You Can’t Walk in Your Sleep (If You Can’t Sleep)
Nadine Nettmann
Annabelle Walters never looked at the clock while in bed. It was the golden rule of insomnia, to avoid checking the time. It only added to the stress and delayed the little bit of sleep that may or may not come. So, two years ago, she removed all of the clocks from her room except the grandfather clock in the corner, which was too heavy. But she didn’t look at it. She kept her eyes to the ceiling when she couldn’t sleep, yet she always knew the time. She could tell the way the shadows danced on the walls and the way her flowers outside went from navy to moonlit silver and back again.
Even on moonless nights, there was something about the darkness of the sky and the way her bed felt beneath her aching bones, that she could tell the time. You do something long enough and you become good at it.
She hadn’t slept a full night since her husband passed away, leaving her all alone with her thoughts. When he died two years ago, so did her ability to sleep.
The tenseness in her neck from too long in one position told her it must be around three-forty. Only a few more hours until daylight. She might as well get up.
Annabelle walked to the living room, passing mementos of the fifty-four years with her husband. The happiest photos were always at games, each of them with a glove, ready to catch a fly ball.
She didn’t want to watch television and she didn’t want to read, so she sat on her window seat and stared at the fields of corn and distant neighbors, always with their lights off, peacefully asleep in the club she had been denied entry.
Except tonight there was a light on in the old Miller farmhouse, her closest neighbor. A soft glow came from the upstairs room to the right, like that of a lamp or even a computer, but not a television. This was static, void of flashing images. But it wasn’t just the light. A figure was pacing.
There was someone else who couldn’t slip into the realm of slumber, unable to join others in dreamland.
Annabelle’s cat padded down the hallway, failing to provide comfort while he sought out other nocturnal creatures that might be in the house. But here, across the field, was a fellow insomniac. A companion.
Perhaps they were also kept awake by their thoughts. Like the ones that haunted Annabelle, how she was doing nothing with her remaining years, how she only ever helped herself and no one else, and how alone she was in this world.
She stared at the light as the silhouette continued to pace. She didn’t know the Millers very well. A husband and wife. They’d lived there about a year, but they kept to themselves, or maybe it was because Annabelle kept to herself.
The figure in the window paused and Annabelle turned her attention back to her corn, a soft breeze creating a ripple in the uniformity of the stalks. She didn’t want to intrude on the Millers’ privacy. She didn’t want people looking at her, so she tried to give them the same consideration. But she eventually found herself staring back at the window. The pacing continued.
The next morning, she noticed the flowers near her window had died again. Before the insomnia, the flowers flourished. But ever since, even with enough water, the plants didn’t last. It was as if the soil had become tainted because it was in view of her sleeplessness. But she refused to give up.
She spent the next few hours working in the garden. The lack of rest never seemed to affect her, except she’d become slower. But that could be her age.
As she dug up yet another dead plant, the brown leaves brushing over her wrinkled hand, she looked at the Millers’ property. From here, she could see their front yard, where large beds of flowers thrived without issue. Ones that hadn’t been there before they moved in. Their luck was better.
That night, while the minutes between midnight and morning ticked by, Annabelle stared at the ceiling. She thought about her flowers, the Millers, and her husband.
She needed to distract her mind. She headed to the kitchen to make tea but instead of reaching for the kettle, she looked out to the corn. Harvest would be here soon. She didn’t feel strong enough to handle it so she would pay someone from town to do it again this year.
Eventually her attention drifted to the Miller residence. Just like the night before, someone paced in the upstairs window. A fellow insomniac who could garden and whose flowers weren’t dying. Maybe it was time to get to know the Millers. But she couldn’t just knock on their door. She needed to take a gift with her.
Muffins. That was something neighborly and something she used to be good at. At least two years ago.
The cat kept watch as she baked her husband’s favorite recipe and for the first time in years, Annabelle had a sense of excitement that she was going to see a potential friend.
When the sun was high enough over the horizon, she put the muffins in a decorative basket lined with a cloth and headed to the Miller house. Although they had exchanged smiles while passing in cars, that was the limit of their interaction. Except for the misdelivered mail, to Chester and Mallory Miller, she once received. She placed it in their box and that was that. No one bothered with the elderly neighbor who lived at the beginning of the street and that had been fine by Annabelle, but now she looked forward to the interaction.
The basket of muffins shifted in her hand as she knocked on their door.
Mallory answered, or at least Annabelle felt it was Mallory. Her brown hair fell to her shoulders and her pale green eyes had an absence of emotion. It was a look Annabelle had seen in her own eyes over the years.
“Yes?”
“I’m Annabelle Walters. I live over there.” Annabelle motioned to her house.
“Oh yes, that’s right. It’s nice to meet you.” Mallory smiled.
“Who’s here?” asked a gentleman in his forties as he came to the door.
“Our neighbor, Annabelle Walters.”
“Chester Miller,” he said as he stuck out his hand. Annabelle shook it, but his grip was harder than she would have liked. Almost as if he was showing how strong he was. He had a game show host’s smile, one that was false and calculated and couldn’t be trusted. “What brings you to our humble abode?”
“I couldn’t sleep, and I saw a light on…” That wasn’t a good thing to say. Annabelle lifted up the basket. “I baked you muffins.”
“How sweet!” Mallory took the basket. “Would you like to come in?”
Chester shifted and glanced at Mallory.
“No, that’s okay. I should get back to my yard work. The muffins have lavender in them, fresh from my garden. They might help you sleep.”
“Help us sleep?” asked Mallory.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I saw someone up in the middle of the night. Not that I was looking,” she quickly added. “But there was a light on.”
Mallory looked at Chester. “Were you awake, dear?”
“No, I slept the whole night. You?”
“Just fine,” replied Mallory. She smiled, but it lacked warmth and emotion.
“Maybe a light is on the fritz?” Chester shrugged. “I’ll look into it.”
“It must be my cataracts.” But Annabelle knew her vision was intact. She should know better than to intrude on their privacy. “Lovely to meet you and enjoy the muffins.”
“Thank you for stopping by,” said Mallory.
When Annabelle reached her driveway, she looked back at the Millers.
They both stood on the front porch, watching her.
That night she looked forward to sleep, or the lack of, waiting until three-forty to see if the light was on. It was, and someone was pacing again. But this time she knew it was Chester by the outline of his shoulders and his lanky swagger. Maybe he didn’t want anyone to know he was up in the middle of the night.
Annabelle spent the next day in the garden, removing the rest of the dead plants. The area was ready for new ones, but she knew they would die again. She didn’t want to put in more flowers just to watch them waste away, but she also didn’t want to leave the space empty. That was worse than the lifeless plants.
“It’s a great day to be outside,” said a voice. She looked up to see Chester towering over her with the sun behind him. It wasn’t in a threatening way, or at least that’s what she hoped, but still, it made her uneasy and she stood up.
Mallory was near him, the same smile on her face as the day before. “We brought back your basket.” She held it forward. “It’s so beautiful with the swans on it.”
“You can keep it,” replied Annabelle.
Chester looked at her and Mallory shook her head. “No, take it. But thank you. The muffins were delicious, and I think the lavender did help me sleep.”
“Me, too,” added Chester.
Annabelle stared at him, trying to figure out why he was lying, but his attention had moved to the garden.
“What are you planting there?” He pointed to the bare ground she had just cleared.
“I’m not sure. Everything keeps dying.”
Chester looked over the area. “Churn up the soil and add a good fertilizer. That should do the trick.”
“Chester is the green thumb in our household,” said Mallory. “He loves to garden and compost.”
“It’s my hobby. Hey, I have a tool you can use. It breaks up the dirt. I’ll bring it over later.”
“Thank you,” replied Annabelle, even though she had a garage full of garden tools. “That would be lovely.”
The Millers left and Annabelle continued with her day, including a visit to the nursery where she bought new plants and flowers. She looked at the bags of fertilizer but decided to wait as the flowers already cost a lot and she didn’t get much money from her pension. She would try churning the soil and see what happened.
When she arrived home, there was a garden hoe by her front door. It was smaller than the one she owned, but she appreciated the gesture and the attached note. “Thank you for the muffins. This will help the soil.”
Annabelle used it in the garden but eventually got her own from the garage. It was better and covered more territory.
When most of the area was churned, she returned her hoe to the garage and stepped through to the house, washing the dirt off her hands as she thought about her next step.
She should bake again.
That afternoon, she carried the borrowed hoe back to the Miller house along with new muffins. “Please keep the basket this time. I insist.”
Mallory’s face lit up with a smile. “Thank you. I’d love to.”
Chester joined Mallory at the door. “How did the tool work? Were you able to break up the soil? If not, I can come down and help.”
“It worked well. Thank you for lending it to me.”
Mallory held up the basket. “Muffins to help us sleep.”
“No, these are different,” said Annabelle. “They’re lemon flavored. Since you liked the other ones so much…and since you sleep fine anyway.”
“Always,” said Chester. “Like a rock. But the lavender were great and we look forward to these, too.”
Annabelle wondered why he wouldn’t admit to being awake and pacing.
“Are you still seeing the light?” asked Chester, as if he could read her thoughts. “The one in the middle of the night?”
“No,” lied Annabelle. “It must have been my eyes.”
Mallory and Chester nodded.
That night, Chester paced in the top room. The man who said he slept well was up. Again. Or maybe he was sleepwalking.
Annabelle stood in the kitchen and debated making muffins to pass the time, but she didn’t want to take them to the neighbors. It seemed best to leave them to their business, at least for a little while.
She watched Chester pace. It was more determined than the other nights. And this time he wasn’t alone. Mallory was with him.
But she wasn’t pacing.
She stood with her hands out to the side as if in the middle of a discussion. Or an argument.
Chester stopped in front of Mallory, a pregnant pause between them, like a standoff.
Mallory moved to the side, out of Annabelle’s view, but she could still see Chester as he thrashed his arms around like he was yelling.
And then he hit her.
Annabelle grasped her chest.
He repeated the movement, then crouched and punched again as if the previous strike had taken Mallory to the floor.
Annabelle called the police.
Chester stood and turned to the window. Annabelle moved away from the glass. Her kitchen was dark, but she didn’t know if the illuminated clouds showed her figure.
He knew she didn’t sleep. He knew she saw his light.
Twenty minutes later, the police raced up the street. Annabelle watched from the window as they entered the Miller house. They would take away Chester and make sure Mallory was okay. She would be safe now.
But when they left the house, Chester wasn’t with them. Neither was Mallory.
The squad car stopped in front of her driveway and two uniformed officers knocked on her door.
“Evening, Ms. Walters. We responded to your call, but everything is fine.” The words echoed in the air.
“What do you mean fine? Mallory Miller is not fine.”
“We talked with Mr. and Mrs. Miller. They’re both okay and said nothing happened.”
“Nothing happened?” Annabelle put her hand to her chest, the same motion she did as she watched the events of the evening occur. “But I saw it. He hit Mallory. Again and again. In that top room.”
“We talked to Mrs. Miller. She has no scratches or bruises and she said they’ve both been asleep the past few hours.”
“No,” said Annabelle, the word sounding flat. “I saw him hit her. She’s lying to protect him.”
“Are you sure you saw it?” The officer looked at his notebook. “You called us six months ago about a cow blocking the road, yet it was gone when we arrived.”
“They move.”
“And two months ago, you said someone was stealing your mail.”
Annabelle stiffened. “They were. No letters were coming.”
“That’s right.” The officer nodded slowly as he stared at her. “Have you had trouble sleeping lately?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Mr. Miller said you’re an insomniac and prone to hallucinations.”
Annabelle stepped back. “What? I don’t hallucinate. I know what I saw tonight.”
“Well, both Mr. and Mrs. Miller say everything is fine. Do you want us to take you there to talk to them?”
Annabelle knew it wouldn’t do any good and with Chester’s comment that she was hallucinating, the tension could only get worse. “No, thank you. Let’s just leave it as is.” She forced a smile and wished them good night.
Annabelle made sure her front door was locked before she got into bed. She stared at the ceiling, keeping her eyes away from the window.
When daylight came, she worked in her garden, prepping the soil for planting. The sound of the Millers’ car made her look up. Chester flashed his game show smile as they passed, but Mallory’s was half-hearted, her bright yellow sweatshirt failing to bring light to her face. It was too quick to see any evidence of the attack Annabelle was certain she witnessed.
She needed to talk to Mallory, to reach out to her, but she knew she couldn’t. Not with Chester around.
Chester returned a few hours later, without Mallory. He spent the next hour washing and vacuuming the car. Annabelle felt something was wrong, but she couldn’t call the police. He would make an excuse again and she needed proof.
That evening, there was the long screeching noise of a trashcan being dragged to the street. Annabelle listened to the sound as a million thoughts went through her head about what Chester was taking out.
Then there was silence, which was almost worse than the noise.
It was broken by a knock on the door.
Annabelle didn’t move. Nothing good could come from opening it.
It repeated.
She wanted to ignore it, but had a feeling if she did, it would just continue. Or lead to something worse.
Annabelle opened the door a few inches.
“I’m putting out our trashcans for the pick-up in the morning,” said Chester. “Do you have any trash?”
“No, thank you.” Annabelle wanted to shut the door, but she was afraid of what that might start. She didn’t want to anger him.
“Okay,” he replied with a smile. “I’m just being neighborly. Speaking of being neighborly, I know you called the police, Annabelle.”
She gripped the edge of the door, ready to slam it in case he tried to barge in.
“I want you to know that Mallory is fine. We’re all fine. I don’t know what you think you saw, but insomnia can cause hallucinations. We want to make sure you’re sleeping.”
“I’m sleeping,” she replied. “Where is Mallory?”
“She went to stay with a friend for a few days.” But the smirk on his face told a different story. “She’ll be back at the end of the week and maybe you can show her how to make those muffins, so we can all sleep better.”
“Of course.” Annabelle closed more of the gap.
“Okay, good.” His smile faded. “Sleep tight.”
At three-forty in the morning, she looked out the window. There was no light on at the Miller house. With Mallory gone, his nighttime pacing had stopped. But Annabelle didn’t believe that Mallory was at a friend’s. There was something about Chester and his lack of pacing that made Annabelle feel he had taken care of Mallory. Permanently. She knew she would never sleep again unless she found out and the evidence might be gone by morning.
Annabelle crept outside, a soft drizzle falling from the skies. It was cold, the night air getting to her bare arms, but she didn’t want to go back inside to get her coat. She wanted to get the task over with.
The Millers’ trashcan was on the side of the main road, next to where hers should be but she hadn’t put it out. She pulled off the lid and opened the first bag. Coffee grounds, wrappers, and papers. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Annabelle moved to the next bag, beans spilling out as she torn it open. There was nothing that conveyed Mallory was in trouble. Or dead.
She was about to put the lid back on when she noticed the basket she had given them with the muffins. The basket Mallory loved.
Annabelle returned to her kitchen, placing the empty basket on the counter. A feeling stirred deep in her bones that something had happened to Mallory but a basket in the trash didn’t prove it. She doubted the car would provide any evidence as Chester had spent the day cleaning it, but she remembered Mallory’s comment about the compost. She had to look.
The area was silent as she crept up the driveway and passed the freshly washed car. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. She didn’t even know what she was looking for, except something that showed Mallory wasn’t okay.
She made her way around the back of the house. The compost bin was a large round one that needed to be rotated to open. It would take strength to turn, it might make noise, and it wasn’t big enough to hide a body. But she had to look.
Annabelle pushed with both hands, the contents thumping as the barrel turned. The lid was on top now, but she waited, making sure the house was still quiet. It was.
She opened the container, the scent of rotting kitchen scraps and garden cuttings nearly overwhelming her. She grabbed a nearby stick and turned it through the mass, the darkness limiting her vision. There was nothing.
And then a bit of yellow material. She pulled at it.
It was a sleeve. She tugged until more of it came through. It was the yellow sweatshirt Mallory wore when they left the property this morning. And it was covered in blood.
Lightning crackled across the sky, illuminating the garden and the bloodstains on the sweatshirt. Except it wasn’t lightning. It was the upstairs lights in the house.
Annabelle yanked at the fabric, but the other sleeve wouldn’t break loose.
He would have seen her now, standing at the compost. Holding the evidence.
She pulled harder as the downstairs lights went on. She was out of time. She would have to leave it behind.
She pushed it inside, closed the container, and ran back to her house.
Annabelle wanted to call the police, but Chester would get rid of the sweatshirt by the time they came. She didn’t have any other proof and they already thought she was prone to hallucinations.
She did the only thing she could. She locked the door and climbed into bed.
For the first time in years, Annabelle didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to wait in the comforting blankets until the morning light of safety.
A knock sounded at the front door. Only danger knocks at your door in the middle of the night. Danger like Chester.
Annabelle didn’t have a gun in the house. She only had kitchen knives and they hadn’t been sharpened in years.
She pulled the blankets up more, hoping he would go away, but the sound of the front door lock turning changed that.
Annabelle reached the living room just as the door opened.
“Evening, Annabelle. I had a key made when you were out one day. Just in case.” Chester wore his game show smile as he stepped inside. “Not sleeping again?”
“Get out of my house.”
“No, I don’t think so. I think I’m going to be here a little while.” He closed the door behind him. “It’s a funny thing, insomnia. Can make us think we see the strangest things. Like a man putting his wife in line.”
“You need to leave,” Annabelle replied, her voice strained.
“Did you know that you can think you see something when actually you’re dreaming? Night visions and night terrors. Your eyes are open and you’re walking around, but you’re seeing things that don’t exist. They’ve done studies on it.” He stepped toward her. “I know you looked in the compost. It’s just an old sweatshirt.”
“I didn’t see anything.” Annabelle moved back, desperate to find something to use as a weapon. “Please leave.”
Chester rested his hand on the counter near the kitchen. “Neighbors can be interesting, don’t you think? Living in close proximity, you think you have a connection to them. A right to know what they’re doing. But you don’t. You just happen to live on the same street.” He reached across the counter to the wooden block and pulled out a knife. “Don’t you agree, Annabelle?”
“I was dreaming. I saw nothing. You’re right.” She forced a smile.
“Why did you call the cops, Annabelle? Why did you tell them you saw me hit Mallory?” He outlined the blade of the knife with his finger as he spoke.
“I thought I did. But I was wrong.” She hoped it would convince him to leave, but she knew her time was up. After her husband died, she wondered what her last minutes would be like. She thought of drifting into a final sleep or even collapsing in her garden. Not with a neighbor holding a knife. Her knife.
“You interfered with my life, didn’t you? You just had to go where you didn’t belong.”
“I was only looking out for your wife. I thought she was in trouble.”
“Yes, you were being neighborly.” He walked forward as Annabelle backed up. “I think it’s time you were no longer a neighborhood nuisance.” He swung the knife, but the effort was half-hearted. It didn’t even come close to Annabelle, but it was enough to make her jump back into the hallway.
“That was just the beginning,” he laughed. “See, it’s all part of the game.” Chester glanced around the living room. “Maybe I’ll take over this house, too. I can own the whole street. Free to do whatever I want. Finally fix up that silly garden of yours.”
The garden. Her garden. She didn’t need his help and she didn’t need his tools and now she didn’t need to die.
Annabelle inched backwards as Chester followed her into the hallway.
“There’s nowhere for you to go. You’ll never be able to outrun me.” He grinned.
“But you like the game,” she replied as an idea formed. “So, let me keep playing it.” She just needed enough time to get the garden hoe from the garage.
“Do you know why I pace in the middle of the night, Annabelle? I think about things and make plans. Sometimes they take one night. Other times they take two. Tonight’s plan took thirty seconds.”
Annabelle nodded as her back hit the door to the garage.
“Looks like the game is ending,” said Chester.
Annabelle turned the handle behind her and pushed the door open, rushing through to the garden hoe on the wall. The wood handle was cold and heavy in her hands, but it would do.
Chester stepped inside. “You think that can stop me? You can’t even lift it. You had to use the four dollar one we let you borrow.” He laughed but there was no joy to the cold and calculated sound.
“It’s my own tool. I’ve always had my own tools, I just didn’t use them.”
He laughed again. “It’s old and useless. Just like you.”
“I don’t know, I think it helped the garden.” She smiled as she propped it on her shoulder. “Besides, I used to play baseball. I know how to swing.”
“When? In the 1800s? You’re nothing against me.”
“Let’s see.” She readied for the pitch.
“Your call.” He held the knife up and charged. She swung the garden hoe, just like she used to with the bat in scrimmages as a child, her years on traveling teams as a teenager, and the community games in the park with her husband.
It hit him across the face and he stumbled back, the knife still in his hands. He put his hand to his cheek. “I underestimated you.”
“You shouldn’t have.” Her morning walks and the time spent gardening had kept her body strong, but even she was surprised.
“Women like you need to be put in their place. And your place, like Mallory’s, is underground.” He raised the knife. “Round two.”
He ran forward, and Annabelle hit him with more force this time, as if her life depended on it. And it did. He fell to the ground, but she kept going, a strike for each one she saw Chester give Mallory.
When she was done, she stepped over his lifeless body and went into the kitchen. She picked up the phone but paused before she called the police.
They would never believe it was self-defense. They would ask her why she hit him so many times. They would ask why she called them the other night when Mallory said everything was fine.
She stared out at the corn moving with the storm, the stalks lashing against each other.
She didn’t need those questions. She didn’t need those assumptions. And no one would ever miss Chester.
She knew what she needed to do.
It took all night but the next morning, the flowers outside her window were perfectly in place, a straight line with fresh soil around them and the new fertilizer buried just a few feet under.
Annabelle finally drifted into the best sleep in years.