Alex received the first of three phone calls a week later. A hissing, dissonant, sexless, voice, said, “I know where she is,” and nothing more.
An icy hand gripped his neck and scratched down his backbone.
He asked the phone, dial tone harassing, “Could it be her?”
“How could it be?” he said to the wall.
“But she’s alive, isn’t she?”
“Or is she?”
He didn’t remember much of that day—or that night. He did recall waking at three to a woman’s scream—in a nightmare—or so he thought.
That morning he found the sheets soaked and tried to recall what had happened, and then remembered.
He asked his damp pillow, “What day is it? Is it then—or now?”
It stared back..