Oh, those are lovely," Delia said as Melinda held up the earrings, pearl studs with gold chains dangling from them. "The matching necklace is adorable too."

"We should make a good profit on them," Melinda agreed as she put the earrings back into their box.

The door to the shop opened and Jim entered. He was still on shift, and so wearing his paramedic uniform,

"Hey, Jim," Delia called as he came over to the counter.

"This is a nice surprise," Melinda said with a smile. "Early lunch break?"

Jim shook his head, his face solemn. "We just had a call at the university."

Melinda sighed. He'd been to several calls at the university over the last couple of weeks due to a new designer drug that had hospitalised several students though thankfully had not yet resulted in any deaths. "Another OD?"

Jim took Melinda's hand. "Not this time. It wasn't a student or an overdose. It was Rick."

"What happened?" she asked, feeling the blood drain from her face. "Is he all right?"

Jim shook his head. "Some of the students said he just collapsed, one said he was acting erratically beforehand, another that he seemed to be having trouble breathing. I don't know. When we got there he was unconscious and unresponsive, but still breathing."

Melinda swallowed hard.

"He was stable on the way to the hospital," Jim went on, "but when we handed him over he went into cardiac arrest."

Melinda shook her head. "No."

"They tried to resuscitate him," Jim said. "CPR, adrenaline, defibrillation.. After ten minutes they couldn't even get a shockable rhythm. They had to stop CPR. I'm sorry. I know he was your friend. And I'm sorry that I don't know what happened. There'll be an – an investigation."

"An autopsy." Melinda pulled away from Jim so she could sit down, suddenly dizzy.

Delia was pale too. "That's terrible.

""Mel," Jim said. "I didn't want you to find out from someone else, hear it on the radio or something. Look, I'm off duty in a couple of hours but I can tell them you need me–"

"No. You go back to work," Melinda said, dazed.

"I'll take care of her," Delia said softly.

"I'll be back soon," Jim promised. "And the second I hear anything else I'll let you know. I love you."

"I love you too." Melinda watched him go and then the tears began to flow.

Delia hugged her. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

When Melinda had calmed a little, Delia said, "Maybe I should get some tea?"

Melinda nodded and assured her she'd be fine while Delia went out. Delia grabbed her purse and headed out to the coffee shop.

Alone, Melinda wiped at her face. She looked up. "Rick? Are you there? Did you cross into the Light? Or are you going to haunt me first? You'd be happy to be your own proof of life after death, wouldn't you? Appear in my bathroom to tease me?"

There was no answer.


"You've barely eaten," Jim said, taking away the plate.

"I'm not hungry." Melinda finished her wine and got up from the dining table. "Sorry. I'm not good company."

Jim came and put one arm around her. "You want to talk about it?"

"What's there to say? Rick was my friend and I cared about him and he's dead, suddenly, for no reason. I didn't get to say goodbye. I don't see his spirit." She was crying again now and Jim kissed her, her forehead, her cheek.

"It's okay. Sometimes it takes a spirit a while to find you, right?"

"Maybe he's gone into the Light. Which is right. He should. But I just want to see him once more," Melinda wept.

Jim said nothing, just held her close. When this fresh flood of tears subsided she said, "I think I'll just go to bed."

It was ridiculously early but Jim merely nodded. "Okay."

Melinda lay, fully clothed, on the bed for a long time, watching the shadows dance across the ceiling as car headlights went past, shining through the window. She hadn't bothered to draw the curtains and it had got steadily darker the longer she lay there, her mind too agitated to let her sleep, her heart hurting too much to want to do anything other than lie here in repose.

The image rose, unbidden, unwanted, of Rick lying on the medical examiner's table. She closed her eyes, banishing it. Tried to remember times they'd spent together.

The day she'd met Rick she'd asked "Is it necessary to be this rude?" and he'd grinned and replied, "Necessary no, but always amusing."; his rambling commentary on hats; him being drunk in her kitchen; how he was wounded by the knowledge of his wife's affair. She thought of a thousand smiles and smirks and inappropriate quips; of moments of honesty and genuine affection and connection.

She hadn't hurt like this since Andrea's death. Was she to lose everyone she cared about? Was this somehow her fault?

Melinda buried her face in the pillow and cried herself to sleep.


"Melinda," Jim said, shaking her awake. "I have to go. There's coffee and I left you some pastries and fruit salad if you've got time for breakfast."

How could he think about breakfast?

"I'm not hungry." She sat up, dislodging the covers, pulled her knees up to her chest, and wrapped her arms around her legs.

Jim frowned. "You okay? It's not like you to oversleep."

"I'm surprised I slept at all."

"Why? What is it? You seem upset. Talk to me," he said gently.

"Why wouldn't I be upset?" she demanded. What was wrong with him?

He sat on the edge of the bed. "Melinda?"

Then she realised she was wearing her nightgown. She'd been under the covers. She'd gone to bed fully clothed and Jim wouldn't have undressed her, merely covered her with a blanket.

"What day is it?" she asked, hopeful but afraid. She uncurled from her protective stance, knelt up on the bed.

"Wednesday," Jim said. "You're starting to worry me."

"Yesterday was Wednesday. Or at least I think I dreamed that it was. And you came to the store," she said, knowing she was beginning to ramble but powerless to stop it, "and you said you'd been to the university, and that–" her breath caught before she pushed on, "–and that Rick was dead."

"Take a breath," Jim said, putting his hands on her shoulders. "I wasn't at the university yesterday. Monday I was, another overdose of this damn new party drug, but the student is doing fine. I haven't seen Rick since last week. It was a dream. A nightmare, that's all. I had one last night too."

He kissed her hair. Melinda leaned into him, taking comfort from his physical presence and calm, loving manner.

"It felt real," she said. "What was your dream about?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he said. "Not right now."

"Okay."

He sighed. "Do you think this is a spirit thing?"

Melinda shrugged. "I have no idea."

When Jim made to move she clutched at him, foolishly, selfishly. He had to go to work. She had work too. She was an adult who shouldn't let a nightmare upset her this much. And yet…

"It's okay," Jim said. "Just focus on the present. You hear that bird outside?"

"Yes."

"You can feel me holding you. Tell me what you see."

Melinda gave a brittle laugh. "What?"

"Focusing on all your senses can help end a dissociative episode."

She shook her head. "It's not that this doesn't feel real. It was that the dream felt real. I'm all right." At last Melinda let go of him and he got to his feet.

"Why don't you try and eat something?" he suggested. "And then call Rick. Or go to his office, see for yourself."

She nodded, kissed him. "I will. I'll eat something, I promise."

He kissed her again. "I'll see you tonight, but remember I'm doing that refresher first aid course so I won't be home for dinner."

"Okay." She watched Jim leave, then took a deep calming breath. She called Delia, saying she'd be late getting to the store. She got ready; a quick shower, make-up, chose a long flowing dress and boots. She hesitated as she paused in front of the mirror, gold dangling earrings in hand, different to those in the dream but close enough to make her put them aside and choose tiny rose gold studs instead.

She drank half a cup of coffee and, because she'd promised Jim, ate a banana. Then she headed out.

She didn't want to call Rick. She needed to see him. Nothing short of him standing in front of her would banish the nightmare.


Rick wasn't in his office. She paced the room, thinking about using her phone. Maybe he just had an early class, maybe he wouldn't answer if she called, maybe—

"Melinda."

She turned and Rick was standing just inside the doorway. Without a second thought she ran across the room and threw her arms around him. He stood frozen for a moment, then wrapped his arms around her as she leaned into his chest, revelling in the welcome sound of his heartbeat.

"Hey," he said softly.

"Don't ruin it," she warned him, voice muffled against his shirt.

"Okay." He was then mercifully silent until Melinda finally pulled back.

He tipped his head. "Can I speak now?" She nodded and he asked, "What was that for? Not that I didn't enjoy it."

"National Hugging Day," Melinda lied blithely.

"Is that some bullshit thing made up by greeting card companies to sell cards and overpriced candy?"

Melinda shrugged. "I just do the hugging part. I have to go. To my store. To hug Delia."

He watched her, calling her name as she reached the doorway. She paused.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Fine," she said, not quite truthfully and deflected, "Are you?"

"Yes. Sure."

Yet something seemed off. He was less loquacious than usual, he'd barely teased her about the hug, and not made a single smutty remark. Plus he'd seemed stunned to see her in his office and now he was concerned in a way that would normally take a lot more weirdness for him to pay attention to. Melinda had to push the thought away that the dream had been a premonition. Maybe she should stay close to him, in case it was.

She'd made it to the corridor, thoughts in a whirl, when Rick called after her, "Can we have lunch?"

"I'd like that," Melinda said with relief.

"I'll meet you at the store."

"Take care," she said.

"You too."


Melinda was on edge all morning but finally Rick arrived at the store and they headed out together. There was a new street vendor he wanted to try, and Melinda settled for a pretzel while Rick got a German style burger with all the trimmings, struggling to keep it contained in the bread roll.

"So, this morning," Rick said as they walked. "That whole Hugging Day thing."

"What about it?"

"Thing is, National Hugging Day is the 21st of January," Rick said. "I looked it up."

Melinda blinked a few times. "It's a real thing?"

"Yes!" Rick exclaimed. "And why didn't you say, 'oh, I got confused about the date'? Because you thought you made it up!"

Melinda bit her lip, unwilling to admit he'd caught her out.

Rick gestured, scattering crumbs. "What is going on with you? Is this a gh-" He caught himself, lowered his voice. "A ghost thing?"

Melinda sighed. "I had a nightmare," she said quietly.

"Surely that's not unusual? With all the things you see?"

She stopped and he pulled up next to her. She tossed the rest of the pretzel in a trash can. "It felt real, even when I woke up. I dreamed that you were dead."

He stared at her for a moment before he took another bite of burger. Melinda watched him chew and swallow, knowing she shouldn't be surprised that it would take more than a dream to make Rick lose his appetite.

"That upset you?" Rick asked at last.

"Of course it upset me!" Melinda gave him a shove. "You don't think I care about you? No matter how rude or obnoxious you can be?"

Rick took another bite, wiped his mouth on the napkin and disposed of the rest of the now soggy bun. He became solemn, put his hand on her arm. "Melinda. There's something I should tell you."

Melinda's eyes widened, worried by his serious manner. Had the nightmare been a premonition after all? "Are you sick?"

"What? No! You really are shaken up," Rick said. "Come here, sit down."

They made their way to the nearest bench and sat side by side, Rick turning so he could face Melinda.

"I don't know what happened in your dream," Rick said. "But what I need to tell you is that I had a similar one last night. About you."

Melinda frowned. "Really?"

He nodded. "You were supposed to meet me at the office for lunch but you never showed. I called you but you didn't pick up. So I went to the store and there were police cars and an ambulance was just leaving. Delia was sat on the kerb, upset. I managed to get to her and she said she found you unconscious, that Jim had just taken you away. And then, you know how dreams are, I don't remember going anywhere, but I was at the hospital and Jim was sitting there, head in hands, crying and I knew. I just knew." He was silent for a moment, reliving the grief. "And then I woke up."

Maybe he wasn't frantic the way she had been, but by the end of the story he was emotional and Melinda took his hand.

"Once I woke up I knew it was just a dream," he said. "But still, I went by the store this morning and you weren't there. I was surprised, in a good way, to see you at my office."

Melinda squeezed his hand. "It was similar for me," she said. "Jim came to the store and told me he'd been to the university, found you unconscious, took you to the hospital but you didn't make it. And I didn't realise because it felt so real, that the next thing I knew it was evening and I was eating, or rather not eating, dinner. When I woke up I was sad until I realised it was still Wednesday."

Rick gave a short laugh "Hence Hugging Day."

"Yes. I really did think I made it up." She gave a wry grin.

He squeezed her hand in return and then released it, curiosity overriding any other concern.

"Do you think it means something?" he asked. "We had incredibly similar dreams, each about the other?"

"You're the expert on the occult," she returned.

"Shared dreams, I've heard of," he said. "This is something different. I can do some research."

"I will too. Dinner tonight, my place? So we can compare notes?" she asked.


Melinda sipped her wine while Jim ladled food onto his plate. Rick had paused his devouring of the mashed potatoes to tell a story about a dig he'd been on and the ensuing debacle.

"And so it wasn't an idol at all, but it's on display labelled as such, to save embarrassment!" He shook his head and began eating again.

Melinda smiled, but her amusement turned to fear as Rick began to choke. "Rick?"

Jim moved to help, slapping Rick on the back. Rick tried to get up, staggered. He collapsed to the floor, Jim immediately kneeling at his side. Melinda was on her feet in an instant. Jim checked Rick's airway, felt for a pulse.

"Call 911," Jim said. "He's not breathing."

Melinda dashed for her phone. She dialled, watched Jim begin chest compressions. The phone rang, and rang, and rang.

"Come on," Melinda begged, desperate for someone to answer the phone, praying for Rick to start breathing.

She shouldn't have invited him to dinner and then he wouldn't have choked. This was her fault, this was—

"Dinner tonight, my place? So we can compare notes?" she'd asked.

Rick smiled. "I'd love to. But I can't. Faculty meeting tonight. Sorry."

This was not real.

Melinda hung up.

"I asked Rick to come to dinner," she said distantly. "But he had a faculty meeting he had to go to. And Jim wouldn't have been at dinner either, not tonight. I ate alone, I remember. This isn't real. And I want to wake up."

Jim looked over at her, pausing in his attempt to resuscitate Rick. "Melinda, the phone."

"No." She walked over to the table and picked up a knife. She closed her hand over the blade. There was pain but it was dull, unreal–


Melinda sat up, heart pounding in her chest. She glanced at her hand and found her palm undamaged.

She climbed out of bed and reached for her phone. She called Rick as she paced the bedroom. It had been a dream but it had been unnerving and she needed to hear his voice.

"Melinda?"

"Hey," she said, relieved, sinking onto the edge of the bed. "I know it's late."

"No," he said quickly. "No, it's, ah, I'm glad you called."

She heard a note of nervousness in his tone. "Are you all right?"

"I was having another nightmare, does that count as all right?" A beat and then, "Can I maybe come over?"

"I'll make cocoa," she said, reaching for her dressing gown.


Rick had been to the faculty meeting, gone out for food with a couple of other staff members after, then headed home.

He'd fallen asleep in the chair, he told Melinda, hands wrapped around the mug of cocoa. That explained why he was still wearing the same clothing as when they'd spoken at lunchtime.

"In the dream I went back to my office and you were there," he said softly. "Lying on the floor. There was all this blood." He gestured to his torso. "Gunshot? Knife wound? I don't know. I started yelling for someone to get help, and I, er, I should have put pressure on the wound, I know that much first aid, but I gathered you up."

He slipped his left arm under her head, nestled it in the crook of his arm, cradled her against his chest. She was so still, unmoving, and yet so beautiful; so young and undeserving of this. He placed his right hand over her heart. It wasn't beating. He should have saved her.

He stopped abruptly in his retelling of the dream, took a sip of cocoa.

"It felt like my fault," he said at last. "And then the phone on my desk starting ringing and I woke up because you were calling me."

Melinda nodded. "I had another nightmare too." She recounted it, including how she'd woken herself up.

"Lucid dreaming," Rick said. "You knew you were dreaming, so you were able to take control."

Melinda shrugged. "I guess so."

Rick put down his mug. "These can't be normal nightmares."

"I agree."

"It might be easier for a ghost to contact me through a dream, through my unconscious mind," Rick mused, "because I'm not sensitive to spirits the way you are. Of course there are mares, allegedly."

Melinda wrinkled her brow. "Mares?"

"It's where we get the word 'nightmare' from. A sort of spirit or demon that sits on a sleeping person's chest and brings them bad dreams. You've heard of incubus and succubus? Similar things but they're male and female demons-"

Melinda nodded. "I've heard of those. This isn't sexual."

Rick seemed about to make a lewd comment but changed his mind, saying, "In Greek mythology, dreams were sometimes known as Oneiros, each with different personalities."

"I really only deal in ghosts," Melinda said.

There was a moment of silence. Rick finished his cocoa.

"I didn't mind Hugging Day," he said. "Every day should be Hugging Day. But I could do without having to have death dreams every night."

"Me too," she said softly.

Rick sighed. "I should go."

Melinda tipped her head. "We have a spare room."

Again the urge to make some flirtatious comment was obvious from his smirk, but it vanished as quickly as it had before, testament to how disturbed by this all he was. "Thank you," he said and she nodded.


Melinda lay in bed, listening to the wind outside her window stirring the leaves. She closed her eyes, wanting–needing–and yet dreading sleep.

Morning came with Jim shaking her awake. She blinked bleary eyes at him. He was dressed in his best suit, his expression as somber as the black ensemble.

"I let you sleep in as long as possible," he said. "But we'll be late for the funeral if you don't get up."

Melinda sat up. "Funeral?"

"It seems five minutes since Andrea's," Jim said. "And then Rick. And now Delia. You really are bad news."

His words cut her like a knife and she choked back tears before she got hold of herself.

"This isn't real," she said. "Jim would never say that."

Jim stared at her. "First ghosts, now delusions. You're insane."

"You're not Jim," Melinda said. She rolled over, climbed out of bed. "Watch."

She willed with all her strength to change her clothing and when she looked down the nightgown was gone, a pure white dress in its place.

"You think you're clever, don't you?" the thing that wasn't Jim hissed.

Melinda ignored it and marched out of the bedroom. She needed something to wake her up. The knife had done the job last time. She made her way to the kitchen. Andrea was there; no, not Andrea, the thing that was haunting Melinda. It only made her angrier.

"Andrea went into the Light," she said, going to the drawer and pulling out a blade. "You won't scare me by appearing as her."

She grasped the blade, squeezed at it–

–and woke in her bed, gasping. Her anger had given her strength that she'd lacked during the previous encounters but it was still an upsetting experience.

If she'd had another nightmare then maybe Rick was having one too.

She jumped out of bed and hammered on the door of the spare room. There was no answer. She opened it and went inside.

Rick was tossing and turning, murmuring in his sleep.

"Rick," Melinda said, reaching out.

As she touched his shoulder something incredible happened.

She was no longer in the bedroom but outside Rick's house. It was dark but she could see everything clearly. Rick was kneeling on the grass, cradling a body in his arms. As Melinda walked toward him she felt how real the dream was, the breeze on her arms and her knees brushing against the edge of her white dress.

"Rick," she called but he didn't seem to hear her.

"I'm sorry," he was saying. "I'm sorry.

"First your wife; if you'd been a decent husband, and kept your wife home with you instead of her being out having an affair Kate would still be alive," came a harsh voice. "And now Melinda is dead too."

Melinda stared, made out a figure standing behind Rick, almost but not quite invisible.

As Melinda took another step forward she gasped. The body in Rick's arms was her own corpse, eyes closed, skin pale, congealed blood on the torso. She looked away, focused on Rick. She put her hand on his shoulder.

"Rick, look at me."

He glanced up, grief becoming confusion. "Melinda?"

"I'm here. This is a dream, but I'm here with you. That? That's not me. Let go," she said, gesturing to the body.

He spread his hands and the body vanished. "How?"

"I don't know. But now you know you're dreaming. You said that makes it a lucid dream."

He nodded and got to his feet, Melinda joining him. "I did say that. It means any decision I make affects the dream."

Melinda pointed behind him. "There's something there. Someone."

He turned. The outline shimmered. Unlike in Melinda's dreams it wasn't taking the shape of someone he knew.

"You think you're so clever," it said.

Melinda frowned. It had said that to her, too. "You believe you're cleverer than anyone else? Is that why you're taking out your frustrations on us? Why me? Why Rick? Because of his work?"

The outline shimmered; she caught a glimpse of a woman, maybe in her late twenties and then nothing but the hint of a figure in the air.

"He didn't save me and he will pay. But first his loved ones will suffer."

Melinda exchanged a glance with Rick. "Who didn't save you?"

"Jim Clancy!"

Rick scoffed. "I'm hardly Jim's bosom buddy. Target his poker playing friends, his co-workers, I get that. But our main connection is Melinda."

"Yes. You help her. I don't want you helping her. I want her to suffer. I want you both to suffer. I want Jim Clancy to suffer!" The spirit became angrier as she spoke and the wind became fierce around them, the woman's image appearing again, face red and swollen.

Melinda took Rick's hand. "I think you need to end this dream."

"I'm willing myself to wake up but it's not working," he told her. "How did you wake up?"

"I held a knife blade," she reminded him.

Rick winced. Then he said, "Slap me."

"What?" She shook her head.

"Quick, easy, painful, but not like a knife," he said. "Come on, don't be shy. Are you going to tell me you've never, not once, thought I deserved a good slap?"

Melinda hesitated. "This is only to get out of here."

He gave a wry grin. "I know."

Melinda raised her hand and slapped him once, hard, across the cheek.


She was back in the bedroom. Rick woke up in a tangle of limbs and blankets, gasping for breath. He'd stripped down to a t-shirt and boxers, his shirt and pants folded neatly on a nearby chair.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

He nodded, smoothing down his tousled hair and then touching his cheek gingerly. "That was a good slap."

"I'm sorry."

"No, no, it did the job," he said. "So, this is Jim's fault?"

Not Jim's fault precisely, but at least now they knew they weren't being targeted for anything they'd done but because of something Jim had supposedly failed to do; Melinda was the means to an end, Rick dragged along because of his connection to her and the occult.

Melinda heard the front door open and shut. Jim was home.

"Let's go and talk to him and see what we can figure out together," she said.


Jim spread his hands, confused. They'd made coffee and sat down at the dining table, Melinda and Rick taking turns (or at least interrupting each other in turn) to bring him up to speed.

"This ghost is blaming me?" Jim asked.

"Yes," Rick agreed. "She's angry and she wants to hurt us before she moves on to you."

"You said you had a nightmare too," Melinda said, remembering their conversation that morning.

Jim nodded. "Nothing like that, though. I didn't see either of you die. I just felt helpless, standing in the road unable to get anything from the fire truck or go inside and help the victim I knew was in the house opposite."

"Maybe she's working up to it," Melinda said. "She said we'd suffer first. It's shown me Rick's death, told me of Delia's funeral and even appeared to me as Andrea. She's trying to inflict as much pain as possible." Melinda glanced over at Rick. "She was telling you about your wife, as well as showing you my death."

He stared into his coffee mug. "Yes. She said I should have been home. I felt that if I'd stopped the affair she'd have been home with me the night she died. It made me feel that I was responsible for your death too, somehow."

Melinda reached out and put her hand on top of his. "She tried to make me feel guilty too. About all of it. None of it's true."

He gave her a sad smile. "I'm not so sure about my part in Katherine's death. But this isn't really the time for me to wallow, is it?"

Jim sighed. "I'm sorry you're both caught up in this." He picked up his mug, found it empty. He went to fetch the coffee pot.

"Guilt," Jim said thoughtfully. "This spirit thinks I should feel guilty." Rick nodded as he gestured and he refilled Rick's mug as well as his own, Melinda silently declining and removing her hand so Rick could pick up his mug.

"You need to think about recent deaths you came across," Melinda said. "I know it's difficult. Either one that looked DOA when you got there and she thinks you ought to have tried to save her anyway, or someone you worked on who died at the scene or shortly afterwards."

Jim rubbed at his face. Melinda hated to put him through this.

"A woman," he said. "Last week, heart attack victim. She was 71, morbidly obese."

"No," Melinda said.

Jim frowned. "Nearly a month ago, near drowning victim. We saved her. I think she left the hospital but it's possible she developed complications later. I'd have to check. Nineteen. African-American."

Melinda shook her head. "About the right age but the spirit, when I glimpsed her in Rick's dream, was Caucasian."

Jim frowned. "There was one, about three and a half weeks ago. A twenty-six year old blonde woman. Chelsea? Kelsey? She called 9-1-1 but Dispatch had to trace the address because she could barely speak. She was unresponsive when we got there. We tried to bring her back but failed. Police were called, there'd have been an autopsy. I thought maybe it was drugs because we'd just started seeing ODs from this latest street drug, but there weren't any at the scene, not that I saw."

It was a lead. Jim went to call the coroner.

"Don't ghosts usually come in person, so to speak?" Rick asked while he and Melinda waited for Jim to return. "Why the dreams?"

"I don't know," Melinda said. "I didn't get a manual with my gift."

"Maybe you should write one," Rick suggested, getting up to pour more coffee. "The Art of Talking With Ghosts…no, The Art of Ghost Whispering by Melinda Gordon. With a foreword by Professor Rick Payne."

Melinda shook her head, sure he was teasing her but nonetheless chiding him gently, "You know I don't want or need publicity."

"Speak for yourself."

Jim returned. "Chelsea Peele, 26. Cause of death was anaphylactic shock."

"She blames you," Melinda said. "I don't, but I have to ask, is it possible she could have been saved?"

"I don't know. We didn't know what we were dealing with but we followed protocol," Jim said. "Given that it was an allergic reaction, had we been able to administer epinephrine soon enough, maybe we could have saved her. But there's never any guarantee and by the time we got there it may have already been too late regardless."

Melinda paced the room. "Chelsea? Are you here?"

There was no answer.

They did more digging into Chelsea, now they had the likely suspect. The photo on the obituary didn't help as none of them had clearly seen her face. However they did learn that Chelsea had been a researcher into sleep disorders at a clinic on the edge of town which might explain her chosen method of contacting them. The obituary had been written by a colleague at the clinic which suggested Chelsea didn't have any family that Melinda could reach out to.

Jim suggested that if Chelsea hadn't been able to speak when her spirit first wandered the earth, perhaps using dreams was a workaround, and it seemed as reasonable an explanation as any for this particular haunting.

Either way sleep wasn't going to be a welcome prospect until Melinda could get Chelsea to go into the Light.

Rick did some research too, on lucid dreaming.

"You knew you were dreaming," he reminded Melinda. "That's when you can affect the dream, even a nightmare caused by this spirit. I think I have an idea."


Rick got everything set up. The laptop was playing hypnotic music to induce sleep but also included some almost inaudible suggestions that they would know they were dreaming. Both the laptop and Jim's watch were set to sound an alarm after two hours, at 5:30am, just in case they got stuck in the dream. It took around ninety minutes to reach REM sleep where dreams occur, he explained, and time worked differently in dreams so ten minutes ought to suffice for interacting with Chelsea, plus he'd allowed them twenty minutes to actually get to sleep.

Jim had found sleeping bags from the garage and Melinda brought pillows from the bedrooms. They were all lying on the floor as if they were having a slumber party which might have been amusing if not for the seriousness of the situation.

Melinda stared at the ceiling, willing sleep to come.


Melinda turned over, reaching across the bed for Jim. He wasn't there.

She sat up, frowning.

On her bedside table was a picture of Jim in a frame that was engraved with his birth date and what had to be his death date.

Melinda's lip trembled. She missed him so much.

No.

She was still wearing her wedding ring and she wrapped her right hand around her left, enclosing the precious gold band.

"This isn't real," she said, over and over.

Fragments of memory came back until she recalled exactly what was going on. She knew she had to find Rick and Jim, confront Chelsea, and put a stop to this.

When she ran out of her bedroom she was fully dressed in a long dark dress and boots and stumbling across an unfamiliar field.

Nothing but grass as far as the eye could see, no trees or buildings. Above her was the night sky, cloudless and starless in a way that was unreal.

"Jim!" she called. "Rick!" There was no answer.

"Chelsea," Melinda called. "Chelsea, I know you're doing this. I know you're upset. But hurting us, punishing Jim, and me, and Rick, isn't going to help."

A gust of wind stirred the grass though not Melinda's hair. She turned around, seeking any glimpse of Chelsea.

"I want to help you," Melinda said.

She turned again and saw a door up ahead. No house or other structure surrounding it, just a black door in a white wood frame. Melinda headed for it and reached for the polished silver handle.

"This isn't real," she reminded herself before she pushed the door open, fearful of what she'd see.

Melinda didn't get to look through the doorway but was instead propelled instantly into the room beyond. It was her living room but everything was reversed as if seen through a mirror. The door she'd come through had vanished.

"Chelsea?"

"Melinda," came Jim's voice and she ran to the dining room.

Two chairs had been pulled away from the table and Rick was sat in one, Jim in the other, both with their hands tied behind them around the back of the chair.

"Jim!" Yet Melinda paused. Was Jim really here or was this just part of the dream?

"Hey," he said.

"About time you got here," Rick said.

There was a whisper behind Melinda and as she glanced over her shoulder she saw the shadowy figure.

"Show yourself, Chelsea," Melinda insisted.

The figure faded before it came into view again and now the face was clearly visible, the swelling gone.

"He let me die," Chelsea said, pointing an accusing finger at Jim.

"Tell me," Melinda urged. "I wasn't there. I don't know how it happened."

Chelsea glared at Jim. "I called for help and he didn't save me."

"Before that," Melinda said softly.

She shook her head. "I– I got a sandwich from the new place over on Carel Street. I ate half but it was too spicy and I threw the rest away before I got home. I started to feel ill when I got home. I tried to find my EpiPen but I dropped it and it rolled under the sofa." Chelsea gave a sob. "I managed to grab my phone and call 911 but I could barely breathe let alone speak. He came and he didn't save me."

Melinda blinked away tears of her own. "I'm so sorry, Chelsea. You had an allergic reaction?"

"I didn't realise there was sesame in the sandwich. I would never have ordered it if I'd thought there might be sesame seeds or oil in it, but there must have been. And I should have been able to use the EpiPen!"

Chelsea's rage was as much directed at herself as it was at Jim. Less so at the sandwich shop owner for some reason. Still, Melinda was beginning to understand Chelsea's anger and think how she might persuade her to move on.

"It was a tragic accident," Melinda said. "You're not to blame. And neither is Jim. He did everything he could to help you."

Chelsea shook her head. "I want him to watch you die," she said, but to her surprise Jim got to his feet, the rope gone. Rick too shrugged off his bindings.

"Lucid dreaming," Rick explained. "We're in control of our own destiny now. And while I too am sorry for what happened to you, I do not appreciate being dragged into your revenge fantasy."

Chelsea reached out a hand but nothing happened and she stared at her fingers in shock. "You think you're so clever," she yelled.

"You keep saying that." Melinda reached out and was able, in this dreamworld, to touch Chelsea, who started at the contact. "You blame yourself for this. You should have been smarter, right?"

Chelsea gave a miserable nod.

"It wasn't your fault," Melinda said. "And this isn't helping. Please, Chelsea. You need to let go of your anger and go into the Light."

"I wanted to help people," she said tearfully. "My mother was a college professor who suffered from severe insomnia for years and no-one helped her. She was prescribed medication, all legal drugs that did little to help, and ultimately she died a drug-induced death that was ruled an accident, as if she made a mistake, but maybe she was so exhausted it didn't matter anymore. I didn't want anyone else to lose someone like that. I studied hard so I could prevent it happening again. I was helping people at the sleep clinic."

"I'm sorry," Melinda said. The mother's profession was probably another reason Rick had been targeted, even subconsciously, and again the question of competence had been raised, as well as medical professionals failing to help. "You were doing good in the world and you didn't deserve this. But you're not doing good now. You're hurting us. Making us afraid to sleep."

Chelsea stared at Melinda as if for the first time realising the full extent of her actions.

Jim cleared his throat. "I can contact the sandwich shop," he said. "Make sure they put up signs, to warn other people with allergies. I know someone at the local paper, I can ask them to publish an article about this. Your story will help people. You have my word."

Slowly, Chelsea nodded. She looked to Melinda, and began to ask, "Do you—" but the rest of the question was overridden by the sound of an alarm.

Before Melinda could react she woke on her living room floor, Jim sitting up next to her and Rick stirring nearby.

"Unfortunate timing," Jim said, turning off the alarm on his watch while Rick reached for the laptop.

He was right, for she'd been making progress. Melinda sat up. "Chelsea?" She was relieved when Chelsea came into view.

"Is she here?" Rick asked, for outside the dream world neither he nor Jim could see or hear spirits.

Melinda nodded, keeping her attention on Chelsea. "What did you want to ask?"

Chelsea looked at the floor. "Do you think my mother is in the Light?"

"I can't promise it, but I think it's likely. Most souls pass straight into the Light," Melinda said.

Chelsea lifted her head and gazed at the corner of the room. "I see it. The Light."

"Go to it," Melinda urged.

And Chelsea was gone.

"It's over?" Jim asked hopefully.

"It's over," Melinda agreed. Jim would keep his word and that might avert further tragedies and hopefully Chelsea was now reunited with her mother. They could all sleep soundly tonight,

Rick stifled a yawn as he got to his feet. "Anybody else want breakfast?"

Melinda got up too. She went over and gave Rick a hug.

"Hugging Day?" he asked.

"I don't think we need an excuse," she said, pulling away with a broad smile.

"Isn't Hugging Day in January?" Jim asked.

"Every day should be Hugging Day," Melinda said, echoing Rick's earlier assertion, and wrapped her arms around Jim. He kissed her forehead and for the first time in several days she felt completely at peace.


Notes:

National Hugging Day is a real if little known holiday.

Ghost Whisperer ran from 2005-2010, but as late as 2016 there were incidents involving sesame seed allergies leading to "Natasha's Law" being implemented in the UK in October 2021 requiring food pre-packed for direct sale (such as from sandwich shop or deli) must list all ingredients on food labels of individual products.

Meanwhile the new federal law which came into effect in USA on 1 January 2023 regarding sesame seeds was having unintended consequences. So in 2007 the danger of unlabelled sesame seed or sesame seed oil in food would be relatively high.

This fic was originally posted to AO3 where there are html links provided for the above notes.