"Wake up sleepy head. I made you some breakfast."
Harry stirred in the bed. A silhouette was drawing back the curtains to a brilliant sunrise. Norman had said that the kitchen was closed. Mrs. Young was supposed to have left months ago. He also imagined her to be much older than this woman, stood before him in an elegant silk bathrobe. The light shining from behind her obscured her features, though her figure was at once both beautiful and familiar.
"How did you get into my room?"
"It's my room too Mason. Don't forget that. Eat your breakfast before it gets cold."
"Heather? Oh my God!"
He bounced up and grabbed her round the waist, kissing her softly on the neck. She was there, completely real, not a figment of the imagination. He could hold her, smell her, taste her. His wife.
"How is this possible? You died...I buried you."
Pounding rhythms filled his ribcage. It felt like the first time they met. Love at first sight. Second sight.
"Harry, don't say things like that. You know it freaks me out. We're not in one of your novels."
"You were so ill – I…I can't believe you're here."
"Why do you get like this? Every time you're working on a story…You are not your main character. It was a dream."
"I was writing a novel? But I haven't written since…"
He couldn't remember the last time he had written. Residual memories of what was in his head when he woke were beginning to recede. It wasn't clear, but it did seem like what he was going through was a little far fetched. Like a bad novel. The kind he specialized in.
"I could have sworn it was real."
Her hand ran through his hair sending a shiver of delight down his spine. She smiled sympathetically.
"Remember when you were writing that book about the old lady with the killer cats? Torrance had taken to sleeping on the bed and one morning you tried to attack him. He didn't forgive you for weeks…"
Her mellifluous voice buzzed around his brain like music. A sweet song that he hadn't heard in so long. Such a painful dream, to lose such a wonderful woman. The memories of her death still felt real. He shuddered.
"Harry? Are you okay?"
"It was such a horrible nightmare."
She squeezed him tight. Kissed his earlobe.
"Poor baby. I'm here okay? I won't go anywhere."
Pushed back to the bed with lips softly pressing on his neck, he could have forgotten everything. In this perfect bliss, he wouldn't have asked for anything more. Not one thing.
Though perhaps…one thought. One thought racing to the front of his mind, pushing all others aside.
"Cheryl!" he exclaimed, breaking Heather's embrace.
"Honey what is it?"
"In my dream, my nightmare, Cheryl was missing. Where is she? Where's Cheryl?"
"Don't panic. She's outside playing with Andy. Roberta is watching them both."
Something was rotten at the core of this delicious dream. Heather was already gone when Roberta moved in. She wouldn't have known Andy. They lived next to Dorothy, the eccentric spinster who inspired the killer cat story. This wasn't even their bedroom. It was a cheap motel room that had seen better days. He looked at his wife. He couldn't make out her face again, as though the sunlight was coming from her.
"I wish it could have been real." he sighed.
The figment, no longer pretending to be his wife, said nothing.
"I have something I have to do. I have to find my daughter."
"You can stay here. Nothing will trouble you here."
"Then I have to leave."
The light dwindled. Heather was gone.