1995
The air in my shed is thick and stuffy, like a hand over my face. I’m coated in the dream that just spat me out. A woman whose voice I knew but could not place was in the newly renovated house, calling across to me from one of the upstairs windows. “Come,” she entreated, her voice a dry whisper. “You know why you’re here. Come on over.”
“In a minute,” I said.
“When?” she asked. “You don’t mean it. You’re not coming.” Then she leaped from the window and hurtled through the air towards me, so fast I couldn’t see her face. Through the night and in through the window of my shed she flew, frightening me out of sleep.
“Noooo!” I screamed as I jerked upright in bed, heart thrumming.
I’m still in my terror for a second or two longer, then I come to. A dream, that’s all. I look around: no
