First Sunday of September, Wee Morning Hours
A scream from hell woke up Simon. He bolted from the bed and spun around in a panic. In the dark and nude, he tripped over his clothing on the floor, as he raced for the window. He didn’t know where that scream had come from, but—
“Jesus Christ, what’s the matter?”
He stopped, turned, and slowly reoriented himself.
Kate sat up in the bed and stared at him. “Simon? What’s the matter?”
“An unholy scream.” He held up his hands, so she could see them trembling.
“From where?” she asked, sliding out from under the covers. “The hallway? Your neighbor?”
She quickly pulled on her panties and jeans, then a top over her bare chest, as she walked to the front door. She stepped out into the hallway, coming back in again.
He stared at her. “I think”—he took a deep breath—“I think it was inside my head.”
She groaned. “Not another one.”
He gave her a lopsided smile. “Hey, Kate. This isn’t my doing. Remember that.”
“Hey, Simon. This isn’t what we wanted either. Remember that.”
“I know.” He nodded. “And it’s been a long time.”
“It has, at least a couple weeks.” And, with that, she gave him an eye roll.
“I know. Sorry.”
“It’s all right,” she noted, “but it would be good if you could explain a little more.”
“There’s no explaining,” he murmured. “This is just insanity.”
“I get it,” she agreed. “I really do.”
“Good, because this is just too much.”
“You don’t know where or when or what or who?”
“No.” His expression was grim. “Just the most horrific scream.”
“A woman?” Kate asked, and he nodded. “In pain or fear?”
He looked at her, frowned. “Pain.”
“I get it. Somebody being tortured.” She sighed heavily.
He slowly nodded. “I think so.” He paused. “I wish not, but I think so.”
She nodded. “Oh, great. Here we go again.”