After She Died

by Collette Heather

  Been here, done this, she thought with a shiver.

  She glanced at the clock – the green digits blinked 4.55, just as they had done in her nightmare, and she shivered at the frightening coincidence.

  Clutching the duvet to her chest with trembling arms, she told herself that it was just a stupid dream. Yet the vivid imagery of the nightmare clung to her, wrapping her in its chilly embrace. She could still feel Hugh’s hands around her neck – so much so that she was irrationally terrified of reaching out across the gaping chasm between bed and bedside table to switch on the lamp.

  The nightmare had just been so goddam real.

  Her heart hammered hard in her chest and a shiver ran through her when she realised that she’d had those exact same thoughts before, in her dream.

  Ignoring the fear, she stretched out her arm to brave the chasm, when a faint, thumping sound coming from downstairs made her cry out. She snatched back her hand and slapped it over her mouth, as it to stop herself from crying out again.

  “No,” she said, jumping out of the bed.

  This wouldn’t do at all. She had had to get a grip. She hadn’t heard a noise coming from downstairs, she was imagining it.

  Maybe my dream was a premonition.

  She told herself that she was being beyond bloody stupid, that she needed to get a grip. And then the most obvious thing occurred to her; was she dreaming again?

  No, she couldn’t be. With her right hand, she pinched the skin of her left forearm. It hurt. She wasn’t dreaming.

  Go to sleep; she told herself, assertively throwing herself back on the pillows and squeezing her eyes shut.

  The stairs creaked and they snapped back open. Now that, she most definitely had not imagined.

  Oh God, this can’t be happening. Please don’t let this be happening.

  But it was happening. There was someone climbing the stairs. Just like in her nightmare, she lurched out of the bed, looking wildly around herself in the gloom for something to grab.

  And just like in her dream, her gaze settled upon the bedside lamp. The footsteps grew louder, sounding very much like they were in the hallway beyond the bedroom door.

  They stopped. The chink of light at the bottom of the door was blocked by two black shadows.

  By two feet.

  She wanted to grab the bedside lamp, she wanted to so badly, but for she refrained. Because she knew it was Hugh beyond the bedroom door because she had just dreamed it.

  Oh boy, what would Dr Thornton make of that one?

  The door creaked inwards, and sure enough, there he was. Hugh.

  “Hugh? What the hell?” she gasped shakily. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “Actually, it’s first thing in the morning. I missed you, I had to see you.”

  She stared at him, that bad feeling still curdling her thoughts and churning in her guts, because God help her, that was just what he had said in her nightmare. On unsteady legs, she lurched back over to the bed to sit down before she fell down.

  She was glad that the room was in shadows, because she must surely be looking absolutely terrified right about now.

  “Why did you come home early without telling me?”

  As soon as she said it, she realised that was exactly what she had asked in her dream and that terrifying déjà vu gripped her hard.

  “Why? You’re not hiding anything from me, are you Cassie? You didn’t find yourself a lover, did you, in my absence?”

  Instantly her heart was in her throat and her stomach clenched into a tight ball of anxiety.

  “No,” she gasped, her head spinning with her panic.

  “You didn’t? While the cat’s away… Oh, come on, I’m only joking, Cassie, why are you so uptight? Unless, of course, you do have something to hide?”

  All she knew was that she had to derail this conversation. She didn’t know if she was dreaming or awake, the disorientation of it all too much for her. She had to break the spell, to make this normal, so she shakily reached out for the bedside lamp – the very same one that she had pulled out of the socket a few minutes ago in her nightmare. She flicked its switch but nothing happened. She frowned. The damn thing had been working when she had gone to bed.

  Fine. Then she would go and lock herself in the bathroom instead until she had sufficiently composed herself.

  “I need a wee,” she said, getting to her feet and starting the walk around the bed.

  But just as she did so, Hugh stepped into the room and blocked her path at the foot of the bed.

  “You know what, Cassie? I’m not feeling at all tired. So, tell me, Cassie, what have you been doing while I’ve been away?”

  “I haven’t been doing anything,” she said, hating the high-pitched edge to her voice. “I really need a wee,” she muttered, going to step around him.

  He sidestepped with her, blocking her route.

  “You think I’m acting weird, don’t you?”

  Cassie swallowed back the tears, because no matter what she said, it was as if Hugh was reading from a script.

  This has to be a dream, she told herself. As real as it felt, on some level she recognised that it was just a nightmare.

  “I don’t think anything,” she said, once again attempting to step around him.

  And again, he blocked her. As much as she wanted to, nightmare or not, she couldn’t bring herself to step around him, or to physically push him out of the way.

  “Go on, say it. You think I’m weird.” He put on a falsetto voice mimicking that of a woman’s. Mimicking her. “You turn up unannounced at the weirdest time of the morning, and then start acting weird.”

  “Stop,” she gasped, unable to take this madness for a second longer.

  She swivelled on the spot, completely giving up the pretence that this was normal, intending to run from the room and just get the hell away from him. Just as she lurched away from him, strong hands gripped her shoulders and spun her around so that she was facing him. She found herself peering up into his grinning face in the darkened room, his features rendered that of a stranger’s by the shadows.

  “So, Cassie,” he said, “I think we need to talk, don’t you?”

  She tried to wrench herself out of his grip, but he held fast, his fingers digging into her upper arms in a way that she knew would leave bruises.

  Nightmares can’t leave bruises.

  Knowing this didn’t make her feel any better.

  “Get your hands off me right now,” she said.

  “No,” he said simply. “No means no, didn’t you know? And I think you need to stop this, don’t you? This has gone on long enough.”

  As he spoke he shook her until her teeth rattled in her head.

  Fuck this.

  This time, she did scream. She opened her mouth and out it came – an ear-splitting wail that the neighbours could surely hear, even with the house being detached. She squirmed and writhed in his grip, clawing at his hands on her shoulders as she did so.

  She was no match for his strength, however, and he spun her round so that her back was pressed against his front, one of his arms wrapped around her chest and the other clamped over her mouth. She clawed and beat at his hands, but it was like clawing at a cast-iron door of a prison cell. There was nothing she could do except for listen to his hateful words that he murmured so lovingly in her ear:

  “I think you know what I’m talking about, Cassie. If you look deep enough inside, you will know. But you don’t want to know, do you? Dear sweet Cassie, forever the ostrich with her head buried in the sand.”

  With those words, he bodily walked the short distance to the bed and threw her down on it face first, landing heavily on top of her. The air left her in a rush as he continued with the horribly familiar barrage of insults:

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking while I’ve been away, and I’ve decided that I’ve had enough. It’s time you faced the truth. You’re lazy, Cassie. As bone idle as they come. The only reason you don’t want to get a job is b
ecause you can’t be bothered. And because you know that you’re not clever enough. That degree is worthless, isn’t it? And the only reason you don’t want a baby with me is because you don’t love me. Come on, admit it. You have never loved me, stop pretending that you ever did.”

  How could this be happening to her again?

  Before she even knew what had hit her, he had flipped her over onto her back and like before, wrapped his hands around her neck.

  He began to squeeze. She bucked and writhed and clawed at the hateful hands, but they didn’t so much as budge. The buzzing in her ears intensified and her head felt tight and achy, her mind strangely fuzzed, like her skull was too tight for her brain. Above her, his face was twisted with shadows and evil. His eyes were black pits of nothingness, his mouth twisted into a grin. Or perhaps a snarl.

  Above the ringing in her ears she could make out his voice.

  “You’re going to die, bitch…”

  * * * *

  Cassie lurched upright in the bed, gasping for air. Her hands flew up to her neck, expecting to feel Hugh’s hands there, but there was nothing.

  It was just a nightmare.

  Christ, that had just felt so real. The residues of the dream clung to her in all its awful glory. She clutched her chest through the t-shirt as if to still her racing heart, forcing herself to breathe slow and deep.

  The bedroom was black and she strained her eyes in the gloom, searching for the familiar to anchor her to wakefulness. Her gaze settled on the bay window, the most illuminated part of the bedroom, which wasn’t saying all that much.

  Very little light penetrated the flimsy, slatted blinds because the bedroom overlooked the large back garden which was devoid of artificial light.

  The most awful sense of déjà vu washed over her.

  Been here, done this, she thought with a shiver.

  She glanced at the clock – the green digits blinked 4.55, just as they had in her nightmare, and she shivered at the frightening coincidence.

  And that’s when she heard the noise coming from downstairs…

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Cassie awoke at nine a.m., feeling like death. Despite the relatively late hour, she felt about as far removed from refreshed as it was possible to get.

  She lay on her back on the bed as she slowly came to, the tendrils of last night’s string of nightmares still clinging to her.

  How could I dream such a thing? she thought in disgust. What is wrong with me?

  She lay there thinking of the day ahead, unsure if she had the mental strength to face it. It was only Wednesday, which meant three days until Hugh came home. What the hell was she supposed to with herself for three whole days?

  And two nights, she reminded herself. Let’s not forget about those.

  As much as it shamed her to admit it, she didn’t want to be alone.

  I need help, she thought sadly. I need help because I’m scared of my own shadow.

  And she knew exactly the person she had to see to give her help. As disastrous as their last session had been, she still felt compelled to call Dr Thornton. Everyone had off days, right? And up until that one, last time, the help he had given her had proved to be invaluable.

  Imbued with a new confidence to get on with her day and call Dr Thornton at his office, she got out of bed.

  * * * *

  One hour, four cups of coffee and a shower later, she had made an appointment with Dr Thornton for tomorrow morning. She had been sad not to manage to bag an appointment for today, but at least she had one.

  And now, as she swilled down the remnants of that fourth cup, she glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall; it was only just gone ten and the day stretched out endlessly before her.

  What the hell am I going to do with myself all day?

  A few moments later and she was calling Hugh, but his mobile was switched off. He had given her the name of the hotel he was staying at, but he had told her that there was no direct line to his room. She had blindly believed him when he had told her, but now? Now, she wasn’t so sure.

  She shivered as she thought of Hugh and her dream. She had so wanted to talk to him, to hear the real Hugh’s voice so she could stop thinking about the dream Hugh.

  Sighing heavily, she got up from the kitchen chair, scraping it back across the slate floor. The noise of it was excruciatingly loud in the quiet, only serving to remind her how alone she was. Before she knew quite what she was doing, she had wandered into the living room and had picked up the laptop. As if in a trance, she logged into facebook.

  Her heart gave a little lurch when she saw that Ethan had messaged her.

  Hey, lovely lady, how’s it going? Just wanted you to know that my offer still stands. I’m not working at all this week, so if you want to meet up, I’m all yours.

  After Cassie had read his message, she discovered that she was trembling. She licked her dry lips, her hand unconsciously travelling up to her neck as unbidden imagery of Hugh strangling her flashed through her mind.

  When she realised that she was rubbing her neck, she dropped her hand, mentally chiding herself for being so bloody stupid. Throughout the morning, she had found herself repeatedly rubbing her neck as if she expected to feel tender there, but of course, there was no pain because it had just been a crazy-arse nightmare.

  And then came that same, pathetic thought: I don’t want to be alone.

  Telling herself that she was every stereotype going of the bored, lonely housewife, she began to tap out a reply to Ethan:

  Hey yourself. If you still want to, we can meet up later today?

  As soon as she hit send, a great wave of guilt came crashing down on top of her.

  I can’t believe I just did that. What is wrong with me?

  Loneliness is what’s wrong with me, she decided. That, and the fact that she was crazy-attracted to Ethan – she was arguably more attracted to him than she had been to any other man in her entire life.

  A notification pinged on her screen that she had a new message and the breath caught in her throat.

  How is he always so quick?

  A little sliver of excitement coursed through her that he had to be keen to do that. She clicked on the message:

  I would love to see you later. Would you like to come to dinner at my place? How does 7 sound to you? Would you like me to pick you up?

  She read the message with a strange numbness seeping into her bones. A kind of detachment to what she was doing. She typed her reply:

  It’s okay, I have your address, I’ll just get a taxi. Guess I’ll see you at 7, then. Look forward to it.

  Before she a chance to change her mind, she hit return.

  Too late now.

  With a groan of despair, that she was, indeed, losing her mind for arranging a date with a man that wasn’t her husband, she shoved the laptop to one side and sprang up from the sofa, suddenly agitated to hell and back. She wandered over to the large, bay window.

  My beautiful gilded cage, she thought sadly, prising apart the slatted blinds with her fingertips. Absently, she gazed out at her long, front garden and the quiet street beyond, sighing heavily to herself.

  As she was gazing out, seeing but not really seeing, movement in the righthand side of the high hedgerow that lined the garden caught her eye.

  Startled, she recoiled from the window, her heart thumping hard. For a second there, she was sure that she had glimpsed movement, something distinctly person-shaped in the hedge. Stealing herself to look again, she tentatively peered out once more through a gap in the blinds.

  She saw nothing. What she had thought was a flash of blue was merely the flickering shadows the leaves made dancing in the late-Winter wind.

  She let the blind fall back into place, frowning hard.

  I’m cracking up.

  Again, she thought about how much she didn’t want to be alone, and that it was Hugh’s fault that she was going to meet Ethan tonight. The brief, bitter stab of satisfaction instantly dissipated to be replaced b
y guilt.

  I am a horrible person.

  But what if someone had been spying on her? No, she had imagined it because there was definitely nobody there when she had looked properly the second time.

  But what if there was someone there? And what if it was the same person that had sent the letter?

  A shiver ran through her at that possibility. Instinctively, she made her way back into the kitchen and went straight to the drawer where she had placed the letter.

  But when she opened the drawer to retrieve, it was gone.

  “But I put it in here, I know I did,” she said to the empty room.

  Then the horrible thought occurred to her; what if she had imagined the letter, too? Either that, or the person who had sent it had broken into her home and stolen it back.

  Either way, she figured that she was screwed.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I shouldn’t have come here.

  But it was too late now, because she had come here.

  “What would you like to drink?” Ethan asked her from the partly cornered-off kitchen area.

  “A glass of wine would be lovely, thanks,” she said as she had noticed a bottle of red on the kitchen counter top when she had first entered the house a few minutes ago.

  Nervously, she tugged at the low neckline of her dress, trying to drag it north, immediately dropping her hand when she realised what she was doing. She had pulled out all the stops tonight, and was wearing a fitted, knee-length, long sleeved black dress with no tights and kitten heels. It was way outside of her comfort zone, but she was so bored of being the frumpy, stay-at-home wife, of dressing like a woman twenty years older than she really was. She wandered over to the large, oblong window with the sea view, having to physically force herself to stop fiddling with her dress.

  And she was still wearing her thin, black gloves. After she had shed her coat – a short, black leather jacket – the gloves had, as usual, remained on. She had felt Ethan looking at them. When he had wrenched up his gaze to meet hers, she could sense him holding back with him wanting to say something.