The instant the moon crested the horizon and began its climb into the sky, the town lit up with the eruption of bonfires.  Flames flickered brightly, and the shadows they cast danced along the walls with a merriment and fervor that almost exceeded those of the actual dancers.  Violins and drums began playing ancient songs, and the smell of roast venison drifted in the nighttime air.

 

The Festival of Gathering had begun.  All of the crops had been gathered for the year, the meats dried and smoked, the plants preserved.  The once plentiful fields had been picked bare, and the people of the shard were having their last great celebration before the coming of winter.

 

Near one small fire sat an elderly man, wearing long brown robes.  His long, white beard, which had been plaited for the occasion, sat resting in his lap.  His eyes were so wrinkled they were nearly shut.  His toothless mouth gripped a corncob pipe tightly, and every so often he puffed out a smoke ring, which rose and became lost in the growing cloud of smoke raised by the bonfires.

 

As he sat relaxing, a small hand tugged at his robe.  He glanced down and saw one of the children of the village.  His mind rambled for a moment, trying to place her name.  Finally, he remembered.

 

“Well hello there, little Sally!” he said, taking the pipe from his mouth.  “You’re up late, even for the Festival of Gathering.”

 

Sally grinned, holding her hands behind her.  She nervously drew in the ground in front of her with her toe, while she looked down.

 

“Missu Hawold,” Sally said, looking shyly up,”I was wonnerin if you would tell us a stowy.  Momma said I hadda go to bed soon, but she said dat I could lissen to a stowy first, if you’d tell us one.”

 

“Us?” Old Harold said, raising his gaze from Sally.  Standing a good distance behind, watching the exchange curiously, was a small crowd of children.  Harold chuckled quietly.

 

“Of course, lass.” He said.  “Call your friends over, and I’ll tell you a story.”

 

Sally jumped up excitedly, and motioned over to her friends.  Soon, Old Howard was sitting surrounded by a semi-circle of children.

 

“So, what kind of story would you like to hear?” Harold asked the children.

 

“A scawy stowy!” Sally exclaimed.

 

“Yeah!  A scary story!” the rest of the children followed in suit.

 

“Alright, alright…” Harold chuckled.  Telling scary stories had become a tradition of sorts at the Festival of Gathering, so he’d been expecting this anyway.  “I can tell you a scary story.”

 

Harold rubbed his chin, then continued.

 

“How many of you have ever had dreams?”

 

Every child raised their hand.

 

“Alright.  Now, of you all, who has ever heard of the Dreamers?”

 

The children looked at each other curiously.  Slowly, every hand was lowered.  Harold grinned.  The perfect story to frighten children, perfect for a Gathering tale.

 

“Well, youngins, it’s a good thing you came and asked me about this stuff.  Would have been a sad day when one of you didn’t wake up again, and your mommy and daddy were crying, not a-knowin what happened.  But I can tell you some things, and perhaps some of it will protect you.”

 

The children gasped in anticipation, and huddled closer together.

 

“Now, there’re these beasts called ‘Dreamers’.” Harold began.  “The legends say that the Dreamers come and get you in your sleep, attacking when you’re least protected.  They wait and wait until your eyes close and, just as you’re slipping asleep and falling into Dreamland, they strike!”

 

Harold grinned as the children gasped in unison.

 

“Now, now, don’t fear youngins.” Harold said, holding out a hand reassuringly.  “I wouldn’t tell ya about all this just te scare ya.  Lemme tell you about some of these ‘Dreamer’ monsters, so you can protect yourselves.”

 

“First, you got your Faytsents.  Faytsents sneak into your dreams, and steal them from you.  They turn you into a puppet of sorts, making ya do this, and do that.  Try as you might, you can’t escape.  They can make you dance like a chicken, or kick a rock, or smack yourself in the head!”

 

“Now, Faytsents are basically little pranksters.  Some say that they feed off of your fear, and that’s how they grow stronger.  If you ever see a Faytsent in your dream, the best thing to do is roll up like a possum and play dead.” Harold continued, miming rolling his hands together.  “Hopefully, they’ll get tired of their game and let you get back to your Dream.”

 

“After Faytsents, you’ve got yer Solmashers.  Solmashers are gruesome beasties, looking like something that crawled up out of the swamp.  They’re usually covered with moss, and dripping icky goo all over.  Solmashers are disgusting, as well.  They sneak into your dreams, and drip all over you, making you sick.”

 

Harold chuckled as Sally scrunched up her face.  More than one of the other children looked nauseated.

 

“Dreamsaws are another type of Dreamer, perhaps the creepiest of all.  They don’t do a whole lot TO you, but they’re scary nonetheless.  See, Dreamsaws can cut into your head, and see everything you know.  They know ALL your secrets, and whisper them to you!  The spookiest thing is, you can’t see a Dreamsaw; they’re all invisible, like ghosts.  You can just hear them whispering in your ear.  Whispering… and whispering…”

 

“There’s others, too, youngins.  Cobblists, what use giant sticks to smack your toes.  There are Vocaties, who chase you all around your dreams screeching and hollering at you.  There’s even what are called Scaresmiths.  Those beasties will come at you with all sorts of contraptions that they’ve built, giant machines and contrivances to torture you with.”

 

Harold dropped off for a moment, watching the children huddle closer, to listen to his next words.

 

“But perhaps the worst of all are the Gaters.  The Gaters are called that, because they can lock the gates into, and out of, your dreams.  If a Gater runs into you, and catches you, there’s not much you can do.  With most of the others, you can eventually manage to wake yourself up.”

 

“Not with Gaters, though.  Gaters lock the doors.  They trap you in small rooms, and you’re stuck there.  You can’t move, you can’t wake up, you can’t hide.  You can’t do anything.  All you can do is beg and plead for the Gater to let you go.  If the Gater is feeling nice, they just MIGHT consider letting you go.  But more often than not, you’ll simply never… wake… up.”

 

Harold finished the tale, and let a quiet silence roll over his attentive audience.

 

“So guard your sleep well tonight, little ones.  The Dreamers are out there, and it’s been said that their favorite time to feed is around the Festival of Gathering.  Some say that’s because the Gathering has some spiritual tie to some of the Dreamers, or some such.  I’m not sure why, but I do know that in years past, that’s often when most of the Dreamer attacks have happened.” Harold’s voice dropped to a whisper, as he continued.  “So, say your prayers before you go to sleep, and remember: If it’s anything but a Gater, you can always wake up.  If it’s a Gater, though, your only chance is to...”

 

“RUN!” Harold exclaimed, jumping up, and tossing his cane into the air.

 

The children gathered about his feet screamed in terror, and ran off in fright.  Harold chuckled, watching the children run to their parents at other parts of the festival, smiling warmly as each parent comforted the children, and assured them that ‘they would watch over them tonight’.

 

“You sure seem to know a lot about the Dreamers.” A voice called from behind him, the speech lightly slurred. 

 

Picking up his cane, Harold turned around curiously.  A trio of men were standing in the shadows nearby, with two empty jugs rolling around their feet.  The smell of liquor coming off of them was heavy, and the slur to their speech left no doubts as to their drunkenness.  Harold was suddenly uncomfortably aware of how far he was from the rest of the crowd, and how covered with shadow his storytelling spot was.

 

“Now, now…” he stammered, slowly edging backwards toward the light.  “They’re just old legends, old stories.  We’ve always passed along tales of the Dreamer menace.”

 

“Perhaps.” One of the men said, pausing to belch.  “But I don’t remember any of those names.  I never heard of any ‘Dreamsaws’ or ‘Gaters’.”

 

“Y’know, Evan,” one of the other men interrupted, “I’ve heard some say that the Dreamers are actual people, and that some of them are still around.”

 

Evan looked at the other man, and a dark glint came to his eye.

 

“Y’know, you’re right, Andrew.  I’ve heard that same thing, myself.” Evan said, reaching into his pocket.  He slowly withdrew his hand, and Harold trembled as the light glinted off the edge of the knife.  “I’ve heard the same thing, and this old man here seems pret-ty knowledgeable about these ‘Dreamer’ beasts.  Perhaps he’s one of ‘em.”

 

“I’ve heard Dreamers have gots air in their veins, and no bones.” The third one chipped in, dropping his bottle to the ground.

 

Harold gave up all pretenses, and whirled around, trying to run back to the crowd.  He tried to cry out for help, but his throat was hoarse from the long story.  He hadn’t taken more than a step before a firm hand caught hold of his robes, and jerked him backwards into the shadows.

 

“Mebbe they’re all filled with air, mebbe they ain’t.” Evan’s voice said, as Old Harold’s consciousness faded.  “Mebbe we should find out.”