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Two is a weird fluke. Three is a problem.
I studied at the map and cursed loud enough for every neighbor to hear. I didn’t have to research the location, because it was the pier, less than two miles away.
I had countless dreams of meeting him by the pier: in the water, on the shore, by the dunes.
I slammed the computer shut.
Am I doing this, or am I just seeing this happen? If my imagination is killing these men, then I have to stop it.
I knew in my bones that if I went down the list, each location would align with a separate dream.
Each dream I had was the sight of a new attack!
No, it wasn’t possible. The missing reports weren’t that frequent. There would be hundreds of missing men if that were the case. There weren’t near those numbers in southern California.
Sometimes I would dream of the same place a few times. That could be repeated attacks in the same place, or a dream repeating itself for some reason.
I skimmed the bungalow and cringed. The kitchen bar was littered with fast-food wrappers, old fries, and a few untouched sandwiches. A stack of money rested, untouched, on the edge.
I grabbed the trash bin and dumped the remnants of dinner.
Not sleeping was not an option. I couldn’t control what I dreamt once I closed my eyes. Maybe there were drugs I could take that prevented people from dreaming. I could ask my new therapist for them, but what if I was supposed to have these nightmares?
I can fix this.
Even if I wasn’t the creator, but the observer of these creatures, then I still had to freaking stop these men from going missing… or being mauled to death… hopefully both.
My hand landed on an empty brown bag. I began crumpling it, but I caught sight of writing in black sharpie.
I unwrinkled the entire brown bag. On the side, in all capital letters, were seven words and a phone number: IF YOU EVER WANT A HIKING BUDDY.
I clasped the bag in my hand and arched my eyebrows. Walking back to the bed, I reached for my phone and dialed the number. I wanted to hear his voice. I needed a fellow sane person to talk me back into reality, and he had such a deep, warm voice.
After three rings, a rough male voice answered. “Hello?”
I opened my mouth and realized I had no idea how to start the conversation. I racked my mind for something that would lead me to my questions, but nothing seemed appropriate. Somewhere between dialing his number and his answer, it became apparent to me that he probably wrote that message down long before I gave him cash and insulted him.
“Hi, it’s Charlie,” I squeaked. “Um, please don’t hang up the phone.” I winced, waiting for his reply.
“I wasn’t going to. Are you okay?” His tone appeared more concerned than annoyed that I was calling him.
“I’m fine. Actually, feeling a lot better,” I said. Not counting my emotional state, I’m doing great. “I was wondering if you have time to talk or, better yet, meet in person.”
Silence.
I took a deep breath and waited a few more seconds.
“Are you still there?” I said.
“Yeah, I’m still here,” he rasped.
“I know I seem slightly bipolar calling you after basically kicking you out last night, but I had a few questions about some things after yesterday’s hike. Do you have time to maybe meet me sometime today or tomorrow?”
Silence.
“I could buy you lunch, or dinner. Whatever meal you prefer.” I hadn’t asked a man out on a date since before it was legal for me to drink. It appeared that time had not helped my approach much. I ran my sweaty palms over the bedspread and waited.
“I’m sorry. Am I talking to the same woman from last night?”
