Back in her apartment, Susan opened the windows to let the fresh, warm air in. She was still carrying the uneasy chill that came over her in the café. By spending the remainder of the afternoon and evening with routine tasks, checking off items on her To Do list as she completed them, the uneasiness melted away. She felt comforted by her routines. By nine o’clock exhaustion took over, so she prepared for bed, got her book, fluffed up her pillow, and got in under the covers. But she could barely keep her eyes open to read.
Susan dreamt that night; it was one of those recurring dreams that haunted her throughout her childhood and into adolescence: She is in her bed. Something large and heavy weighs on her, she gasps for breath, calls out but no voice comes to her. From the hall she hears, and feels, piercing screams, a baby wailing, a cat softly mewing. Moonlight entering her room through gauze curtains reveals a shadowy figure struggling on top of her, a face paler than the moonlight, gnarling, twisting. There’s a familiar odor from this monster. Sounds of growling, screaming, wailing overcome her. Then all is black.
