Shaking off the mental cobwebs, she swung her legs off the bed, leaving her feet hovering inches above the hardwood floor. She paused there a moment, trying to catch her breath while rubbing at her thigh, trying to erase the phantom pain that accompanied the nightmare.
She had hoped that the worst of the nightmares were far behind her. She’d worked hard to overcome them, locking the memories away in a box in the back of her mind. They were a thing of the past. They hadn’t ruled her nights for years. At least they hadn’t until she returned home. Events had conspired to drag her back home, and retracing her steps had her feeling more like a terrified sixteen-year-old girl instead of a woman of thirty-one.
The T-shirt she slept in was drenched with sweat. She shivered, suddenly chilled, as the slick sheen of perspiration soaking her evaporated into the cool night air. A balled-up sweatshirt was crammed against the bed’s headboard. Taking a deep breath and holding it, she pulled the sweatshirt over her head, punching her arms through the sleeves. She blew out the breath she’d been holding in a slow steady stream. Rubbing her arms, she attempted to banish the goose bumps that now covered her body instead of bedclothes.
“Get a grip, Em.” Her whispered words seemed to echo off the walls of the silent room. She searched for comfort beneath her pillow. She panicked for a moment when she didn’t find it right away. It had to be there. She swept her palm, sandwiched between the pillow and mattress, across the smooth sheet again. She found it. Wrapping her fingers around the handle helped to restore her sense of equilibrium, quieting her pounding pulse and rinsing away the metallic bitterness fear had left on her tongue. She pulled a kitchen paring knife from its hiding place beneath the pillow and admired it. The heft of the handle felt solid in her palm. The lamplight glinted off the short, narrow, sharp blade. She slipped it into the pocket of her sweatshirt.
She hopped out of bed, the floor cool against her bare feet. She had to move. She had to get away. She didn’t want to go back to sleep where her dreams could torture her.
Making her way to the doorway, she ran a finger down the row of three tarnished brass deadbolts that locked the entry. They brought her a measure of peace, a sense of security. She’d installed them when she was sixteen.
The fifteen-year-old locks scraped apart with the slightest protest. Double-checking that the paring knife was still in her pocket, she edged down the hallway, peering into the darkened shadows of each room she passed. She slid her hand along the wall to find her way.
She paused at the doorway of Laurie’s room. She could hear her little sister’s even snoring. Apparently nothing woke the girl. Emily had slept the same way when she was that age, tumbling into bed at night and being pleasantly surprised by the rising sun each morning. What she wouldn’t give to get a peaceful night’s sleep like that now. She leaned in the doorway for a long time, standing guard over the sister she barely knew.
Finally, convinced that there was no imminent threat to Laurie’s safety, she slipped past her sister’s room and headed toward the stairs. Remembering the start she’d had earlier when the floorboard creaked louder than a ghost’s shriek, she was careful not to step on the third step as she crept downstairs. The well-worn path of the walnut banister was smooth and warm beneath her palm. It was solid and familiar.
She reached the bottom of the stairs. The ceramic tile was so much colder on the soles of her feet than the wood of the steps that she hopscotched across the foyer to check the alarm system of the house. She hated herself for checking. She knew she was being paranoid. She knew she was being ridiculous, but she couldn’t help it. She’d double-checked it herself before retiring for the evening.
All the indicator lights were green. The alarm system was active
She had hoped that the worst of the nightmares were far behind her. She’d worked hard to overcome them, locking the memories away in a box in the back of her mind. They were a thing of the past. They hadn’t ruled her nights for years. At least they hadn’t until she returned home. Events had conspired to drag her back home, and retracing her steps had her feeling more like a terrified sixteen-year-old girl instead of a woman of thirty-one.
The T-shirt she slept in was drenched with sweat. She shivered, suddenly chilled, as the slick sheen of perspiration soaking her evaporated into the cool night air. A balled-up sweatshirt was crammed against the bed’s headboard. Taking a deep breath and holding it, she pulled the sweatshirt over her head, punching her arms through the sleeves. She blew out the breath she’d been holding in a slow steady stream. Rubbing her arms, she attempted to banish the goose bumps that now covered her body instead of bedclothes.
“Get a grip, Em.” Her whispered words seemed to echo off the walls of the silent room. She searched for comfort beneath her pillow. She panicked for a moment when she didn’t find it right away. It had to be there. She swept her palm, sandwiched between the pillow and mattress, across the smooth sheet again. She found it. Wrapping her fingers around the handle helped to restore her sense of equilibrium, quieting her pounding pulse and rinsing away the metallic bitterness fear had left on her tongue. She pulled a kitchen paring knife from its hiding place beneath the pillow and admired it. The heft of the handle felt solid in her palm. The lamplight glinted off the short, narrow, sharp blade. She slipped it into the pocket of her sweatshirt.
She hopped out of bed, the floor cool against her bare feet. She had to move. She had to get away. She didn’t want to go back to sleep where her dreams could torture her.
Making her way to the doorway, she ran a finger down the row of three tarnished brass deadbolts that locked the entry. They brought her a measure of peace, a sense of security. She’d installed them when she was sixteen.
The fifteen-year-old locks scraped apart with the slightest protest. Double-checking that the paring knife was still in her pocket, she edged down the hallway, peering into the darkened shadows of each room she passed. She slid her hand along the wall to find her way.
She paused at the doorway of Laurie’s room. She could hear her little sister’s even snoring. Apparently nothing woke the girl. Emily had slept the same way when she was that age, tumbling into bed at night and being pleasantly surprised by the rising sun each morning. What she wouldn’t give to get a peaceful night’s sleep like that now. She leaned in the doorway for a long time, standing guard over the sister she barely knew.
Finally, convinced that there was no imminent threat to Laurie’s safety, she slipped past her sister’s room and headed toward the stairs. Remembering the start she’d had earlier when the floorboard creaked louder than a ghost’s shriek, she was careful not to step on the third step as she crept downstairs. The well-worn path of the walnut banister was smooth and warm beneath her palm. It was solid and familiar.
She reached the bottom of the stairs. The ceramic tile was so much colder on the soles of her feet than the wood of the steps that she hopscotched across the foyer to check the alarm system of the house. She hated herself for checking. She knew she was being paranoid. She knew she was being ridiculous, but she couldn’t help it. She’d double-checked it herself before retiring for the evening.
All the indicator lights were green. The alarm system was active
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