That night I have the nightmare again. I've been tormented by it for as long as I can remember. Always the same, and always as terrifying.
I'm on a plane. We haven't taken off yet. I'm by the window but I don't look out. In the dream I never look out.
There's a woman next to me and a baby in the aisle seat. The baby's sitting alone, strapped in by a normal belt. I know that's not right - they have special straps for babies on planes - but in the dream it doesn't seem strange.
The woman's chatting to her child, cooing, making nonsense noises. The baby ignores her. It's staring straight ahead. I don't know if it's a boy or a girl - it's dressed in white clothes.
We taxi down the runway. The engine roars. The plane tears free of the ground and whines like a dying dog. I shake in my seat. My stomach clenches. I don't mind flying but I hate takeoff. We go abroad most years, Costa del Sol, Cyprus, Ibiza. Each time we rise, I'm sure that the engine will stall, that the plane will drop sickeningly, that I'll die from an explosion or burn to death slowly. The fear passes when we level out, but for that first minute or two... absolute terror.
It's no different in the dream. Except in a way it is. Because I know something worse than a crash is coming. I sense it in the air. The roar of a plane engine is always menacing, but this sounds worse. It sounds hungry.
The woman starts to cry. She doesn't raise her hands, just sits upright, sobbing, tears streaming down her cheeks. I stare at her, wanting to say something but struck dumb by fear of what's to come.
Then the baby speaks.
"don't cry mummy."
Its voice is tinny, barely a whisper, but it carries above the roar of the engine. The woman doesn't look at the baby or stop crying.
"don't be frightened mummy," the baby says. "we're with you. we'll always be with you."
The baby's head turns. But it's not looking at its mother. It's looking at me. It has no pupils, just balls of white for eyes.
"you're yummy mummy," the baby whispers. It should be funny but it isn't. The unnatural infant has a full set of teeth, all sharpened into fangs. Drops of blood drip from the sides of its mouth as it speaks.
The baby stands. (I don't know what happened to the belt.) I stare at it and it stares at me. The woman between us has vanished. The baby looks like a doll, not moving, not breathing, white eyes, sharp teeth, blood.
"don't be frightened mummy," the baby says. Except its lips don't move. After a confused moment I realize the voice came from the seat in front. I tear my gaze away from the baby and look ahead.
Another baby is clinging to the top of the seat. I can see its face and shoulders, its perfect, tiny hands. It has the same type of clothes as the baby next to me. Same white eyes and sharp teeth. But no blood on this one's lips. Not yet.
"we'll save you mummy," the baby in front whispers.
"we'll always be with you mummy." Another voice, from behind.
The baby in my row is in the seat next to me now. The top of its head doesn't quite reach my chin. It's leaning forward. I should be able to knock it away with a single swipe. But I don't move. I can't.
"you have to die now mummy," the baby says, and die is echoed in whispers around the cabin.
I half rise and look over the top of the seats ahead of me. Babies everywhere, all standing, climbing the seats, looking at me, whispering die.
I glance back - more of the same. Scores of babies clambering over the seats, but calmly, smoothly, faces blank, eyes white, mouths open, teeth flashing.
I cringe away from the monstrous babies and press hard against the window. I think I'm crying but I can't be sure. The babies crawl over the seats, closer and closer, a tide of them, all looking the same. Only their fingers move, little flickers of flesh and bone. Otherwise they could be gliding.
The baby next to me climbs into my lap and stands, feet planted on my thighs, face right in front of mine now. Others crowd around it. Unnaturally slender fingers fasten on my legs, my ankles, my wrists, my arms. A baby grabs my ears and pulls back my head, exposing my throat. There are more babies on the ceiling, hanging from it like angels or vampires.
"join us mummy," the baby directly in front of me says. The blood on its chin has dried. It falls off in flaky scabs.
"die mummy," the others croon.
"you're one of us," the baby in my lap snarls, and suddenly its face changes. Its eyes glare red. Its lips contort into a sneer. Lines of hatred warp its clammy flesh. "you're one of us mummy," it shrieks.
The baby thrusts forward and latches on to my throat. Those clinging to the ceiling drop. The rest press in around me. All of their mouths are open, rows of tiny, shiny teeth. All make a sickening moaning sound.
Then they bite...