Page 39 of Insidious

Night has fallen. Still on day four.

They have moved her into a side cubicle on the ward. Lily is by her bedside, sitting close, one hand resting lightly near Luna’s arm, as if ready for anything.

I must have fallen asleep at some point, but something wakes me. The ancient clock on the wall shows it is almost midnight.

“Luna?” I say, my voice thick, unfamiliar even to myself as I jerk awake, leaning forward the moment I realise she is stirring.

My wife makes a small, instinctive shift, but she stops halfway as pain crosses her face, and her breath catches as she whispers, “Hurts.”

I surge forward to hold her hand.

“It’ll get better,” I insist, like if I say it the right way, it might become true, like I can will it into existence for her.

“Head hurts,” she whispers.

I lean closer, forcing myself to stay steady, to do what they have told me, and I ask her where it hurts. “Is it a headache? Is it dizziness? Do you feel like throwing up?”

And she answers in fragments, slow and uneven, her mind trying to reach through fog just to find them. I just need to keep her talking.

“Isaac …”

“I’m here,” I say immediately, because that, at least, is something I can give her.

I am about to lose it. There is no build-up, no warning, just a sudden collapse inwards, my breath hitching, chest caving like I can’t pull air in properly, tears blurring my vision before I can stop them, before I even understand what is happening.

I watch as her beautiful green eyes open and try to focus. They find me.

“Don’t wanna sleep,” she whispers, her voice like fragile paper.

My hand clenches around hers immediately, tighter than I mean to, like I can stop her from slipping away again by sheer force.

“You’re not going anywhere,” I say, more to convince myself.

She opens her eyes again, slowly and carefully, like even that takes effort. For a moment, they struggle to settle, her gaze unfocused, drifting—

And something softens in her expression.

“You came.”

No, I didn’t. I stayed in the office like a little twat while you … Oh, God—

Her lips part slightly, a faint, tired smile ghosting across her face as she looks at me. And then, softly, like it slips past whatever barriers are still holding, she whispers, “I still dream about you.”

For a second, it doesn’t register. That lasts only for a blessed second before reality checks in.

My mind lurches, racing ahead before I can stop it, dragging me straight back to that message, to the words I typed without thinking, without understanding what it would cost me.

I still dream about you.

Chloe.

A cold, sick dread spreads through me.

How—

How does she know?

Has she seen it?