We were sitting in the dark after the bedtime story and prayers. I typically hold his hand and check blog stats or write the next day’s post while he drifts off to sleep.
“Mommy, I like dreams. They’re nice,” he said sleepily.
“I like dreams, too. Most of the time. Do you ever have bad dreams?”
“Charlie? Who’s Charlie?” Goosebumps rose on my neck and arms.
“Charlie is my bad dream.” He was matter of fact, no fear in his voice.
Charlie was my own bad dream as a kid. Terrified the hell out of me. I had never told this to a single soul.
“What does Charlie look like?”
“He has red eyes and no pupilaries. Like Deadpool’s but red and not black. He has a bushy beard and one eyebrow that stretches over both eyes. He’s old.”
How can it be possible for your child to have the same, identical childhood nightmare?
“Did I tell you about Charlie?” I asked, my heart pounding, hopeful that he would say yes and I had just forgotten.
“No. But he says he knows you…”