Sleep Talk

They were five years married. Desperately wanting to escape the ritual of the daily commute, they purchased a secluded property outside the city. Both self-employed, they had struck the perfect life/work balance. They allowed just enough seclusion that they could briefly hop back to the hustle and bustle of the city whenever they desired.

Stan Nelson was a financial advisor. His wife, Rachelle, a marketing consultant. Both had recently left their jobs for the freedom of working from home. Together, they had put together enough of a nest egg to allow them to hone their skills and build their businesses without fear of breaking the bank. Everything was coming together as planned.

Rachelle was a night owl, saving most of her work for the wee hours of the morning. She needed far less sleep than Stan and relished the quiet hours to get her stuff done. Stan was the exact opposite. He could sleep twenty-seven hours a day, if it were possible. He took his profession much less seriously than did Rachelle. Stan wasn’t a slacker yet, but Rachelle could see the potential was there for him to waltz right into it should he get a sense that she’d be cool with it. Neither of them saw a need to address it, so neither said anything.

The first time it happened, it caught Rachelle by surprise. It was faint and unintelligible, cute even, so she dismissed it and fell off to sleep. She didn’t know that Stan was getting more restless and having a hard time staying asleep. He seemed to be locked inside a dream he didn’t like, but couldn’t wake up from it. He eventually got through it and fell back asleep. The next morning, he didn’t remember any of it.

The day started out as normal as any other. Rachelle had some shopping to do, so she headed out early to get it over with. Stan woke up long enough to see her off, grab a bowl of cornflakes, and then head back to bed. He had no clients to deal with, so it was like a free day for him and he fully intended to take advantage of it.

The dream reappeared almost instantly. He couldn’t make out any faces or surroundings, but he could hear voices vividly. The ever-present dominant man’s voice issued directions to the others. Someone was in trouble, but he couldn’t make out who. Rachelle burst in from her shopping trip. She always made a grand entrance by literally bursting through the door. Stan wasn’t sure he liked it, but he didn’t want to make a scene. It was obviously a deal she’d had since childhood.

“Hi, hon,” she said as she threw her new items on the bed.

“Were you sleeping again? Hope I didn’t wake you.”

He knew she didn’t mean that, and so did she. Without waiting for an answer, she went about explaining all of her new purchases. All girly crap that she knew darn well he wouldn’t care about. He sat up in the bed, pretending to be interested as she went on and on about it. He knew she’d run out of steam quickly and go start dinner. It was her night to cook, and he was on alert to not allow her to pull a fast one by making him think it was his night. She’d gotten pretty darn good at that. He put his foot down.

“Chelle, I know what you’re trying to do and it’s not going to work this time,” he said playfully.

She batted her eyes and did a little curtsy as she came back with, “Why Stanley, what on earth do you mean, dear?”

“I mean, it’s your night to cook, so get those cute little buns of yours in the kitchen and whip up some grub for your man.”

She knew she wasn’t going to win and threw all her stuff back into bags and then went out to the kitchen. She was in search of the absolute easiest thing to make. Pop Tarts would have been her choice had they any. Stan sat back against the headboard, relishing his rare victory. Suddenly, he thought back on his dream the night before. There was something really familiar about it. But just then, the wonderful smell of Rachelle’s marinara sauce invaded his nostrils. He wandered out to the kitchen.

That evening, he slept a little deeper than normal, and soon the familiar dream was back. This time, it seemed more defined. He could see things slightly out of focus, but as if he were there looking through his own eyes at the action. He became restless as he began mumbling a warning. Someone was in danger. Rachelle gently tapped his wrist to calm him. It seemed to work, and she fell back asleep.

The following morning, she asked him about the dream and explained how he seemed more agitated. She asked if it was the same dream every time.

“Yes,” he replied. “It’s like it reveals a little more detail each time. But I still can’t quite figure out what’s going on.”

“Well, you’re getting more vocal about it. That’s for sure,” she exclaimed.

He got up and went to put on a pot of coffee. Rachelle had to meet a client in person and hit the shower to get ready for the meeting. When she came out, it surprised her to see a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and homemade hash browns in the works.

“Wow!” she said. “What’s gotten into you?”

His puppy dog eyes, the sex-begging smile and nod towards the bedroom, answered loud and clear. So after her second shower of the morning, they practically ran to the kitchen to dig into the breakfast. The smell of bacon permeated the entire house and she could barely concentrate on the lovemaking. Breakfast was calling, and they both admitted that sex took a backseat to it. They’d make up for it that evening.

But that evening turned out to be interesting on a whole other level because Stan fell asleep, and the dream was back. Except this time he was vocalizing pretty clearly what he was seeing. Rachelle tried tapping his wrist, as she always did, but it had no effect. She tried again a little more aggressively, but it, too, yielded no effect. And then he said something that caught her attention. And he said it in his clearest voice yet.

“Please, Mr. Aggasi, take a seat. I’m sure you know why we’re here.”

And then he faded back into unintelligible whispers. But that sentence sent shivers throughout Rachelle’s body as she tried desperately to unhear what he had just said.

“No,” she thought. “He couldn’t have possibly said that. No way he could have said that.”

She lies awake the rest of the night, waiting with bated breath for him to say something else. He never did. He fell back into a deep sleep.

The following morning, she asked him point blank what he meant by the statement he uttered in his sleep. He had never seen her so serious. It sort of alarmed him as he explained he didn’t know what she was talking about.

“Stan, you said ‘Please, Mr. Aggasi, take a seat. I’m sure you know why we’re here.’ What were you seeing when you said that, Stan?”

He was getting nervous by her demeanor. She seemed genuinely agitated, pissed off even, and it was a look he hadn’t seen before. It was damn scary. He tried to smooth things over by saying he didn’t remember dreaming. He did, but took a calculated risk that she’d believe him. She seemed to calm down a little, but not enough to put him at ease. She spent the rest of the day noticeably trying to avoid him.

That night, he dreamed again. The dreams were getting more detailed each time. He uttered something else and Rachelle went on full alert.

“Mr. Aggasi, look into the camera and read the statement on that paper exactly as it is written, please.”

Stan heard the man, Aggasi, respond.

“Lady, I don’t know who you are, but there is no way I’m reading that statement.”

“That’s unfortunate, Mr. Aggasi,” she responded.

Stan was shivering as if cold, but Rachelle knew it was fear. Stan saw something this time, and it scared him. He was tossing around and sweating. Suddenly, he woke up, sat straight up in the bed with genuine fear in his eyes. He noticed Rachelle sitting at the foot of the bed, gazing at him. Her eyes looked as cold as steel. She spoke, but it was not his wife’s voice. Stan honestly didn’t know who that woman was in the room with him. She looked like Rachelle, but her demeanor, her attitude, her level of anger came not from the woman he married.

“Stan,” she began calmly. “You need to tell me exactly what you saw in your dream. Leave out no details. Do you understand?” she asked as she looked intently for an answer.

Stan looked sort of through her as he tried to backpedal on the bed.

“Rachelle, honey, what’s wrong? You’re kind of freaking me out.”

“Details, love. Concentrate. I need to know what you think you’ve seen and heard in your dream,” she said calmly.

Stan sounded desperate as he told her he couldn’t remember details and he had no idea what he may have said. That night, he dreamed again. The images were much clearer. He saw the scene from a view behind the woman. He could not see her face, but he saw Aggasi’s face clearly. And he was truly terrified.

Rachelle, again, sat at the foot of the bed, watching his movements, listening to every word he muttered. This time, she sat with a gun in her lap. Stan suddenly woke up, frightened, and, as the night before, sat straight up in the bed in a cold sweat. He saw Rachelle sitting at the foot of the bed and she looked absolutely terrifying. He did not see the gun.

“Everything, Stan. Tell me everything you just saw and heard. I know you’ve been lying and holding back. Please don’t do that again,” she said with frightening calm.

As afraid as he was of her at that moment, he was more concerned about the identity of the woman in the dream. He could identify her finally, and judging by the way Rachelle was acting, it seemed she knew he saw her in the dream. To make things worse, if what he saw was true, he was witnessing the run up to the murder of crime boss, Michael Aggasi. A murder that happened just days ago around the same time Rachelle was supposedly meeting a client.

“Ah, honey, I, ah,”

“No, Stan. Don’t do that,” she said.

“Okay, Chelle, so I’m in this room. I’m standing behind a woman. She has a gun, and she’s asking Michael Aggasi to read something into a camera. He refuses, and that’s when I wake up.”

“Is that everything, Stan?”

“Yes! I swear. I’ve seen nothing beyond that,” he lied.

“And you’re sure the man is Michael Aggasi, the guy that was found dead the other day?”

Stan nervously answered yes, and it shocked him to his core as he watched his wife, Rachelle, stand and stroll out of the room with a gun in her hand. He almost pissed himself, when suddenly he heard the front door open and close. He heard her car start and drive off. It was 2AM. Stan knew she didn’t believe him when he said he didn’t see the woman in the dream. She had to know he was lying.

Rachelle needed to step away from the situation. She thought she’d be able to walk away from the agency and start a new life with Stan. She truly loved him. Unfortunately, he had become a loose end, and in her business, loose ends were no good. She knew what had to be done, and she knew she had no choice. She turned the car around and headed back home.

Stan was packing a suitcase and preparing to flee when she walked in. He freaked out.

“Please, Stan, calm down and take a seat. I’m sure you realize we have a bit of a dilemma. What do you suppose we do about it, dear?” she asked calmly.

He started in with solutions and she cut him off with a finger to her lips.

“T’was a rhetorical question, love.”

She had Stan drive out to the location in his dream and strapped him into the same chair she had strapped Aggasi to earlier. He silently prayed to every god he could think of for guidance on how to get himself out of the pickle he found himself in. Rachelle obviously wasn’t who she said she was, and judging by what she ultimately did in the dream, she wasn’t very tolerant either.

Turned out, wifey was a semi-retired assassin. He begged her to hear him out. He admitted he saw what she did, but explained it was just a dream. No one could ever use it as proof of anything. His voice cracked as fear of what she might do sent shockwaves through his body. She had a blank stare as she looked straight ahead while he talked. She showed no emotion whatsoever as she raised her gun.

Luckily for Stan, he had called the police while she was out. He told them everything. Those beautiful boys and gals in blue burst in just as she was going to pull the trigger. Stan almost fainted at the thought of how close he was to meeting his maker. Through five years of marriage, Stan had no clue his wife was anything other than who he knew. With Rachelle tucked away behind bars, Stan looked forward to a good night’s sleep, preferably dream-free.

⁂

He was doing it again. Dreaming. This time, he saw the silhouette of a female standing at the foot of his bed, aiming a gun at him as he slept. He tried desperately to wake up in order to avert what was about to happen.

“Hello, love. Miss me?” Rachelle said as she pulled the trigger.

K.R. Eaton - Sleep Talk

Short Stories by K.R Eaton