It was only the growing gap in my little pottery logbook that finally motivated me to get back into the workshop and do something. This far into lockdown, inspiration had become rare and fleeting. The pages before the gap were so full of life. It was really more of a personal journal than a professional logbook, all covered in doodles and tangential ramblings about how I felt about the projects. If I ever was to set up that online store I had been pondering since the start of the pandemic, keeping track with a logbook like this would surely lead to me selling the same item to three different people at the same time. But disorganised though it may be, that journal was precisely how I liked it. Aside from the blank pages. Even then, it was guilt and obligation that drew me back in, not ambition. I turned to the page of the correct date, and where once I might have doodled a design for an intricate urn, I found myself writing, 'Make something. Anything.' and underlining it four times

Last time I wanted to make something, I tried to make a beautiful jug. I hadn’t been able to get it right. The deformed lump of clay still lay slumped sadly on the ground where I had thrown it aside in helpless surrender. I couldn’t face a repeat of that. Something easier, then. A few ashtrays. Even I couldn’t mess up an ashtray, right?

I set to work preparing some clay. Hands dirty once more, I felt a little of the spark return. Only a little. Enough to make, at the end of the batch of boring ones that would be lucky to fetch a fiver at a fête, a single prettier, fancier ashtray. And that was it for a while. Pottery takes a lot longer than people often realise. Things need to dry for days, even weeks depending on size, before it goes in the kiln for firing. I did no further work while waiting for this batch to dry.

Once it was finally dried, fired, painted, and glazed, the special one I made was a very good ashtray, insofar as concepts of good and bad can be applied to such an unambitious project. If I could get a fiver for the others, that one would get me £7.50 at least. I was proud, not of the item itself, but of the fact that I had at long last succeeded in making something, however small and simple. I took the ash tray upstairs and placed it on my bedside table. I have never smoked in my life and had no intention to even then, but for some reason, I wanted it there. It wasn’t even particularly appropriate as a decoration since it merely added to the clutter, sitting there on top of a scuffed journal, surrounded by stacks of books, papers, hair bands, and unwashed mugs. Nonetheless, it felt right - a little piece of my creation nestled amongst the mess to remind me that I wasn’t beaten yet.

To look upon the disorder of that beside table, you might be surprised to hear that I love to keep track of various things in a collection of journals - though admittedly none of the journals are neat or well-organised either. I try to keep daily updates in a diary, though at that time there was rarely much to update. I particularly like the notebook I have for doodling bugs and birds that I spot in the woods or by the sea. There used to be a woodland walks journal and a separate seaside walks journal, but they kept overlapping so much that it was best for them to become one. Then there’s my dream journal; the only one that I have actually had something worth writing in almost every day. The next day was an exception. I woke up, wrote “no dreams” on that day’s page, and went downstairs. There were no after-school workshops to look forward to with all the schools closed and social distancing still in force. There was nothing but the monotony of another day home alone to look forward to, aside from a short phone call with mum.

By afternoon, I had found the energy to get on my bike and cycle to the beach. It’s only a thirty-minute ride. When this all started, I went every day, but by that point I usually only managed once or twice a week. As always, when I got there, I found a quiet spot on one of the more remote beaches. Finding isolation there wasn’t hard, given the weather - there were only a few people even at the more popular spots. I settled down on the sand, my bike resting on its side next to me. I sat hugging my knees, wrapped in a coat and doing my best to ignore the constant drizzle and cold breeze that fought to mar an otherwise beautiful day. I took out a battered notebook and tried to sketch some of the sea birds I saw. Drawing is not my strongest skill, but it’s therapeutic to sit and sketch while listening to the waves and the tireless calls of the gulls.

As I sat there doodling, surrounded by the steady sound of nature, my mind wandered, and I started to sketch pots instead of birds - they should have been in the pottery journal, not the birdwatching journal, but I wasn't going to risk losing that spark of inspiration during the rush home to find the right notebook. I had scribbled down a good half-dozen ideas for interesting designs by the time I noticed an ominous cloud rolling in and made haste to get back home before the rain began in full. I cycled with the wind at my back, rushing me onward to work before the motivation faded.

Once home, I got started on several different urns and vases, working late into the evening before I realised how hungry I was and had to stop for a very late dinner. After a day cycling and making things in the workshop, I was exhausted. I went to bed early and fell asleep without even trying to read a book or fill the day’s diary entry.

I awoke the next day, again writing 'no dreams' in my journal. That was unusual, but not strange enough to think long about as another day went by.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

And another.

When I didn’t have any dreams the next three nights either, I started to worry about myself. Sudden changes to long-established patterns are rarely a good sign. Mum always says that a clean home helps bring a clear mind. It felt like a pointless phrase, but I had no better ideas, so I forced myself to do a big tidy up, starting with my bedroom. That took most of the day, with gaps for meals, a walk in the woods, and a half-hearted online chat with some friends.

That night I dreamt again. When I woke up and leaned over to grab my journal, I jumped out of bed in shock at what I saw. Tendrils of black sooty smoke billowed up from the ashtray. They swirled into a ghost-like form, spiralling up from the empty base of the tray. Smoke-arms flailed angrily as demonic orange-red eyes glared out at me with terrifying ferocity. I sprinted out of the room with a shriek and slammed the door behind me. With my heart pounding I held the door shut tight and tried to process what I just had seen. A remnant of a dream? Something not really there? The furious growls and shouts I heard through the door said otherwise, but what else could it be? After a few seconds the yells died down, leaving the hallway silent save for my heavy breathing. Once I calmed down and convinced myself I had just imagined it, I hesitantly opened the door again. As soon as my head poked through the opening, the smoke creature screamed at me in a scratchy high-pitched voice.

“How dare you move me so far away from the bed, human! I need to feed! Put me back or I will bring all the darkness of a thousand nights upon this house!”

I screamed and slammed the door shut again. What the hell was that? I tried to approach this rationally. If it was going to hurt me, surely it would have done so already, and it seemed willing to talk, or at least yell at me - in perfect English too. I inched open the door and called in shakily, “Sorry, I didn’t know you existed. Who are you?”

The reply was screamed back at me, “I am Kazzifrezz the Vile, Feaster of Dreams, Lord of Nightmares, Bringer of the Darkest Night, and you will bring me your dreams or suffer the consequences!”

There was something ineffectual about him, reminiscent of a chihuahua trying to intimidate the biggest dog in the park. I entered the room, and saw him once more in full form, a twisted little smoke creature. Between my nervousness and the absurdity of the situation, I nearly burst out laughing as it billowed around, puffing out its chest, and evidently trying to look as big and scary as it could and not quite managing. Honestly, if it wasn’t so unnatural, it would have almost been cute.

It glared at me expectantly in wait for some response. I didn’t know how to respond to its demand for nightmares to feed on, so instead I decided to start with my own introduction. “I’m Charlotte Ransome. Human. Potter. Nothing special - no cool title…”

“Call yourself whatever you want as long as you dream me up some delectable horrors.”

“Are you the reason I haven’t had any dreams in a week?”

“What? You’ve had many dreams. Not very fulfilling ones, though - have you thought about eating more cheese before bed?”

“Oh, I don’t use dairy, sorry.” It was threatening me and eating my dreams. Why was I apologising to it? “But that’s beside the point. What gives you the right to eat my dreams, anyway?”

“To induce the bleakest, most agonising nightmares is my very purpose in existence! I live for the suffering of mortals like you.”

“If you eat my dreams and I have no memory of them, it’s kinda just like I didn’t have them. If I was suffering in my dream I don’t remember it. And I’m certainly not suffering now.”

He seemed to consider that for a moment before roaring at the world with a burning red rift of a mouth. He reminded me of mum’s cat, Boffin, screaming his vague, angry demands. He continued smouldering for a long time. It looked more like a childish tantrum than the vile fury of a nightmare lord. I was already having doubts about the legitimacy of his title.

“Is it okay if I just call you Kazz for short?” I said, perhaps playing with fire a little.

“Call me what you will, mortal. Your words have no power. I demand only that you bring me torturous dreams of endless horror.”

He was still sending puffs of soot up into the air with every over-dramatic, furious gesticulation, but the soot never seemed to settle on anything, instead just dissipating into nothingness. That was a relief after cleaning all day.

“I’ll think about it. I’m going to leave you to calm down. If you’re good, I might let you sit by the bed again tonight.”

“I demand it! You wouldn’t dare deny me my…”

I raised a finger and, to my surprise, he paused. With my most authoritative tone, I said, “Shush now, before I change my mind.”

Holding my finger to my mouth and staring him down, I backed out of the room. Every time his glowing mouth opened to speak, I shushed him, and each time, as surprisingly as the first time, he stopped and billowed grumpily, but kept quiet.

My façade of authority dropped as soon as the door was shut again. I paced around the house trying to make sense of it. An hour ago, I hadn’t believed in demons. Now, there was one living in my home. I was surprised by how quickly I had accepted that and even more surprised by how little I was panicking. I was shaken up, certainly, but any rational person would be fleeing the house. It was surely mad that I was actually genuinely considering letting this creature hang around and eat my dreams. Honestly, I was more stressed about how to explain the situation to anyone than I was about the implications of a vile lord of nightmares living with me. After all, he didn’t seem to have done anything more unsettling than making me forget all my dreams for a few nights. Okay, that was pretty unsettling, but it didn’t seem explicitly dangerous. Some measured and rational part of me which said “if he was going to hurt you, he would have done it by now” was winning against the much more reasonable and normal part of me that was freaking out about the literal demon on my shelf. I’d have to find a way to get rid of him sooner or later, but I couldn’t just toss him out. There was no other way about it, Kazzifrezz the Vile was there to stay for the time being.