Page 36 of In Her Bed
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The transition happened like it always did—Jenna’s consciousness slipping sideways into that peculiar state where dream and awareness merged.Her breathing slowed, her body went still, but her mind sharpened to a crystalline clarity that only came in these lucid moments.
Jenna recognized the sensation immediately.She was dreaming, yet fully aware—the state in which the dead sometimes found her.
The bedroom faded away, replaced by something strange and vast that stretched before her: a jungle of audio equipment extending as far as her eyes could see, devices from every era arranged in towering columns and precarious stacks that defied the laws of physics.
Moving ahead, she came across a colossal reel-to-reel tape recorder.Its metallic spools shimmered in the spectral radiance that seemed to come from nowhere, yet bathed everything in a subtle glow tinged with blue.Then she became aware of other objects around her, a collection that reminded her of Howard Mitchell’s estate.
Radios from the 1920s leaned against modern amplifiers.Ancient phonographs with enormous horns stood beside sleek digital mixing boards.Vacuum tubes glowed with amber light next to LED displays blinking patterns of red and green.Cables snaked along the ground like dormant serpents, connecting impossibly matched technologies across decades of innovation.
“Marcus?”Jenna called softly, her voice absorbed by the walls of equipment.
She had hoped to encounter him here—the murder victim who had been too frantic and paranoid to talk to her when she’d met him in that earlier dream.Perhaps in this electronic wilderness, a reflection of his passion, he might finally be willing to offer clues about his killer.
But no response came.Just the faint electrical hum of dormant equipment.
Then, cutting through the silence, a voice began to sing.A woman’s voice, clear and melodious, without accompaniment:
“In the quiet of the night, we find our way,
Through the shadows, love lights up our day.
With every tear and smile, we gather strength,
Our hearts beating as one, across any length.”
Jenna froze, the lyrics washing over her like a physical wave.A visceral recognition jolted through her body, followed by a surge of emotion so strong it nearly knocked her backward.
“Whispers of Forever.”
She whispered the title aloud, her throat tightening.Piper’s favorite song.Her sister had played it endlessly, singing along in their shared bedroom, insisting that someday she would perform it at her wedding.
For one dizzying, hope-filled moment, Jenna thought the voice might be Piper’s.
But as quickly as the thought formed, it dissolved.No, she knew this voice.The timbre, the control, the subtle vibrato.This was Sandra Reeves, the once-famous singer who had recorded the original.
Complex feelings flooded through Jenna—disappointment that it wasn’t her sister, curiosity about Sandra’s presence in her dream space, and an underlying current of dread.If Sandra was here, in this place where Jenna communed with the dead...
She pushed the thought away, focusing instead on following the music.
Jenna began to navigate through the maze of equipment, drawn toward the voice like a sailor to a siren’s call.She squeezed between towering speakers taller than houses.She stepped over tangled cables thick as her wrist.She ducked beneath suspended microphones that hung like strange metal fruit.
The journey felt both physical and impossible at the same time.Her feet moved, one in front of the other, yet distances stretched and compressed in the way that only happened in dreams.A step might carry her inches or yards, with no logic to the difference.
As she moved, the voice grew stronger.The melody seemed to guide her, pulling her forward through the electronic wilderness.The voice swelled, drawing Jenna around a corner formed by a wall of vintage amplifiers stacked higher than seemed safe.
And there she was.
Sandra Reeves sat before an antique Edison cylinder phonograph, its large brass horn gleaming in the dream-light.Her eyes were closed in concentration as she leaned toward the horn, singing directly into it as if recording.The wooden case of the machine had the deep, rich patina that came only from decades of careful handling, and the cylinder inside whirred steadily, capturing her voice just as it would have done in 1900.
Jenna paused, not wanting to interrupt.Sandra’s profile was lit from some unseen source, highlighting the elegant curve of her neck as she sang.Though older than in her publicity photos, she retained the presence of a performer, her posture perfect even in this intimate, solitary moment.
Sandra continued, unaware of her audience.
“And we’ll rise, with the whispers of forever,
Through the storms, we’ll stand together.
