More and more the dream obsessed him. Like a succubus it drained him, and pummelled him, and lay heavily on him. He did other things; his existence must have included innumerable other things such as eating, brushing his teeth, bathing, working. Working, of course. Working at what? Sometimes he thought vaguely that it had to do with fuel. But what did that matter? The dream was the only thing that mattered! It was the important factor in his miserable existence!
Always the same. Always the telephone ringing, just after he strangled Lisa. Always the little ghost in his ear. He tried to reach the telephone. He strained hard, but he never could, not quite. It was the damndest thing.
Oh, it must have been eons, at least, before the dream began to edge in his favor. Perceptibly, the dream began to last longer. Each time he fought to keep the dream going. That was the only way he would ever know. The conclusion of the dream lay in his actually picking up that telephone and finding out who was calling. He had to know.
Lisa's ghost pleaded and begged him to answer it. Her telephone mania in life had extended itself beyond the grave. She had to know, too.
Answer it, darling. You always have to know everything....
No, damn you! He fought her, at first. Then they'll know I was here! They'll pin your murder on me! They'll strap me in a chair and—
All the same, he knew he had to answer that telephone, no matter what happened. Lisa had always teased him about his curiosity in the matters of her many telephone calls. It was the not-knowing that was sheer torture—
Finally it came.
Finally.