Page 36 of Alan

13

Emelie

It was the strangest thing.

I was in my room. At home. In Brooklyn.

But it felt like I should be somewhere else. Like home was not where I needed to be right now.

It wasn’t like I had a job to get to. Or school. I was well past those days. No appointments that I could remember. What was it, then?

Home didn’t even feel right. I walked from room to room—not many rooms, and what there was didn’t take more than a few steps to travel from one side to the other. It was off, somehow. The dimensions weren’t right. The bedspread was flowery, when I hadn’t slept under a flowered bedspread since I was little.

I always hated that bedspread. It was ugly and thin. Pointless, really, since it never kept me warm.

My computer was on the desk in the living room, but I couldn’t turn it on. I couldn’t get the TV on, either. That didn’t bother me as much as not being able to access my machine. I performed daily backups but wasn’t in the mood to do an install of the latest one. It would take time out of my day.

Then again, it was already night. There was nothing but darkness outside my window—not even street lights shining down on the park across the street. It must have been a blackout. That would explain not being able to turn on my things.

Shit. I didn’t keep candles in the apartment.

Or did I?

Was this a dream?

Of course. I had to be dreaming. The thought was a comforting one. I sank into the desk chair, a leather one on wheels—I spent enough time in the thing, so it might as well be comfortable. At least it was the same in my dream as in real life.

What a weird place to dream about. I didn’t usually remember my dreams, so as far as I could remember I had never been aware during one that I was actually dreaming.

“I should’ve dreamt about the beach,” I decided, leaning my head against the headrest—then sitting up again when a bright flash of pain almost blinded me.

“What the hell?” I touched ginger fingertips to the back of my head, where the pain had come from.

I couldn’t feel a bump or a cut, but it still hurt. I turned to look at the headrest, thinking something was wrong with it—and found blood smeared over it.

I jumped up on shaking legs, looking around the room in the hopes that something there would help me make sense of what just happened.

“What is happening?” I called out, but there was no echo. I could hardly hear myself.

She is distressed. Something is upsetting her.

I heard the unfamiliar voice, which sounded like it was coming from the next apartment.

“Hello?” I called out, going to the wall which separated us. “Hello? Are you in there? I’m alone in here, and it’s dark. It’s so dark.” There was fear in my voice, and I didn’t know why. I was only dreaming.

Wasn’t I?

It was turning into a nightmare, either way.

Emelie. All is well. Relax.

“Who is that?” I shouted, turning in a circle. It wasn’t coming from the apartment next door anymore. It seemed to be coming from all around me—above, below, all sides.

My heart started to race.

I jumped away from the door when there was a knock. A cold sweat rolled down the back of my neck, my stomach churned. “Who—who is it?” I gasped.

“Emelie. It’s Alan. Please, let me in.”

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