From the /c/nosleep community on Chambers

I had a problem. Dad was gone, and Mom wasn’t handling it well. She had few friends and they all knew better than to get too close. I was all she had left. One night, when we were fighting, she said it out loud: she had married Dad for his money, and if she couldn’t have Dad, she’d settle for me. Mom was wildly beautiful; statuesque, with long golden hair and skin like cream. She was the type of woman who couldn’t do anything, anywhere, without earning admiring glances. I wasn’t. That may be why, when I was young, Dad spoiled me terribly. I got anything I wanted and more, and Dad waited on me hand and foot. Now I know that was what it was like. Back then it just seemed Dad was always there, even though I never really felt like he was *with* me. Mom wasn’t around much, before or after he left. She spent her time at the club, or at the mall, and she often went away for the weekend. I was happy to have Dad to myself, even though I couldn’t reach him. Dad was…far away. He was six-foot-six, broad and strong, with a hard jawline and thick yellow hair that always looked perfectly messy. One of his eyes was blue, and the other was green, and his teeth were so white I thought they were fake. He was always wildly beautiful; more so than Mom. I think that’s why I thought of him as a God when I was little. I felt like I was just a worshipper at his feet; unworthy. I was very lucky, I knew, but I sometimes wished Dad could be more than just a provider. I wanted him to *love* me, not just take care of me. But he did take care of me. He always did his best, and he loved me in his own way. I was the center of his world. He was my Pillowman. When I was a kid, Dad used to wait for me in my room. He laid across my bed, all stretched out with his arms at his sides. He looked like a knight laid across a funeral pyre, waiting to be burned. I knew he wasn’t really there. I mean, he was there, but he wasn’t. He’d say, “If anything happens, come for me, baby. I’ll always be waiting.” I knew even then it was a lie. If anything happened, he wouldn’t be waiting. He’d have no idea. But it was all I had of him—the only time he actually looked at me. I think he loved me, but not like a father should love his daughter. Not like it mattered, anyway. I was just a toy. When I got older, I realized the truth. My father wasn’t real. That was when he left. He left when I turned eighteen. I didn’t know it then, but he’d been given an extension, and he took it. He left for three years, and I wasn’t to know about it. Mom was supposed to keep the secret, but she couldn’t. She told me the truth. “He’s not real, sweetie,” she said, as gently as she could. “Your father isn’t real. He’s a Pillowman.” I was furious, and I asked her what that meant. “Nothing,” she said. “He’s a Pillowman, that’s all.” I didn’t know what to make of that, so I pressed her for answers. She was quiet for a while, before saying, “He’s an illusion, but a real one.” I didn’t know what she meant. “What’s the difference?” “I don’t know,” she said. “He just is.” I knew then that she didn’t want to tell me more. “Why won’t you tell me?” “Because it doesn’t matter,” she said. “Your father isn’t real. Pillowmen aren’t real.” That was when it hit me. I knew what was happening. I knew Dad was leaving. “Stop it,” I said. “Tell me.” “Listen—” she said. “No,” I said. “I want to know. Tell me.” “I don’t know if I should.” “Please.” “Okay, fine,” she said. “But if you start screaming, I’m calling the doctor.” “You won’t have to.” “Listen, then,” she said. “When I was young, Pillowmen were popular. I’ve heard they still are. They’re illusions; glamours. They’re given substance; bodies, faces, existences. They can be anything you want them to be.” I felt a shiver run down my spine. “How did you get Dad,” I asked. “Your father was a gift,” she said. “From who?” “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t even know how to contact whoever gave him to me. I was young and lonely and scared, and they gave him to me.” I considered that for a moment. Dad was certainly beautiful. He was kind, and he was always there. He looked at me; he loved me. But he wasn’t real. I couldn’t wrap my mind around that. Dad felt real. He had a hard jawline and thick yellow hair. He was tall, and he had muscles like a Greek God. And he was gone. “What do you mean he’s gone,” I asked Mom. “Did he die?” “What? No,” she said. “He’s fine. He’ll be back.” “Then why did he go?” “I don’t know,” she said. “He never told me. He’s gone for three years.” I frowned. “Three years? How long will he be gone?” “He’ll be back in three years,” she said. “He said he would.” I thought about that for a long time. Dad said he’d be back. He said he’d always be waiting. I decided to wait for him. I waited for three years. The first year was fine. I was angry, but I could deal with that. The second was harder. I didn’t know how much more I could take, but I felt like I had no choice. Dad said he’d be back. The third year was the worst. I knew he was coming back, but I was scared he wouldn’t. I didn’t care. I waited anyway. And one night, he came back. Dad returned just as he had left. I was asleep when he came back; I know because I remember waking up when I felt his weight on my bed. I looked over, drowsy, and there he was. Laid out across my bed, all spread out with his arms at his sides. He was beautiful again; even more beautiful than before. But something was wrong. Dad’s arms were at his sides, but he’d never done that before. He looked at me, but it wasn’t really a look. He looked at the ceiling; he was looking past me. I sat up straight. “Dad?” There was a long, long pause. “I’m going to sleep,” he said. “Don’t wake me.” I didn’t. I knew better than that. I laid back down and went to sleep myself, and I didn’t wake up until the morning. The next morning, I rolled over. I saw the imprint his body had left on my bed, and I felt a pang. My father was back. I had Dad again, and I would have him as long as I lived. As long as I protected him. I knew what I had to do. I had to keep him safe. That’s why I did what I did; that’s why I did what I had to do. I won’t say how, or who, or why, or when. All I’ll say is it was worth it. My Pillowman protected me for years. I just had to protect him for three. But one night, while we were asleep, someone came in and took him away. I screamed until they came, and they locked me up and drugged me and took everything from me. I was sent away, and they shut the door behind me. I protected him for years, and he didn’t protect me. He didn’t need to be protected. I took care of myself. I just wanted him back. I wish I could tell you how it feels; what he looks like, laid out on my bed, waiting for me. It’s indescribable. I can’t describe it. But I want him back. I would kill for him; die for him; do anything to have him back. I’ll get him back. I’ll always get him back. He’s my Pillowman. We’ve been separated for ten years. I may not live much longer; I may not see him again. But if I do, I know what I’ll do. When I see him again, I’ll run. I’ll run until I find him. I’ll run until I touch him. When I touch him, I’ll lay my head on him. When I lay my head on him, I’ll sleep. And when I sleep, I’ll dream. And when I dream, I’ll remember. I’ll remember what it looks like; what he feels like. I’ll remember how it feels to be protected, and loved, and worshiped. I may never have that again, but I’ll dream about it. I’ll dream until I wake up.

The Pillowman

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