Sunlight streams in from the sliding glass doors in my bed room. I can see it even from behind closed eyelids. The air is cold, for October, and as I come closer to consciousness I pull the covers higher and roll over, reaching my hand out to the other side of the bed.

"Morning, honey," I mumble groggily, expecting to feel my wife's warm body beside me, but the other side of the mattress is cold. With a questioning groan I open my eyes, rubbing the sleep away with the palms of my hands. Strangely, though the comforter lays in tangled disarray about the bed, the gray sheets beside me are empty.

"Jenny? Whe-" I am cut off by a massive yawn that inhibits my ability to speak. "Sorry, where are you?"

No answer.

I sit up slowly, propping myself up and staring about the room. My wife's vanity sits across from the bed, allowing me to see my reflection in the tall mirrors. My hair sticks up in every direction, like a hedgehog decided to take up residency on my head. I run my hands through it quickly, trying to flatten it to no avail as I roll out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor and sending a shiver up my spine. With a grimace, I walk closer to the vanity.

Two pictures sit on the surface next to my wife's collection of nude eye shadows: both from our honeymoon in Hawaii. One is a picture of a big heart drawn in the sand, with our feet just by the edge of the frame. "Jen + Matt," is written in the center of the heart. Jenny's face shines out from the second, her green eyes sparkling with happiness and her carroty-red curls crowned with a festive lei. She looks so beautiful. I look at her freckled face and smile, as always, but something feels... off. I can't exactly put my finger on it, but something about the room is almost... alien. Like everything has shifted two inches to the side.

Stretching my arms out in another yawn, I head for the bathroom door just left of the vanity.

Crash! I curse and jump back, clutching my leg from where it clipped the edge of the small table just inside the door. Glass is strewn about the floor in a mess of blue and white. I curse again, this time in distress. I didn't even know Jen owned that vase. 

I get down on my hands and knees, picking up the larger bits with my hands and placing them in the bathroom trash can. It takes me a while; the vase shattered into so many tiny pieces. One of the shards cuts my finger wide open, the gash joining the numerous other slashes that crisscross my palms. With a sigh of exasperation, I pull a bandaid out from under the cabinet and wrap the wound.

Suddenly I hear the thump of a door opening in the other room.

"Jenny!" I call. "I'm so sorry, the-"

But it's not Jenny. The figure at the door is English bulldog with a slate gray coat.

"Hey Winston! How's it going, buddy? Have you seen Jenny?"

Instead of reciprocating my enthusiasm, however, Winston lets out a menacing growl unlike anything I've ever heard before. It sounds like a dark gargle way in the back of his throat, a warning.

"Winston? It's me. Hey, it's me, Matthew. What are you doing?"

Before I can blink, the dog comes barreling towards me with a howl of rage, eyes blown wide and jaws open for the tearing and ripping of flesh. I let out a yelp, scrambling backwards and falling over the edge of the combination shower/tub. My arms pinwheel in a futile attempt to keep my balance, gripping the shower curtain and taking it with me as I fall, ass first, into the empty bath. The bar holding the curtain is ripped from where it was wedged between the walls, falling to the bathroom door and folding me into the loose plastic. I groan in pain at the impact, trying to sit up, and I feel the dog land on top of the mess, barking like a hell hound and tearing at me through the curtain.

"Winston!" I call out, throwing the dog off and trying to unentangle myself from the curtain, but the dog throws himself at me again. Pain explodes in my left ankle, caught tight in his jaws. I cry out in pain, kicking and flailing involuntarily, desperately trying to escape the tub.

My foot connects with something solid and I hear a piteous whine. The dog's jaws release my ankle and I manage to fight free of both the dog and the curtain. I feel a flash of pity for the poor animal. Quickly I scramble out of the tub, slamming my knee painfully on the edge before dashing out of the bathroom and slamming the door behind me. Winston, hot on my heels, crashes against the other side the second I close the door, still barking and growling with a fervor I've never seen. He's such a nice dog. I don't understand what's gotten into him all of the sudden.

Gingerly, I examine my wounded leg. A crescent moon of puncture wounds decorate my left leg, each dripping a trickle of blood. Winston really got his teeth in there.

"Jenny! There's something wrong with Winston! I think he has rabies... or something."

Can dogs even get rabies in New York? I better hope they can't, at least, or I will too.

Again, Jenny doesn't answer.

Doesn't she hear all the barking?
Lord, Winston's making a racket.

Maybe she went out for coffee. It's Saturday, though, and Jenny and I have declared Saturday as our official sleep-in-day. Neither of us usually see the outdoors until at least noon, if that. I guess she might've gotten called in for a last minute for a press conference or some other work-related event. Still, I don't know what to do about the dog. With a sigh I throw on the Muse t-shirt at the top of my drawer and head to the kitchen.

Even as I step onto the living room, the uneasy feeling in my gut persists. But our TV still sits in front of the burgundy couch. My computer still rests on the desk by the door. Our books still line the dark wood shelves on the wall opposite the door, and nothing has moved from our large kitchenette, isolated on the other side of the area by long marble bar. Nothing has been stolen, but everything seems a little different. One thing I know for sure: Jenny isn't here. With a frown, I unplug my phone from its charger and send her a text.

I run the water in the sink, splashing my face to wake myself up before heating up water for coffee. When the machine starts to gurgle I turn on the TV and switch to Netflix, plopping myself down on the couch and getting ready to watch another episode of Lost. For some reason, it's not on my recently watched list, though. But I just saw it last night... Wait. Did I? What did I do yesterday? I don't remember exactly.

Forget about it. It doesn't matter.

But doesn't it? I can't remember anything about yesterday, in fact. What's the last thing I remember?

Stop. It doesn't matter.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the coffee maker shutting off. Forgetting my meditations, I retrieve my coffee and dedicate myself for three hours of tropical island drama.

***

Jenny isn't answering her cell. After two episodes she still hadn't responded, so I called her. Then I called her again. And again. Nothing. The clock reads three o'clock, and I haven't had any contact since... What happened last night?

That's not important. Jenny's important right now; think about her.

"Of course. Dammit, Jen. Where are you?" I say out loud. I start to feel a knot form in the pit of my stomach. Beginning to worry now, I dial up her best friend, Helen.

She picks up on the first ring. "Hello?"

"Hey, Helen. I was wondering if Jenny's with you."

The worry must resonate in my voice, because Helen sounds concerned. "Matt, are you alright? You sound different."

"Just please tell me, is Jen with you?" I ask.

"No, she's not." The knot in my stomach pulls tighter.

"Did they call you guys in for a press conference this morning?"

"No, of course not. Why? Has something happened?" She sounds concerned.

I don't know yet... "Uh, yeah. At least, I think so," I say, doubtful. "I can't reach her, for some reason. I guess her phone might've died, or something."

"Yeah, maybe," Helen says, distracted. "You sure you're okay, Matt? You sound so... strange."

Why does she care about me? She doesn't even like me, and Jenny's the only thing that matters.

I feel a tiny burst of anger beside the knot. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Alright. I'll text if Jenny calls. See you later. Oh, and tell Michael I said hi. He seemed nice when we met at Stacy's."

The world stops for a second. A jolt goes through my system and suddenly I can't breath. Something flashes through my mind. A feeling? A memory? The knot in my stomach rises into my throat.

"Matt?"

Helen's voice snaps me back to reality.

Stop it stop it stop it.

"Uhh, yeah. Thanks a lot, Helen. I gotta go." I hang up the phone without waiting for her to say goodbye. I feel shaken. That name sounded so familiar, like the name of a childhood friend. But for some reason, the memories don't come. Who's Michael? I don't know anyone named Michael.

Find Jen. Look for Jen.

At this point the knot in my stomach pulls tighter with every breath I take. I turn off Netflix, unable to focus. Quickly, I grab my jacket off the back of my office chair, throwing it on and grabbing my keys from the hook by the door. I have to go look for her. My conscious mind tells me that it's impossible; this is New York, it's so easy to lose someone. But I have to try, at least. There's a couple places I know she likes to go sometimes. I'll start there.

I swing the door open, stepping out into the long hallway and heading off towards the elevator. The wallpaper is a garish red color that Jen had always hated, understandably. Has. Has hated, of course. I can't get her out of my head. I pass two other apartments before reaching the sliding silver doors and pressing the down arrow. That's when it catches my eye: an ordinary looking apartment at the end of the hall. The door has exactly the same aging red paint as every other on this floor, with the number 403 printed across the face in identical  lettering. A black door mat rests on the floor in front, proclaiming the calligraphic word, "Welcome," just like many other rooms. But as soon as my eyes land on the door, the blood freezes in my veins. Memories flash by inside my head, a tiny explosion pulsating in my skull as one thousand remembered sensations fly by too fast to make out. Blue walls and white tile. Orange hair and green sheets. A red carpet and a crystal scream.

The world goes black at the edges. I feel light headed and dizzy. My vision leaves completely, and I put out a hand to steady myself against the wall.

A red carpet and a crystal scream.

Somewhere in my head, I realize that the scream is mine. But then my hand is missing the wall and I'm falling to the wooden floor and into blackness.