He has woven himself through many an obscure legend. He stalks the lonely people in the dark corners of the earth, he is there when you lay, scared of the dark, a terrified child in your bed. He is the root of most prominent fears, the man who stands grinning maniacally as you make your way through a dark hallway. He is there when you drift off to sleep at night, waiting to step in as soon as you are lost to the world of the unconscious. He walks in our dreams.1

He has gone by many names, but he fancies himself as the Sandman.2

He stands at the end of the endless hallway. The cheerful light from the nearest window glints sinisterly off of his scythe. He smiles and runs a pale finger over the blunt edge of the blade. The scythe is his only companion.3

He peers down the shadowy length of the hallway. Even he cannot begin to guess at how long it is or how ancient it is—and he walks it forever. It is dark but for the dream-windows dotting it intermittently like will-o-the-wisps. Soon, many of those lights will be considerably dimmer. This revelation makes him happy, and his smile grows.4

He turns to the nearest window, the one from which his scythe’s glint emits. Looking in, he can see the unerringly perky dream of a little girl. It made him sick, the rainbows and unicorns. This would need to be changed greatly.5

From the depths of the flowing cloak he wears, he produces a small bag. Inside is a dark, sparkling substance which some would call fairy dust at first glimpse. But no, it is far from that—it is a stuff taken from the darkest, most terrible moments and places on Earth. It is a much more powerful and potent element than fairy dust. It is nightmare dust.6

He scoops a handful from the pouch. It sits in his hand like a black parasite as he angles it towards the window, trying to get it just right. When he is satisfied, he blows it softly into the girl’s dream. As the glittery stuff swirls through the air, a darkness comes over the dream like a cloud of plague. He smiles as the wave permeates every corner of the cheery dream. He smiles proudly at his work.7

This is his job. He sprinkles nightmares into our dreams, tainting them. He is condemned to do so for eternity. But he doesn’t think of himself as damned. He likes his work.8

He stalks down the hallway slowly, blowing puffs of nightmare into certain windows, skipping others. A nightmare every night will cause a person to become an insomniac, and then there would be no dreams for him to contaminate. He must be careful with his dust. He grasps his scythe the entire time; really, that is just for appearances, to add to his ominous ambiance.9

His bag is nearly empty by the time the windows begin to close up as their dreamers awaken. This troubles him. There is too much hope in these dreams; it’s his job to stamp out the idle hope. It means nothing; a child’s dream cannot change the world’s dire state. He has taken it upon himself to help them grow up and see that they were just another nobody. It takes a while, but soon their dreams are not riddled with happy-go-lucky features but the hard, cold truth.10

As the windows disperse, he smiles. He can almost hear the hard breathing and even screams that his work has brought about; though he cannot actually detect anything, for he lives here always and cannot enter into the waking world. He closes his eyes and basks in his imagination, listening to the reactions.11

But eventually they subside, and he is left standing alone in his hallway, now pitch black, the little dots that were dreams gone for the day. He is left there until they lay their heads on their pillows once more, ready to step in. Ready to help.12

His scythe glistens from some unknown source. It seems as though it is pleased by this notion. It, too, likes its job.13

The Sandman creeps back into the shadows he has made his home, smiling.14

A job well done.15