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Considering the events of the day, how could it not?
I’d prepared for it by keeping the TV on and not switching off the bedside lamp, all so that I’d know immediately where I was when The Dream startled me awake. What I didn’t expect was how The Dream would linger just a beat longer than normal. Long enough for me to not just sense the person lurking on the other side of the tent buthearthem as well.
The soft rustle of clothing.
Shifting feet on the grass.
Slow, labored exhalations.
Then I wake up and, despite my preparation, experience a moment of disorienting panic when my eyes snap open and the ominous sound of The Dream fades.
I sit up and reach for the notebook. When I find a blank page, I scribble something my very first therapist told me. On a night like this, I need the reminder.
The Dream is just a manifestation of guilt and grief. It is not real. It cannot hurt me.
That may be true, but it certainly lingers long after I turn off the TV and bedside lamp. Lying in the darkness, I fear that closing my eyes will send me straight back into The Dream, where it will reset and begin anew. So I keep them wide open as the hour grows later and later.
By the time two a.m. has come and gone, I slide out of bed and go to the window. A light is on over the garage of the house on the other side of the cul-de-sac.
The Wallace house.
Just like last night, I strain to see what set it off. Also like last night, there appears to be nothing there. The Wallaces’ driveway is empty. Staring at that illuminated patch of asphalt, all I can think of is Vance Wallace and what he said earlier.
I saw him outside last night.
But something triggered that garage light before scurrying away. I know because the light soon goes out, leaving Hemlock Circle dark once again.
Until the light over the Patels’ garage starts to glow.
I grip the windowsill when it flicks on, knowing deep down that it’s happening again. A creeping, unseen something is circling the cul-de-sac, this time in reverse. Unlike last night, I don’t wait for the light to click off at the Patels’ and come back on at Russ’s house a few seconds later. Instead, I pull on a pair of joggers, go downstairs, and grab my phone. In seconds, I’m out the front door. By then, the light over the Chens’ garage is just clicking on.
I halt in the front lawn, watching it glow just above the hedge separating our properties. The someone—or something—that set it off is likely on the other side of that hedge this very second, waiting to cross into my yard.
I reach into my pocket for the phone, wondering if I should call the police. They’ll want to know there’s a potential prowler in the same neighborhood where Billy Barringer was abducted. Then again, whoever it is might be gone by the time the cops arrive. In fact, they might have already left. The light above Russ’s garage flicks off, indicating there’s no one near his driveway. It’s possible whoever was there became aware of my presence and fled.
Or they could simply be waiting for me to go inside.
Or, worse, waiting for me to come closer to the hedge.
I shove my phone back into my pocket and clench my fists, pretending I know how to swing a punch when the truth is I’ve never hit anyone, ever.
I start moving again, taking a hesitant step across the lawn.
Then another.
Waiting for someone to ease through the hedge.
Praying that it doesn’t happen.
Fearing that it will.
I continue across the lawn like that.
Step, wait, step, pray, step, fear.
Deep inside the hedge, something moves. I hear it rustling, the sound drawing me closer when common sense tells me I should be doing the opposite. Getting away and going back inside and calling the damn police.
But it’s too late. I’m already here. Inches from the hedge as the rustling gets louder.