He was covered with sweat and his pyjamas stuck to his body. He got out of bed and turned on the light. A refreshing breeze came through the window when he opened it.
His legs shook as he walked, and he had to grab at the dresser to keep from falling.
In the mirror he saw his face pale with fear. He held up his hand and watched it shake. His throat was dry.
He went to the bathroom and got a drink of water. Then he went to the room and looked down at his bed. Nothing there but the tangled blanket and sheets and the stain where he had perspired. He held up the blanket and the sheets. He shook them before the light and examined them minutely. There was nothing.
He took up a book and read for the rest of the night.
The next day he went to the museum again and looked at the picture.
He tried to remember if he had ever been in a barn. Had it been raining and had he stared out a window at the lightning?
He remembered.
It was on his honeymoon. They had gone for a walk and been caught in the rain and stayed in a barn until it stopped. There had been a horse down in the stall and mice running and wet straw.
But what did it mean? There was no reason to remember it now.
That night he was afraid to go to bed. He put it off. At last, — when his eyes would not stay open, he lay down fully dressed and left the window closed. He didn’t use a blanket.
He slept heavily and there was no dream.
Toward early morning, he woke up. It was just getting light. Without thinking, he pulled a blanket off the chair and threw it over himself.
There was no wait. He was suddenly in the barn.
There was no sound. It was not raining. There was a gray light in the window. Could it be that it was also morning in his imaginary barn?
He smiled drowsily. It was all too charming. He would have to try it in the afternoon to see if the barn were fully lighted.
He started to pull the blanket off his head, when there was a rustle by his side.
He caught his breath. His heart seemed to stop and there was a tingling in his scalp.
A soft sigh reached his ears.
Something warm and moist brushed over his hand.
With a scream, he flung off the blanket and jumped onto the floor.
He stood there staring at the bed and clutching the blanket in his hands. His heart struck with gigantic beats.
He sank down weakly on the bed. The sun was just rising.
For a week, he slept sitting up in a chair. At last, he had to
have a good night’s rest and lay down on the bed, fully dressed. He would never use a blanket again.
Sleep came, dreamless and black.
He didn’t know what time it was when he woke up. A sob caught in his throat.
He felt around in dread, but there was no blanket anywhere. His hands slapped at the air, frenziedly.
Suddenly, he looked at the window. If he could open it, he might escape! He stretched out his hand as far as he could. Closer. Closer. He was almost there. Another inch and his fingers would touch it.
A sudden reflex made his hand plunge through the glass. He felt the rain spattering across the back of his hand and his wrist burned terribly He jerked back his hand and stared in terror at where the voice had come from.
Something white stirred at his side and a warm hand caressed his arm.
He couldn’t speak. He reached around clutching agonizingly for his blanket. But only the breeze blew over his fingers. There was a cold wooden floor under him.
He whimpered in fright. His name was spoken again.
Then the lightning flashed and he saw his wife lying by him, smiling at him.
Suddenly, the edge of the blanket was in his hand, and pulling it down, he rolled off the bed onto the floor.
Something was running across his wrist; there was a dull ache in his arm.
He stood up and put on the light. The bright glare filled the room.
He saw his arm covered with blood. He picked a piece of glass from his wrist and dropped it on the floor in horror.
On his lower arm, the prints of her fingers were red.
He tore the sheet from the bed and ran down the hall to the bathroom. He washed the blood off and poured iodine into the thick gash and bandaged it. The burning made him dizzy. Drops of cold sweat ran into his eyes.
One of the boarders came in. John told him he had cut himself accidentally. When the man saw the blood running he ran and called a doctor on the telephone.
John sat on the edge of the bathtub and watched his blood dripping on the tiles.
The next day the cut was cleaned and bandaged.
The doctor was dubious about the explanation. John told him he did it with a knife; but there was no knife to be found, and there were thick patterns of blood all over the sheets and blanket.
He was told to stay in his room and keep his arm still.
He read most of the day and thought about how he had cut himself on a dream.
The thought of her excited him. She was still beautiful.
Memories became vivid.
They had lain in each other’s arms in the straw and listened to the rain. He couldn’t remember what they’d said.
He was not afraid she was coming back. His outlook on life was realistic. She was dead and buried.
It was some aberration of the mind. Some mental climax that had put itself off until now.
Then he looked at his wrist and saw the bandage.
It hadn’t been her fault though. She didn’t ask him to crash his hand through the glass.
Perhaps he could be with her in one existence and have her money in another.
Something held him from it. It
He made up his mind what he would do.
That night he turned out the lights early. He got on his knees beside the bed.
He put his head under the covers. If anything went wrong he had only to pull away quickly.
He waited.
Soon he smelled the straw and heard the rain and looked for her. He called her name softly.
There was a rustling. A warm hand caressed his cheek. He started at first. Then he smiled. Her face appeared and she put her cheek against his. The perfume of her hair intoxicated him.
Words filled his mind.
He began to shake.
