I’ve been kind of stressed out lately, for reasons which I won’t go into here; and it’s been getting into my sleep.
Last night I dreamed I was lying in my bed–don’t you hate dreams that start like that?–when I heard a woman’s voice downstairs calling, “Jean? Jean? Jean!” It woke me right up, convinced that it was real, listening intently for more. But then I realized that, if there really was someone down there, my cats would be up in the bedroom, freaking out: therefore it was only a dream.
But what sense did it make? I don’t know anyone named Jean. In fact, I don’t think there has ever been a Jean in my life, in any capacity. So who the heck is Jean, and who the heck was looking for her in my living room?
It strikes me as the kind of thing Agatha Christie or Margaret Millar could have written into one corker of a story. In fact, Millar’s award-winning novel, A Stranger in My Grave, grew out of a spooky and apparently senseless dream she had.
But me, I just feel mighty tired this morning.