Megan Millard

“Hi, I’m sorry to bug you, but I’m looking for Jessica,” 

“Sorry there’s no one here by that name,” she said. 

I had another dream. This one was way more disturbing.

Hey, where you been? Worried about you, text me so I know you’re alive lol

You are simply pandering to the ignorant in an effort to sell your merchandise.

“What’s happening to me?” I asked. “I want to call my mother. Where’s my mother? Where is my phone?”

My husband’s face went from confused to sympathetic, then he responded, “Honey, your mom died. Eight years ago.”

Lonely. Bored. Nerd. Those were the words I wrote down on the little pad of paper Dr. Gordon had given me as I sat in front of him in his office that Tuesday afternoon.

Suddenly, I felt sick to my stomach. That’s when we heard the voice.

This was winter in northern Michigan and this was private property. There was no reason anyone should have been outside in freezing temperatures pounding on my parents’ window.