Chapter 7: Nightmare Interrupted
The fortress, for a while, held.
Travis slept in his own bed for two nights, Mavis a warm comma against his ribs or curled in the dense thicket of his hair. The dread was a low tide, present but manageable. He worked. He ate takeout straight from the container. He ignored the dedicated, silenced phone in his office drawer, though its silence sometimes felt louder than any ringtone.
On the third night, the silence became too much. The bedroom, with its familiar walls and the dark square of the communication hole, felt like a sealed vault. He needed open space, distraction, noise.
He migrated to the living room with a book he’d been meaning to read for a year—a thick fantasy novel about dragons and political intrigue. He lasted thirty pages. The words blurred, the elaborate names muddling together. The couch was deep and forgiving, the TV was on low, playing some antique documentary about deep-sea volcanoes. The pulsing, otherworldly footage was soothing. The beer, his second, was half-full and lukewarm on the floor by his feet.
He didn’t feel himself drift off. The book slumped onto his chest, its pages crumpling. The narrator’s voice dissolved into the bubbling hiss of volcanic vents.
The nightmare didn’t arrive with fanfare. It seeped in.
It started with the work. He was at his desk, but the screen wasn’t his. It was a void, and emails were spawning in it like invasive fungi. Each one bore the subject line: “A Friendly Follow-Up.” They multiplied, filling the screen, spilling over the edges of the desk in a crackling, digital waterfall. He tried to delete them, but his mouse was made of soap. His keyboard keys were loose teeth, clattering under his fingers but imprinting nothing.
The scene shifted. He was in his parents’ old kitchen, the one he’d ripped out during renovations. Anya Vance was there, wearing his mother’s apron. She wasn’t angry. She was smiling, holding a casserole dish that emitted the same poisonous-blue glow as the deep-sea vents on the TV. “You just need to try it, Travis,” she said, her voice the same pleasant, relentless tone from her voicemails. “It’s what’s best. For your portfolio. For your growth.” She advanced, and the casserole was full of wriggling, unsent email drafts.
He backed away, into his living room. The couch was there, but it was made of the same writhing digital text. It coiled around his ankles, pulling him down.
His body on the real couch jerked. A low whimper escaped his lips, more animal than human. His head tossed to the side, the novel thumping to the floor. His fingers, trapped under his thigh, clawed spasmodically at the rough weave of the couch cushion.
High above, nestled and drowsing in the familiar jungle of Travis’s black hair, Mavis was stirred not by sound, but by movement. A sudden, violent tilt of the world. He gripped two fistfuls of hair, holding on as the giant landscape of his friend seismically shifted.
Then came the sounds. The pained, choked whimpers.
Mavis scrambled down, using hair and then the curve of Travis’s ear as a handhold. He dropped onto the broad plain of Travis’s shoulder, his paws landing silently on the soft cotton of the t-shirt. He saw everything. The twitching face, the eyelids fluttering like trapped moths, the sweat beading at the temples. The way Travis’s breath hitched, stopped, then shuddered out in a ragged gasp.
“No,” Travis moaned into the cushion, his voice thick with sleep-terror. “Don’t… can’t…”
Mavis didn’t hesitate. He launched himself across the column of Travis’s throat, a tiny, furry tightrope walker, and climbed the stark cliff of his jaw. He planted himself squarely on Travis’s cheekbone, his feet braced against the stubble.
“Travis,” he said, firm but quiet. His tiny hands pressed against Travis’s closed eyelid. The skin was hot, damp. “Hey. It’s not real. Whatever it is, it’s a lie.”
Travis shuddered, a full-body convulsion that almost dislodged him. The whimpers grew more desperate.
The documentary droned on. Glowing jellyfish pulsated in the TV’s light, casting sickly, shifting shadows across the torment on Travis’s face.
Mavis changed tactics. Words weren’t penetrating. He needed a deeper signal. He scurried down, tracing the line of Travis’s jaw to the pulse hammering in his neck. He found the collar of the t-shirt, dipped beneath the frayed edge, and slipped inside.
The world became dark, close, and overwhelmingly loud. The thunder of a panicked heart. The rasp of strained lungs. The heat was immense. Mavis pushed through, pressing his entire body lengthwise against the frantic drumbeat in Travis’s throat. He laid his cheek flat against the skin, and willed his own small, steady rhythm into the maelstrom.
He didn’t speak. He just held on. He became a burr, a fact, a tiny piece of undeniable reality lodged against the chaos.
He felt the exact moment the anchor caught.
The giant tendon under him tightened, then, incrementally, began to loosen. The hurricane of a heartbeat began to slow, the gallop easing into a trot. The ragged gulps of air smoothed, deepened, then hitched on a sob.
Travis woke. It was a violent return, a gasp that sucked all the air in the room. His eyes flew open, staring unseeing at the ceiling, tears magnifying the blurred shapes of the light fixture. His body went rigid, then began to tremble, a fine, helpless shaking that Mavis could feel through every follicle of his fur.
“Mavis?” The name was cracked, a fragment of sound.
“Right here,” Mavis said, his voice muffled by fabric and flesh. He didn’t move. “Still here. You’re on the couch. You fell asleep. The TV’s showing fish with lights on their faces.”
A choked sound, half-laugh, half-sob, vibrated through Travis’s throat. He lifted a heavy, trembling hand and laid it over his own chest, right where Mavis was pinned. A cage of fingers and palm.
“She was… the emails were…” He couldn’t finish. The terror was receding, leaving behind the raw, shameful residue of panic.
“I know,” Mavis said simply. His tail, trapped inside the shirt, managed to find a way to curl up and brush the underside of Travis’s jaw. A faint, repeating stroke. “But they’re not here. It’s just me. And the glowing fish.”
Travis’s breathing hitched again, but this time it was settling. The tremors were subsiding, replaced by a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. He was drenched in cold sweat. The smell of stale beer and his own fear was sharp in his nose.
“Sorry,” Travis whispered, the word meant for the dark room, for the tiny creature against his pulse.
“For what?” Mavis’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Having a brain that’s an asshole sometimes? Not your fault.” He finally shifted, extracting himself from the collar. He emerged into the cool air of the room, climbing back up to sit on Travis’s sternum, looking down at the pale, sweat-sheened face. “Couch sleep is garbage sleep. It invites bad guests.”
Travis wiped a shaky hand over his face. “Yeah.”
“Come on.” Mavis stood, giving Travis’s chin a light, insistent tap with his foot. “Up. Real bed. Proper walls. I’ll even do perimeter checks.”
It took effort, a monumental shifting of weight and will. Travis pushed himself up, the world swimming slightly. He grabbed the lukewarm beer bottle and carried it to the kitchen, dumping the flat liquid down the sink. The ritual of it helped. Turning off the TV helped, plunging the room into a dark silence that now felt protective, not oppressive.
He walked back to the bedroom, his steps slow. Mavis rode on his shoulder, a silent sentinel.
Travis didn’t bother with pajamas. He just kicked off his pants and fell into the bed, the sheets cool and startling against his skin. He lay on his back, staring at the familiar dark shape of the hole in the wall.
He felt the bed dip minutely as Mavis jumped down from his shoulder. The tiny figure moved with purpose across the vast expanse of the duvet. He went to the head of the bed, to the small, rectangular balcony beside the main hole. From it, he pulled a scrap of fabric—a handkerchief Travis had given him ages ago. He dragged it back, heaving it up onto Travis’s chest.
“Here,” Mavis said, patting the bunched cloth. “For your face. You’re a mess.”
Travis took it, wiping the sweat and the tear-tracks away. The cotton was soft, smelled faintly of dust and, inexplicably, of cinnamon. A smell from Mavis’s world.
He dropped the cloth on the nightstand. The trembling had fully stopped. A hollow, clean emptiness was left in its wake.
Mavis didn’t curl up on his chest or in his hair. He walked to the side of Travis’s head and simply sat down on the pillow, his back against Travis’s temple, his tail resting across Travis’s forehead. A living, breathing headband.
“Go to sleep,” Mavis said, his voice a low, certain hum near Travis’s ear. “I’ve got the watch. The fortress is secure.”
Travis closed his eyes. This time, the dark behind his lids was just dark. The only pulse he felt was the gentle, rhythmic sway of Mavis’s tail, sweeping slowly back and forth, sweeping the bad guests away.
He swam up from a deep, dreamless black. Consciousness returned not as a shock, but as a slow seepage of sensation. The weight of the duvet. The faint, dusty smell of his own pillowcase. A crick in his neck from sleeping too still.
When Travis woke, he still felt Mavis leaning against his temple, though the tail was now wrapped around his ear. It wasn’t swaying. It was just there, a warm, furred band holding the world together. He blinked, his eyes gritty. Pale morning light defined the edges of the blinds.
He didn’t move. He just breathed, listening to the sound of it, steady and his own. The nightmare’s residue was a dull film, like dust on glass, but the clawing terror was gone.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Mavis mumbled. His voice was thick with sleep, a tiny vibration against Travis’s skin. “It’s barely morning. Stop it.”
“I’m not thinking anything,” Travis whispered.
“Liar. Your brain’s whirring. I can feel it.” Mavis uncurled his tail and stretched, his back popping audibly. He slid down the pillow to perch on Travis’s shoulder. “You’re cataloguing. The bad dream, the emails, the fact you drank two beers and now your mouth tastes like a bog. Standard post-siege inventory.”
Travis smiled, a faint curve of his lips. “Is that what it was? A siege?”
“Of the mind. The nastiest kind.” Mavis jumped down onto the mattress, a small thump. “The body needs fuel after a defense. Come on. Up.”
The routine was ordinary, and the ordinary felt sacred. Travis shuffled to the kitchen, put coffee on. Mavis rode on his shoulder, directing operations with tiny pushes against his neck. “More sugar in that bowl. The plain oats, not the weird flaxseed ones. Yes, that spoon.”
Travis complied, moving in a quiet, comfortable haze. He scoured a tiny portion of dry oats and a drip of honey onto a jar lid—Mavis’s plate—and set it on the counter. He leaned his elbows beside it, watching the tiny figure eat with neat, precise bites.
“You’re staring,” Mavis said, not looking up.
“Just processing,” Travis said. The coffee maker gurgled. “Thanks. For last night.”
Mavis shrugged, a miniature gesture. “You’d do the same if my walls were under assault. It’s the treaty.” He finished a honey-coated oat and licked his fingers. “The fortress held, by the way. You didn’t check your phone once.”
Travis knew he hadn’t. The drawer had remained shut. The knowledge was a small, hard won victory.
“It doesn’t feel like winning,” Travis admitted, the words leaving him in a rush. “It just feels like hiding. And I’m tired. I’m so tired of being the guy who hides from a fucking email.”
Mavis looked up then, his dark eyes sharp. “It’s not an email. It’s a demand wrapped in polite corporate stationery. You’re not hiding. You’re choosing a different battlefield.” He shoved the jar lid away. “The problem is you think saying ‘no’ to her is a failure. It’s not. It’s a complete sentence.”
The coffee was ready. Travis poured a mug, the steam curling up to kiss his face. He sipped, the bitter heat a welcome burn. “What if she doesn’t stop?”
“Then she’s a trespasser,” Mavis said simply. He climbed the coffee mug, using Travis’s thumb as a stepstool, and sat on the rim, letting his legs dangle over the dark, hot liquid inside. “And you know what we do with those.”
We. The word sat between them, solid as a stone. Travis looked at the tiny being silhouetted in steam, a stubborn guardian on the rim of his world. The exhaustion was still there, a weight in his marrow, but beneath it something else stirred. Not defiance, exactly. More like recognition.
He wasn’t in this alone. The fortress wasn’t just a metaphor. It had a patrol, a heartbeat, a set of rules written in honey and tail-flicks and shared silence. He took another sip, careful not to jostle the rim. Mavis didn’t flinch.
“Okay,” Travis said, the word tasting of coffee and something like resolve.
“Okay,” Mavis echoed. He dipped the very tip of his tail into Travis’s coffee, then flicked it, sending a tiny droplet pattering onto Travis’s knuckle. “Now. You have a vegan bakery relying on you for a scone logo that doesn’t scream ‘compost’. Focus on that. Let the ghost in the machine rattle her chains. She can’t get in.”
Travis nodded. He carried his mug and his passenger back toward the office. The morning light cut a bright stripe across the floor, illuminating the dust motes spinning in the air. The door to the office was ajar, the dark rectangle of the phone drawer just visible under the desk.
He walked past it. He sat in his chair, waking the computer. The bakery files glowed on the screen, bright and local and real. Mavis scurried down his arm and took up a position on the warm laptop chassis, a lookout perched on the ramparts.
Travis picked up his stylus. He took a deep breath. And he began to work, the ghost momentarily silenced by the soft click of keys and the steady, watchful presence at his side.