Page 37 of In Her Bed
In the echoes of our dreams, we’ll carry on,
Side by side, our love will be strong.”
The final notes lingered in the air, almost visible in the strange light of the dream.Sandra reached forward and switched off the machine with a decisive click.The abrupt silence felt almost physical.
“That was beautiful,” Jenna said quietly.
Sandra turned, showing no surprise at Jenna’s sudden appearance—the dream logic making such things unremarkable.
“Thank you,” she replied, her smile tinged with melancholy.“It’s not what it once was, of course.That’s why I retired.The voice is the first thing to go, you know.”
“I remember your songs,” Jenna said, stepping closer.“I used to hear them all the time when I was younger.My sister especially loved ‘Whispers of Forever.’“
“Did she?”Sandra’s smile warmed.“That’s lovely to hear.Would you like to see something magical?”
Without waiting for an answer, she reset the phonograph, cranking the handle to wind its spring mechanism.Then she positioned the needle and started it again.
The scratchy, ethereal sound of Sandra’s own voice—the recording she had just made—emerged from the horn.The quality was primitive compared to modern recordings, yet it possessed a haunting authenticity that digital perfection often lacked.
“Isn’t that marvelous?”Sandra’s face lit with wonder and joy.“Just think—in 1899, this would have seemed like sorcery.A human voice, captured like a bird in a cage, ready to sing again and again long after the moment has passed.”
Her eyes gleamed with an almost childlike delight.
“We take it for granted now, don’t we?The preservation of sound.But imagine hearing your own voice played back to you for the very first time in human history.The miracle of it.”
Jenna nodded, caught up in Sandra’s enthusiasm despite the strange circumstances.
Sandra reached beneath the table and produced a wooden box containing dozens of wax cylinders, each in its own small container.
“This one is from 1904,” she said, selecting a cylinder and carefully placing it on the machine.“Listen.”
She cranked the handle once more and set the needle.A tinny, distant-sounding orchestral introduction crackled to life, followed by a male tenor singing “In the Good Old Summer Time.”The voice emerged from a century past, preserved in wax and now released into Jenna’s dream.
As the old recording played, Sandra began to sing along, her voice harmonizing with the long-dead tenor.The juxtaposition created an eerie duet across time—one voice present and vibrant in the dream world, one a ghostly echo from the more distant past.
“In the good old summer time,
In the good old summer time,
Strolling thro’ the shady lanes
With your baby mine …”
The hairs on Jenna’s arms rose as she watched.The dreamlike quality of their interaction, Sandra’s presence in this strange environment, the focus on preserved voices from the past—it all suddenly clicked into a disturbing conclusion.
If Sandra Reeves was here, in this dream space where Jenna had previously encountered the spirits of the deceased, it could only mean one thing.
Sandra must be dead.
The realization settled over Jenna like a cold shroud.She looked at the singer with new eyes, noting now the strange quality of light that seemed to emanate from within her rather than fall upon her from outside.
“Sandra,” Jenna said gently, interrupting the singing.“What happened to you?”
The singer stopped, looking puzzled by the question.Her brow furrowed slightly.
“What do you mean?”
“How did you get here?”Jenna pressed, her voice soft but insistent.
