Page 42 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

"That was dramatic."

I looked at you. Yes, you. Don't look at me like that. Dreams are strange things. We all have them. Authors just sometimes dream more dramatically, characters wander in, plots wander out. Sometimes you wake up with the perfect ending to a novel.

Other times...

You wake up convinced you've accidentally committed murder before remembering you fell asleep with a crime documentary playing. Occupational hazard. Besides… Dreams are funny like that. They borrow memories, fears and ideas then stitch them together into something that makes absolutely no sense.

Usually. Mine…well mine tends to be a little more vivid. Still… It's only a dream. Isn't it? Nah, who am I kidding, it's just a dream. The clock on the bedside table glared at me.

6:02 a.m.

Of course. My body had long since accepted the fact that sleeping past six was simply not something we did anymore. Four hours, maybe five if I was lucky apparently, my brain believed unconsciousness was an unnecessary luxury.

"I hate mornings."

"You hate sleeping." Gerald groaned from somewhere in the room.

I rolled my eyes.

"I like sleeping."

"You like the idea of sleeping."

"Same thing."

"It really isn't."

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stretched until every joint complained in protest. The cottage answered with familiar creaks. Old houses always sounded as though they were waking up with you a sigh in the hallway, a groan from the staircase, the gentle rattle of the kitchen window whenever the morning breeze wandered through. Frank stood proudly on the dresser with his arms folded.

"You were talking again."

"I don't talk in my sleep."

"You apologised."

"To whom?"

Gerald snorted.

"The hammer."

I blinked. See, weird dreams…

"That's embarrassing."

"You also said, 'Not on the rug.'"

"I have standards."

"I'll say."

I wandered toward the bathroom, scratching absentmindedly at the back of my head. The mirror greeted me with exactly what I'd expected. Hair that appeared to have survived a small electrical incident mascara smudged beneath one eye, one sock and no memory whatsoever of removing the other one.

"Huh."

"You look like you've wrestled a raccoon."

"I won."