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“You really know where he is?” Sandman asked quietly.

“He's in the Fun House on dream level seventeen. Gather round, I'll take you to him,” Mr Crab signalled to them all.

“Mr Sandman,” Patrick began as he stepped forward concerned at the expression on Mr Sandman's face following Mr Crab's words. “Do we have any weapons at all against your nightmares? Any protection?”

“Just me,” he frowned. “If they're distracted, I can dispose of them, but if they know I'm doing it, or…” Sandman frowned worriedly and suddenly stopped talking.

“Or what?” Patrick pressed as the small circle of friends gathered by Mr Crab.

“If they capture him,” Donnie answered for him.

“They can do that?” Joe's eyebrows rose in surprise at the idea. “But aren't you stronger than them? They're not real… are they?”

“In the forest, no, well, not quite real,” Donnie tried to explain, “but we're entering a dream and in a dream, they're real, we're not. They have the advantage.”

Mr Sandman looked defeated; it killed him that he wasn't in control of the situation. Here he was, in his own world, creator of a million dreams and it had just been announced to Normal Worlders and Mr Crab that he wasn't even in control of his own creations. He was crushed and humiliated, but things were about to get worse.

“Hey!” Pete pushed him hard in the chest. “You told us there wasn't anything else to know and now this! What else is there? And I want the truth this time!”

“How is this something else?” he snapped back. “Did you think I was in control of them? Why do you think I need help? Why do you think this is going to be difficult? Where in there is the notion that I can stop them? Just because you know why I can't control them doesn't change the situation at all!”

Pete took a step back frowning guiltily. Of course he was right, but if the truth were known, he was scared, they all were.

“You can come or you can stay, I'm not going to force you and believe me, I could! I'm going after my brother! I can't wait any longer.”

Sandman spun on his heels and disappeared before his coat had even stopped swirling.

“Marcus!” Donnie cried before turning quickly back to Mr Crab. “I have to follow him, he can't do this alone. Please help me.”

“His name's Marcus?” Pete raised an eyebrow at Donnie.

“What about it?” Donnie turned an irritated expression towards Pete, annoyed at the further delay.

“Well, I thought he was…”

“You thought his name was Mr Sandman?” Donnie rolled his eyes and exhaled disapprovingly. “You're clueless, aren't you?”

“Hey!” Pete turned fully to face him and turned an angry yet defensive glare in his direction.

“In your world, you have last names that are occupations, yes? Like Baker, Weaver, Carpenter? Here your last name is your occupation. He is Marcus Joshua Sandman because that's what he does. How could you not see that?”

“Well, how do you expect us to know that?” Pete argued, annoyed at what he saw as Donnie's personal attack.

“Did it never occur to you that his brother has a different last name?”

“Well I'm pretty sure his occupation isn't being a crab!” Pete cried defensively, pointing at Mr Crab.

“I'm not actually from here,” Mr Crab explained. “I'm from Carousel, but not these districts, we all have different ways.”

“We don't have time to do this now!” Donnie interrupted. “I need to find him, quickly.”

“And us, too,” Patrick added glancing around for approval, receiving nods from Joe and Andy. “Pete?”

“Yeah,” he replied with a vague scowl toward Donnie. “Let's go.”

“Very well, Donnie, be ready to catch if needed.”

Donnie nodded gravely as Mr Crab prepared a ball of energy in his hand. Rolling it back and forth, the brilliant blue-white light grew with each passing second. Finally placing it on the floor, while continuing to massage and stretch it out, the ball was pulled into a large rectangular area of almost glowing blue-white light. Gesturing upwards, now without actually touching it, Mr Crab stretched it out to almost six feet in height and four feet across.

“This door will take you straight there,” he finally announced.

“You're not coming? Donnie frowned unhappily.

Replying with a faint smile, Mr Crab nodded. “Yes, I'll come.”

*

Mr Sandman spun to a halt and immediately fell over and continued rolling gently. Throwing out his arms, he tried to get his bearings as quickly as he could. Looking around, he saw that he was inside a giant wooden cylinder that was slowly rotating.

“Of course,” he sighed almost with a laugh. “It's the barrel.”

Pushing himself unsteadily to his feet, he walked with the rotation and headed towards one of the open ends. This was one of the many old-fashioned amusements inside the huge building. A large wooden barrel, open at both ends, that rotated permanently, stopping only to occasionally change direction. One person alone in the barrel was typically had no problems, but with large groups, there was always someone who would fall. In turn, they would trip others until it actually became harder and harder to remain standing and even get out. Stepping out onto firm ground, Sandman crouched down and looked around carefully. The longer he could remain unnoticed, the more chance he had of disposing of his nightmares. Much to his delight and surprise, he saw one of them almost immediately. High on a rope bridge overlooking the entire Play Room, Sandman saw one of the nightmares apparently staring down at the giant shaking bowling pins at the main entrance to the room. He could hear a distinct laughing sound and his eyes were drawn down to the pins. A flash of yellow was all he needed to know. Softly saying a few words, Sandman extended his arm in the nightmare's direction; if he did this right he could dispose of him without attracting attention. Watching with satisfaction as the nightmare almost seemed to flicker and fade, Sandman grinned at the fact he had managed to draw him back before he had the chance to raise the alarm.

Now setting off toward the pins, Sandman kept low and moved stealthily across the cavernous room. In the corner of the room, were thirty-foot high replicas of bowling pins, each of them stood fixed to the floor but with a slightly rounded base. The result of which would cause them to tilt and shake at the slightest vibration, but thankfully, the way they were secured meant they could never fall. Between each pin set into the wooden floor lay a two-foot wide circular metal plate that twisted when trodden on. Sandman frowned with frustration as he could no longer see any sign of his brother. A faint cry drew his attention again, but it only caused him more frustration as there was still nothing to see. There were only twelve pins, if Benzedrine were there, he should have been able to see him.

“Silas?” he whispered trying not to draw the attention of the remaining four nightmares.

Benzedrine looked up, convinced he had heard his brother's voice. Somehow it sounded different to the voices of the Nightmare Sandman, not so harsh perhaps. But it could only have been part of the dream. He pushed himself up from the floor, aching and dizzy after been unexpectedly thrown by one of the spinning discs into the side of one of the giant pins. As he rounded the pin, he gasped as he saw his brother scanning the area for him.

“Marcus? Is that really you?”

“Silas!” Sandman cried joyfully, still keeping his voice low. “I've come to get you out of here.”

Allowing a wide grin to spread across his face, Benzedrine's eyes began to well with tears. His brother cared about him, truly cared, it was more than he felt he could hope for. Moving forward carefully, Benzedrine stepped to the right of another spinning disc. As he did, he cried out in shock as the floor gave way beneath his feet and he crashed through, holding on with only his right arm and left hand.

“Silas!” Sandman cried, equally shocked as he ran forward to help. Treading on a spinning disc as he careered recklessly in to help, he was thrown to the side, crashing into another pin. Only feet away, Benzedrine cried out again in alarm as the floor crumbled under his left hand leaving him hanging by his right arm, which began to ache under the strain. Scrambling to his feet, Sandman ran, avoiding the discs, to his brother's side and reached down to pull him back through the hole.

“Marcus, you… you're…” Benzedrine was lost for words.

“Come on, Silas, help me!” Sandman cried, no longer trying to keep his voice low.

Sandman grunted as he pulled with all his strength, finally allowing Benzedrine to get a better hold on the floor and haul himself to safety. Finally catching their breath, the brothers got to their feet only to find themselves surrounded. Looking around nervously, they saw that they had been confronted by all four remaining Nightmare Sandmen.

“So, Mr Sandman, you think you can let us down like this? Your own dreams!” said one.

“You left us alive for one purpose only and we're going to achieve that,” another spoke.

“Can't you control them?” Benzedrine asked nervously.

“Not in here, not in a dream,” Sandman's tone mirrored his own.

Sandman's eyes widened with fear as one of the nightmares withdrew a small bottle from within his coat. It resembled an old-style perfume bottle, square but with rounded edges and a glass stopper in the top.

“What's that? What's wrong?” Benzedrine asked, worried by his reaction.

“This?” the nightmare spoke as he held the bottle aloft. “This is a Dream Memory Bottle.”

Benzedrine watched, confused, as the nightmare pressed a small label on the front of the bottle and reached for the stopper.

“No!” Sandman yelled as the nightmare grinned at him. “No! NO!”

Too late; the stopper was removed. Mr Sandman seemed to stretch and elongate, screaming in pain as he did.

“What's happening?” Benzedrine shouted over the noise. “What are you doing to him?”

Rushing forward, Benzedrine tried to snatch the bottle, only to be grabbed by one of the nightmares and held securely as to his disbelief, Sandman was sucked into the bottle.

“Once I replace the stopper, all he will be to you is someone you once dreamed about. No one from Carousel will remember he even existed, not even your father.”

“No! Please! Let him go!” Benzedrine begged. “Don't do that to him, please.”

“To whom?” he asked as he fitted the stopper neatly into the bottle and slipped it back into his coat.

Benzedrine looked back blankly, unable to answer the question.

“I think it's time you moved onto your next potential death-trap, don't you?” said the one with the bottle as all four faded from sight.

Benzedrine was confused, something other than the nightmares trying to kill him had upset him, he could feel it, but he had no idea why. But this was no time to be distracted, he was trapped in the Fun House with no chance of rescue… There it was again, the feeling he should know something. It was frustrating. Forcing himself to brush it aside, he looked around for the exit and the deadly obstacles he would encounter on the way.