Enter Sandman (1/2)

Night. A quiet May night. Warm and nearly soundless. Only the occasional rustle of leaves, the distant growl of a passing car engine, and drunken laughter clinking with glass bottles from the neighboring courtyard. On a night like this, there are only two sensible things to do: either go for a walk—because the night is truly lovely and crisp—or sleep deeply, because there’s no real difference between sleeping through a storm and sleeping in cool silence. And if there is a difference? Either invest in better windows or bundle up. Consider this a small ad for home renovation.

Tonight, I wasn’t sleeping—though I should have been. I sat at the kitchen table, staring intently out the window. Alone; it was far too late for company. Did something flicker past the glass? No. Just my imagination.

The silver "Volga"—more precisely, a GAZ-3110—rolled along the asphalt, shuddering over potholes and bumps. Occasionally, the car would jerk violently, prompting the driver to grip the wheel tighter and mutter through clenched teeth:

"These damn roads..."

The car turned off the main road and headed toward the seventh entrance of an L-shaped apartment block, entering a courtyard where asphalt hadn’t been laid since—well, since the Tsar’s reign.

Not that all roads were in such dismal condition. The city’s central streets and main thoroughfares still had decent, even smooth pavement—mostly relics of imperial construction. Funny: Alexander VI was overthrown in ’99, yet his roads lived on...

Meanwhile, the "Volga" crunched to a stop near Entrance No. 7, its tires whispering against the gravel. The speedometer and dashboard glowed a soothing green. A rustle in the bushes—a black cat poked its curious face out, darting across the car’s path. A heavy calm settled in, exhaustion politely but firmly suggesting he stay in the warmed driver’s seat all night. But the man forced himself out, unbuckling, yanking the key, and slamming the door behind him.

Chilly. A slight shiver ran through him. Rolling his stiff neck, he climbed the steps to the building’s entrance, stopping before the intercom. After a glance around, he punched in a number and pressed the call button.

I’d been expecting him—yet still flinched when the apartment’s hollow silence was split by the intercom’s shrill ring. Half-crouched, I rushed to answer before the second buzz, snatching the receiver.

"Who is it?" A pointless question, of course. I knew. We’d been meeting like this every night lately. My new friend. At least, I wanted to think of him that way.

"Time to reinstall Windows," came the thick voice through the static, slightly hoarse from interference.

"Windows won’t reinstall itself," I replied, pressing the buzzer.

A beep sounded on the other end, signaling the door's release. I hung up and cracked open the apartment door—no sense making my guest wait on the threshold.

Back in the kitchen, I took my seat at the table. At night, the elevator's whir carried with unnatural clarity. By the time I'd opened up, the man from the silver "Volga" was already ascending.

The elevator doors slid open. Footsteps crossed the landing. The front door groaned, then clanged metal against metal as the latch snapped shut—he'd perfected the art of closing it during his visits.

Finally: shoes off, door secured, my guest appeared in the doorway, studying me.

"Enter, Sandman."

Sandman? Let me tell you about him. This man wasn't made of sand, nor did he harbor any peculiar affinity for it. The nickname came from his hair—an unnatural, sun-bleached yellow.

His close-cropped cut and perpetual stubble gave the impression of a head dusted with sand. Standing slightly above average height, he wasn't lean, but his clothes didn't cling to bulging muscles or, god forbid, fat rolls. His outfit was some ambiguous hybrid of shirt and sweater, borrowing the former's thinness and the latter's cut. His legs disappeared into faded, near-white jeans, their factory wear long since replaced by authentic tears and stains.

I can't speak to his shoes—our encounters never progressed beyond the kitchen, and by morning I'd struggle to recall what we'd even done. But I can confirm he wore socks. That much I remember.

The Sandman's hands deserve special mention. At first glance—just ordinary hands, palms slightly calloused, nails neatly trimmed. But the fingers... To be honest, when we first met and he extended his hand, I recoiled in horror. He had no ring fingers. Neither on his left nor right hand. If there had been stumps in their place, if some accident, particularly twisted torture, or strange ritual could explain it—really, any explanation implying those fingers had once existed—I would've felt much calmer. But those two fingers simply weren't there, nor any remnants. After the middle finger came the pinky.

Consequently, his palms were narrower but not disfigured. A normal human hand, bones properly aligned, fingers (those present) straight. So what's so frightening? That everything appears normal, yet isn't quite. A scar would be one thing. But here—just smooth skin. As if this was how it should be. When something strains to seem normal while ever-so-slightly failing, that's what terrifies most. I dislike the word "normal," but regarding human anatomy, it has its place. In short, the Sandman's hands were a living illustration of the uncanny valley effect.

Enough about fingers. Typically, entering the kitchen, the Sandman would squint against the bright lights. But tonight, his eyes weren't narrowed—at least, I didn't see them that way. This visit, he arrived wearing sunglasses. Round, thin-framed ones.

I grinned at the dark lenses disrupting his sandy features:

"Well then... hello, Lennon!"

"Yes! That's it! Finally!" the Sandman exclaimed triumphantly, unconcerned about waking anyone—at last, someone recognized him! "He was a great man, wasn't he..."

In response, I yawned, my head lolling. Typical. The Sandman's presence always turns my brain to mush. Nausea creeps in, vision blurs. Must fight the drowsiness. Tea will fix this. For both of us.

"How about some tea?"

The Sandman nodded, keeping the glasses on as he sat. I stood—blood rushed to my heavy head. Darkness edged my vision; I swayed. There's something oddly compelling about this sensation. Not painful, but like being adrift with a leaden skull.

Alright. The dizziness seems to have passed. I took out the cups, dropped in the tea bags, and switched on the kettle.

"Sugar?"

"Only in cubes. I've had enough 'sand' for today."

I acknowledged the joke with a brief smirk. After all, that's all this situation warranted, don't you think?

The water boiled. I poured it into the cups. Now the tea just needed to steep. Not wanting to waste five minutes, I decided to tell my guest about a dream I'd had recently. At every one of our meetings, some vague urge compelled me to share fragments of my nighttime mind-games with the Sandman. Each time, I'd start speaking with that inner feeling of something's about to happen. And the moment I uttered the word "dream," that something would occur.

"Listen, I wanted to tell you..."

The phrasing always varied slightly, but the essence remained the same.
"...about the dream I had last night."

"A dream, you say?" The Sandman probably squinted slyly at this point, but the glasses hid his expression. "Do you remember where you are right now?"

This question always threw me off.

"Sitting with you in the kitchen, waiting for tea," I replied, keeping my answer as obvious as possible.

Leaning forward, he brought his face closer to mine:
"Do you remember what you did this evening?"

"Well—" I raised my brows pensively. "This evening, I decided to go to the store."

"Go on."

"I went as usual, but the way back ended... a bit strangely."

"How so?"

"I was walking home through the alley and thought to check if I'd brought my keys. I reached for my pocket—but there was no pocket. No pants, either!"

"And what came of that?" I'd bet the Sandman's face was mere centimeters from mine, yet his body remained entirely seated.

"It turned out I was standing completely naked in the middle of the street, holding a full bag of groceries. So absurd it couldn’t possibly be real—but if it were happening, then..."

"Then with a certain degree of probability..." Leaning back in his chair, my guest steered my swirling thoughts in the right direction.

"I'm in a dream," I concluded, the words unlocking something in me.

The space around us sharpened abruptly. Objects rippled into their familiar forms. The haze in my eyes, the drowsiness, the weight—all gone. I was myself again, no longer a bystander in my own dream. Every side effect of sharing a room with the Sandman had vanished.

"Better?" My guide to lucidity removed his glasses.

"Better." I shook my head, adjusting to the return of normal sensation.

"Good. We’ll both need to be in top physical and mental shape tonight. The trip will be... unforgettable. So much so that keeping it to ourselves would be downright selfish."

A cold hand landed on my shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my skin—only the Sandman’s presence kept me from bolting. Still, I scrambled back from the table like a scalded cat, staring at the newcomer.

A tall guy, almost as tall as the Sandman, maybe twenty years old, stood there. Gaunt, inexplicably wrapped in a heavy black overcoat he clearly had no intention of removing. His short haircut and general scowl didn’t inspire confidence. My eyes flicked to his dark trousers and black shoes, but my mind refused to process the obvious: This is bad.

Thoughts froze. My head went blank.

Listen, when strangers in winter coats show up in your kitchen on a May night, it never ends well. Trust me.

The silent standoff might have lasted longer, but the guy in black, having finished sizing me up, took the empty seat at the table and now stared blankly at the wall—as if completely oblivious to the Sandman, that sovereign of dreams.

His wall-drilling gaze persisted for ten, maybe fifteen seconds before he suddenly swiveled toward me and spoke.

Oh, he didn’t need to say more. One word was enough to place that voice. This was the one who’d advised me, argued with me, humiliated me, provoked me, and motivated me for so, so long.

"Long story short, we’ve known each other a while—just never face-to-face. I’ve talked at you, argued with you plenty, tried to convince you, all that. Tonight, I dropped by. That’s it."

Yeah, apparently his verbosity didn’t extend to the physical world. I stayed silent, retrieving a third cup for tea—which the Sandman, unexpectedly, had offered to my now-externalized inner voice.

As the water boiled, the newcomer did something utterly unhinged: he lit a cigarette right there in the kitchen. That finally shattered my stunned muteness.

"What the hell? I don’t smoke!"

Nearly choking on his own smoke from my outburst, he sneered:

"You’re you. You don’t smoke. I very much enjoy a puff. And don’t assume that just because we share a head, we’ve got to have the same habits or inclinations. Though, sure, some overlap’s inevitable. Funny though—seems I got stuck with all your worst traits," the incarnated voice tossed back.

The Sandman, for now, offered no reaction to this refugee from my psyche.

We sat in complete silence for a few more minutes while the tea steeped. My inner voice—now disturbingly incarnated—blew smoke rings with lively enthusiasm, the tendrils making me nauseous all over again. Finally, the tea was ready. I placed a small, neat sugar bowl decorated with some unfamiliar glyph on the table. Both of us dumped in three spoonfuls each, while the Sandman contented himself with two sugar cubes.

A few sips of warm tea clearly loosened the voice's tongue, because for the first time since his arrival, he spoke casually, without visible irritation:

"Here's what I'll tell you," he began, shooting sideways glances at the Sandman, "don't trust people in silver "Volgas". Stay away from them. This time, it's not about the people—it's about the cars."

"The car isn't mine. I just needed transportation," interjected the Dream Lord, and for the first time, I heard notes of defensiveness in his voice.

"What's so special about that car?" I asked, curious.

"It's Demosh's car," my inner voice replied curtly.

"Demosh?"

"Not a name—never a name," the Sandman cut in sharply. "You're giving those up, remember? Just a nickname. We have to call him something. 'Sir' or 'Master' sounds too ambiguous, though it would be accurate."

"Speaking of which—" The voice gave me that sly look I'd always felt from deep inside whenever I found myself in an awkward situation—"if you're giving up names, what business does that artist from the poster and the last emperor have keeping theirs?"

"They're historical figures," I countered. "Pointless to stay silent about people the world already knows."

"Pointless to ramble on about them unnecessarily."

"I just mentioned them in passing. Learn the difference."

An internal debate. Now on a whole new level. How familiar this felt...

The Dream Lord hurried to cut off the brewing conflict with an interesting fact:

"About Demosh," the Sandman continued, "the nickname came about because some semi-literate religious fanatic transliterated the word 'demon' as 'demoh'."

"But that reads as 'demokh'!" I objected.

"Blame the illiterate reader. But admit it—'Demosh' sounds better."

"And about the "Volga"," my inner voice cut in, "it's not that the car itself is terrible (though far from the best), but it's Demosh's preferred ride—specifically in silver. And believe me, he's a nightmare of a man. Then again, maybe the "Volga" made him that way. Long story short—if hell existed, everyone there would drive "Volgas"."

"Demosh is awful, yet he's your... master?" I asked, baffled.

"His power is built on cruelty and fear. Trust me, it won’t last, but for now, I’m bound to him," the Sandman explained.

"Whether Demosh branded the car or the car branded him—hard to say now. But in certain circles, driving one is like sporting a certain tiny mustache."

"What’s wrong with mustaches?"

"Oh, right," the Sandman winced, smacking his forehead. "That’s all... over there."

"Bottom line—stay away from that car," my inner voice concluded, and the Dream Lord gave a grim nod.

I sipped my tea, savoring the warmth spreading through me.

"Good tea, huh?" the Sandman asked, as if he’d personally grown, dried, and brewed it.

"Couldn’t be better," I agreed, taking another sip.

"Well then, let’s go. The journey will be... fascinating." I nodded, draining my cup.

Flash!

The train raced forward. Outside the window, snow-capped mountain peaks, emerald forests, and glass-faced cities blurred past. When the gray streaks gave way to green and brown, the train slowed to a stop. To my surprise, I recognized our dacha—the summer house I visited every year. I hated that place. Mostly out of boredom that seeped into everything, though there were deeper reasons too. I didn’t want to step outside, but the train refused to move.

Hesitating, I stepped into the grass—and instantly, space crumpled like paper. When it unfolded again, I was ten years old, standing on the second floor of the house. Mom sat on the bed, furious with me—rightfully so. I felt disgusting. Tears burned, but I fought them back.

She brought up the fascists. "They acted just like you did today." The comparison shattered me. I bolted from the room, down the stairs, out the door—still in my pajamas. The iron gate clanged behind me as I sprinted up the path toward the cliff, choking on sobs.

At the top, I paced along the edge, guilt and shame boiling inside me. My actions could be forgiven—but did they deserve to be? I’d known the risks. Luck alone kept him from poisoning himself, spitting it all out in time. A scolding wasn’t enough. I needed punishment.

I couldn’t jump. Just stared at the river far below, too scared to even try. Not because I wanted to die—I didn’t. But the guilt demanded justice. I was ten.

Then—yanked back, like waking from a nightmare. I sat at the kitchen table again, shaking violently. A fresh cup of tea steamed in front of me. I gulped it down, careful not to spill. Good tea… really good.

The memory had been viciously vivid—a full return to that day. A pointless return, I thought. The Sandman seemed to agree, his expression uneasy:

"Well... we shouldn’t have started with that one. No breaking through there. Fine, let’s go deeper."

The tea had done its job—I felt calmer.

Flash!

I was back in the kitchen. Seventeen now. Sitting in the corner at the table. Darkness outside, both wall lamps blazing at full strength. Dad walks in, swaying slightly. Sits down. His eyes are half-lidded, weighed down by exhaustion, his gaze drifting across the window before settling on my face. He raises his right arm, thumps his elbow onto the table, and curls his hand into a fist.

The fist is meant for me.

Alright, brace yourself. This’ll be ugly.

His face twists into a snarl. His arm stretches across the table—the fist now centimeters from my face.

Dad stands, steps toward me, grabs my shoulder, and yanks me up, forcing me to face him. I rise. My skin prickles—this show of strength alone is infuriating. Unavoidable.

He shifts into a defensive stance, palms raised. Classic posture, implying I’m supposed to start practicing my punch. Just like that. Walk up to someone, drag them to their feet, and force them to hit you. Not masochism—strike training. But he’s clearly enjoying it.

I stand there, arms limp.

Dad feints with his palms, egging me on:
"Come on, show me your punch! Be a man!"

The trigger phrase. Increases threat level by an average of 20 points and compels the target to attack if they hadn’t already. A verbal red rag. When someone demands you conform to some imposed ideal—"real man," "modern citizen," "normal guy," "power user," whatever—all you want is to shut them up. Permanently. Preferably forever.

My fingers instantly clenched into a fist. A short punch landed in his left palm. Dad nodded approvingly, leaning back. But I wasn't done. Appetite comes with eating. I threw another punch, then another, and another—one after another, my technique nonexistent, just hammering away with my fists, completely forgetting about defense. And what exactly was I supposed to defend against? The retaliation of a drunk?

Dad no longer said "good job." I was doing everything wrong, and he tried to stop me, to explain.

No explanations. I’ll fulfill your wish. I’ll drown you in the strength you so desperately wanted me to have.

I wasn’t hitting my father. Not even "Dad." I didn’t know who this man was. My real father had died several shots of vodka ago.

Why did you kill our regret?

Dad’s back hit the windowsill. Nowhere left to retreat. He was already breathing heavily, sliding to the floor. Hitting him became difficult in every sense. I started realizing the stupidity—the criminality—of what I was doing…

Then—I was back in the kitchen, with the Sandman and my own manifested inner voice. What I’d just experienced no longer felt like a memory. I’d been there, though I could still sense the connection to this kitchen. Apparently, the depth of immersion really was increasing. A bitter joke came to mind: "An inner world so deep, you could drown in it."

"Well... your dad’s a real riot," remarked the "contents."

Catching my breath, I replied:
"Riot isn’t the word. Speaking of riots—he had a cook working under him once. Dad nicknamed him 'the joker.' The guy would cluck like a chicken when serving chicken soup or bleat like a goat with the lamb stew. And then Dad fired him. His reasoning? 'I don’t trust a man who cackles at work.' That’s the kind of thing we’re dealing with."

"It would seem," the Sandman intoned, "your father was obsessively pushing you down a path of destruction."

"I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—I don’t want to follow the line he drew, nor walk in his footsteps," I said, shaking my head.

"Then who do you want to become, if you follow your own path?"

This time, I answered the inner voice sitting across from me—not the Sandman. Though, to be fair, he was at the table too.

"You know… I’ve been asked that often. And I never had an answer. But now? I do. Know what I want to be? A writer. Not out of graphomania, not just for profit. I want to make people feel. Joy, anger, curiosity, rage—it doesn’t matter what. To reach minds and souls. To dig deep and leave something to ponder. To speak to the world and share. I want to create, not destroy. We destroy too much. What’s left of the world if we only break and never build?"

Silence fell. The kind we call awkward.

The Sandman rose from his seat. He stood behind me, holding a mug of tea. His voice trembled, teetering on sentimental:

"That’s beautiful. Magnificent. Drink, creator."

A warm waterfall of strong-brewed tea cascaded over my head.

Flash!

A cozy, well-lit room. The decor whispered of antiquity. My feet sank into the plush expanse of a massive carpet that swallowed the entire floor. Another hung on the far wall, its intricate patterns commanding reverence—Bow before His Pile-ency, they seemed to say. Not today. I don’t believe in carpets.

The wardrobe, chairs, table, sofa—all straight out of the 20th century. Only three things defied the vintage illusion: a mid-sized plasma screen embedded in one wall, a metal door that would gleam coldly under any light, and strangest of all—a poster beside the door. It might’ve looked natural with muted colors. Instead, violent hues clashed without forming any coherent image. But the black text stood out most, bold and blocky:

"2027 WILL LIVE IN MY SOUL. FOREVER."

My attention shifted to the door. It looked more out of place than anything else in this room. I didn’t want to open it. My gut whispered that nothing good waited behind it—that everything there was fundamentally different, and that crossing the threshold would shatter this cozy, timeless space. Besides, I couldn’t even find a handle. That settled it: I wouldn’t do a damn thing.

A quiet creak of wood came from the corner. I turned. The sound came from a rocking chair where an old man—presumably the room’s occupant—sat motionless. I hadn’t noticed the chair at first; it blended so perfectly with the low wooden dresser and the elongated sofa, its upholstery worn but still sturdy.

The old man saw me but showed no surprise, fear, or even curiosity. He pivoted in his chair, and the chair pivoted with him. Now I could see the stack of yellowed, wrinkled sketchbook pages in his hands, slightly crumpled with age. The paper had to be decades old, yet someone had preserved it with meticulous care.

Shaking his head at me, the old man murmured:

"Hard to believe this was written sixty years ago. That it all started here. No, I don’t regret writing it. I’ve tried my damnedest to stop regretting anything. It’s not easy. I don’t mourn the unexplored—I mourn what I lost through my own choices. Forget the bad, remember the good, freeze the beautiful in memory forever. That’s how I live now. Memory fades with time, and that’s almost a mercy. Some things can’t be forgotten otherwise."

But I was more interested in the text that had pulled him away from reading:

"What is that in your hands? What are you holding?"

The old man smiled so wide that a few of his wrinkles momentarily smoothed away. That smile sent chills down my spine.

"Don’t you already know? Or haven’t you guessed? Haven’t you played with the foundation in your head, hunting for the right opening line, the perfect phrasing to sharpen your point?" He lifted the pages slightly. "'This is a story four months long...'"

"What? You're—"

I sat at the table, rigid as a board. Spine straight, legs locked, hands folded. But my eyes were a storm, my heart hammering wildly.

"Why so shocked?" The Sandman peered into my face.

"You don’t run into your future self every day," I muttered, staring past him.

"Yourself? It was just a dream!"

My bewilderment crumpled under the weight of surprise.

"A dream? Right, I forgot... But—" I pushed back, "there’s no such thing as 'just' a dream! Then again, what does it matter what it really was? The point is, I saw myself in the future—far ahead! What was that place? What text was the old man talking about? And what happens in 2027?"

Questions tumbled out of me. I didn’t even notice at first that I was still drenched in tea—sloshing in my nose, pooled in my ears, trickling sticky trails down my neck.

The Sandman clearly scrambled for an evasion, but my manifested inner voice cut in:

"So, you plan to live to old age? You dream of it, or at least think about it—otherwise, you wouldn’t have dreamed it. But... why? Why endure that long, slow withering?"

"Suggesting I die young instead? Burn out bright and spectacular? Or, more likely, fizzle out damp and quick? No thanks. Let them smoke, drink, shoot, hang, die at twenty, twenty-five, twenty-seven. We’ll keep living."

"As you wish," the voice replied indifferently. "I’ll be with you to the end, regardless. And that’s not up to either of us."

"Demosh, I suppose? He set this all up?" I smirked.

"That too." The Sandman nodded. "He confirms it."

The Sandman remained silent. Another awkward pause. Suddenly, I found a full cup of tea in front of me. And though I'd already drunk more than enough tea that night, I took another sip. It's not like coffee, where you have to measure doses and count cups per day, right?

Flash!