.

  My heart melted. Whatever this child was, I sensed she was very lonely. And I daresay she didn’t mean to do me any harm. “You know,” I said slowly, looking at her and the yet-to-be-constructed bed frames. “I could really use an extra set of hands. Would you like to help me put these frames together?”

  Her large eyes sparkled with a gleam of interest. “Really?”

  “Sure,” I answered, gesturing for her to come inside the shop. “It’ll give you something to do while you wait for your sister.” I picked up the flathead screwdriver from the floor. “What do you say?”

  The little girl glanced toward the direction she’d pointed with visible unease. I couldn’t blame her for being cautious. I went on to say, “Of course, if you’d prefer to watch me put them together, that’s fine too. It’ll be the first time I’ve ever worked in front of an audience.”

  Her eyes slowly returned to mine. I lined up the nearest two pieces of bed frame and sensed her mental conflict. When her eyes took on a steely resolution, I knew her decision was made.

  She stepped inside my store and walked all the way up to me without the slightest fear. Then she dropped down to her knees and knelt beside me. And the energy pouring off her seemed doubly intent. Yes, I was fairly sure she was a spirit, just a very strong one.

  “What’s your name?” I asked, placing the bolts and screws between us.

  She abruptly stuck out her hand and said, “My name’s Lorene.”

  Smiling, I accepted her hand and shook it. It felt cold, but flesh and blood. Strange. “I’m Syd. Nice to meet you, Lorene.”

  I spotted the ghost of a smile on her face as she shook my hand. “Nice to meet you, Syd.”

  She looked out the storefront and frowned as she looked back at me. “Are you Sandman Syd? Like the sign says?”

  “Yes, I am,” I answered, genuinely amused by her question while I fiddled with the bed frame. “Could you hand me a screw from that cup, please?”

  She looked at it with uncertainty. “Which one?”

  “Oh, any one will do; they’re all the same.”

  After she handed me the screw, I asked for another one. While tightening it into the wood, I asked, “So where do you live?”

  “We haven’t found our home yet,” Lorene said as she handed me the final screw for the frame.

  We were now ready for the frames on the other side, so I gestured for her to follow me and said, “Do you mind bringing the screws with you?” She complied and I asked her, “Where did you live before you came here?”

  “Somewhere else,” Lorene said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Of course, you were somewhere else, but where?” I laughed.

  Lorene started to look uncomfortable and handed me three more screws. I held up the hand with the screwdriver and said, “You don’t have to answer. I’m just curious, that’s all.”

  Lorene’s distress melted away. But she had a curious expression now. “Do you live here at the store?”

  “Why, yes. As a matter of fact, I do.” I pointed the screwdriver towards the ceiling. “I live upstairs.”

  “Do you live alone?”

  I didn’t even flinch at her question. “Yes. I have for a couple years now.”

  “Don’t you have a family?”

  A stab of pain. “I was married... once. But she’s gone now.”

  Lorene put a tiny hand on my wrist. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  I nodded and patted her hand. “You didn’t know.” She nodded again but still looked a little down in the dumps. I hoped it wasn’t because of her inquisitive questions. I patted her hand again. “Say, how long do you think it’ll take for us to finish all these bed frames?”

  Lorene shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Shall we find out?”

  Once again, I glimpsed the ghost of a smile as she nodded.

  ***

  We worked diligently on the frames.

  When I needed a screw, a nail, or another tool, Lorene was right there to give it to me. I made a valiant effort to chat with her, but she mostly preferred to stay silent. The only thing she asked me about was the Victrola, and I was only too happy to share everything I knew about the family heirloom. When I posed any questions about her sister, she seemed to get uncomfortable, so I let it go since we had plenty of work to occupy our hands and minds.

  As I predicted, the extra pair of hands saved me all kinds of time. In the capacity of several minutes, we managed to put together six bed frames whereas I could have only finished two on my own. All they needed now were my conjured mattresses.

  I wiped the sweat from my brow that signified all our hard work. Lorene looked at me and asked, “Are you thirsty?”

  Blowing out a breath, I realized how parched my throat was. “A cold glass of water would be better than nice right now.”

  And then, right before my eyes and from thin air, Lorene pulled out a bottle of water. “Here you go,” she said, holding it out to me. I grabbed it cautiously, and the icy coldness sunk into my skin. To say I was shocked was an understatement—usually supernatural creatures kept their abilities to themselves. Unless she detected that I, too, was something other.

  After one swallow, I asked, “Where did you get that?”

  “I brought it with me,” Lorene said with another shrug. “You looked like you needed it more than I did.”

  “Thank you,” I said as she reached for the now-empty bottle and I gave it to her. “That was very kind of you.”

  She nodded before the bottle disappeared again. I had no idea where it went, nor where it came from. Looking over my shoulder, she put her hands over her face. I turned around and saw her staring at the wall clock, which read that it was nearly nine-thirty.

  I wasn’t quite sure how to broach the topic of just what she was and how she’d accomplished the water bottle trick so I thought it best not to push her. Maybe she’d offer up the information or maybe she was waiting for me to offer up what I was first.