Now she lay in bed every night watching a Netflix-like series playing in her mind. At first the new dreams — the "memories" — weren't scary like the ones before, but as she watched the episodes night after night, a subtle theme that was unhealthy for her sanity came to the forefront.
Come back, it said. Not blatantly or directly, but subliminally. Telepathically.
On the second night, she realized these "memories" happened long ago. She observed horse-drawn buggies, people wearing old-fashioned clothing, and unpaved, muddy narrow streets flanked by wooden sidewalks. It was a city; she could see two- and three-story buildings along the streets, but she didn't know where. The mundane experiences were boring, as if Tiffany were walking in the footsteps of someone else, doing all the normal things a person did in that day and age. If it had been on Netflix, she'd have long since clicked it off. But this was a compulsion.
See the place you belong. Your destiny lies here.
Soon other things became clear. First was the venue — New Orleans, but not the city she saw days before. This was a young city in a bygone era.
A female younger by twenty years than Tiffany played the lead character in her drama. Dark-skinned and beautiful, the girl carried herself in a manner so haughty it contrasted sharply with her simple white dress. When she was awake, Tiffany wondered about the purpose of the “memories”. She shadowed a girl doing daily chores. These were memories — she was certain of that — but she wasn't that girl. She couldn't have been, because this happened centuries ago.
Something niggled in her brain. Watch her. Learn from her. She resisted at first but once she realized she couldn’t stop the nightly episodes, she gave in.
The "memories" didn't alarm her. They were more like a travelogue — watching a girl running errands, carrying laundry, doing chores, walking the same streets and seeing the same people. The routine varied from night to night, but the backdrop remained the same.
Things changed on the fifth night after Tiffany had a tough day at work. It began with a reprimand from a supervisor she detested. As usual she kept her mouth shut and took the verbal abuse, but she couldn't concentrate, and it seemed five o'clock would never come. She went home, drank a couple of beers, nuked her dinner and turned in early.
She fell asleep right away, and soon the nightly drama began. The woman walked down a street and came to a building — the building. A sign high on its façade said, LaPiere Building-1803.
Without warning, the beautiful girl did something unusual. She turned, faced Tiffany and smiled. She held out her hand and said, Come inside with me.
"I can't," Tiffany stammered. "Because...I'm not really there. I'm here, not where you are."
Yes, you are where I am. Take my hand. The girl moved a step closer.
Tiffany drew back, pulled her hand away and shouted, "Stay away from me!”
Something — someone — laid a hand on her shoulder, startling her. She jerked her head up and opened her eyes.
"Miss, are you all right? You were dreaming. Talking out loud."
Tiffany was sitting in a chair. She looked to her right and left. There were people — lots of them, one sitting beside her. She heard snippets of conversations against the backdrop of a constant hum.
"Are you okay?"
Tiffany looked up at the person speaking. She wore a name tag. She was standing…
...in the aisle of an airplane. What the hell?
Her confusion surprised the flight attendant.
"It was a dream. I was having a dream, that's all."
Tiffany turned to the person on her right — an elderly woman with an open Bible in her lap.
"Where am I?"
"You're on an airplane, honey. Don't you remember getting on the plane?"
As hysteria swept over her, she cried, "This is crazy! What am I doing here?"
The flight attendant put her hand on Tiffany's arm. "It's all right. Please stay calm. You were dreaming. You just need to wake up. We're on the way to New Orleans."
"New Orleans? What the hell are you talking about? I just went to bed. How can I be on an airplane?" Bile began to rise in her throat as a panic attack began.
"Get me out of here! I can’t go to New Orleans! Something bad will happen to me there!"
Another flight attendant arrived and asked the woman next to Tiffany to change seats. She complied, told Tiffany she hoped she was better soon, and a nice-looking guy slipped into the vacant seat.
He smiled and flipped open a card case that held a gold badge. "My name's Tom. Tom Morrison. I'm a federal air marshal. Is everything okay?"
"Yes," she lied, knowing if she continued on this path, things could get complicated. She fought to control her raging emotions. "I have no memory of going to the airport or getting on a plane. I might have been sleepwalking or something. I guess I had to buy a ticket and get a boarding pass, but I don't remember any of that."
The flight attendant handed him a clipboard. Morrison looked at it and said, "You bought a ticket online and presented your boarding pass on your iPhone at LAX. The plane left at fifteen minutes past midnight, and we're scheduled to land in New Orleans at 5:37 a.m. However, that all depends on you."
"I’m not sure what you mean."
"We land in just over an hour. If you're not well and I decide the safety
