"You want it, don't you, little girl?" The Devil's mocking rumble was punctuated by a throaty laugh, the kind of laugh that would have made a bad girl squeal.
But Teresa was a good girl. She shivered and backed away. "No." Her whisper rose to a shout: "No!"
"No! No!!"
In an instant her husband was shaking her, waking her up. "Honey, what's wrong?!" Frantically he handled her shoulder. "Teresa, wake up!"
Gradually her eyes glazed into focus. She was coated in sweat. "It was the dream."
"Baby, oh baby." Michael held her and rocked her in his arms. He kissed her clammy forehead. "You've got to get some help for this thing."
The next night the dream started out the same way: she was cold.
It wasn't the kind of cold that could be easily remedied by a knee-length down coat from Lands' End
