"Okay."
        My eyes pop open in the darkness, and I turn to stare at my husband. After a moment, an enormous snore burbles up from the back of his throat.
        I've been sleeping next to this man for over twenty-five years, but it's only recently that he's started talking in his sleep. Clearly, too. As though he were holding a perfectly lucid conversation. None of that crazy talk that you expect from people verbally expressing their dreams. My son used to shout things like "get out of my cake!" and "my fingers have fingers." But his father? Never a peep until recently.
        The first time it happened, John, my husband, simply said, "No." Very firmly, very direct. That was his way; he'd been a vice principal at a rough high school for years. He'd dealt with all kinds of kids--bad, good, indifferent. Some likely still cursed his name from their prison cells, but others had remembered him in their valedictorian speeches.
       I'd heard him say "no" like that for decades. Our kids got to know the tone; they knew it meant their dad was done arguing. He tried using it with me. Once. The fight that ensued lasted almost a month. But in the end, he knew that I was his equal, not his responsibility.
        When he started saying "no" in his sleep, I figured he was remembering his days at work. It had only been a few weeks since he'd retired. A man doesn't do a job for twenty years and immediately slough it off. So I ignored it, and we laughed about it the next day.
        "I wonder who I was dreaming about," John said while he depressed the plunger on the French press.
        We batted around the names of some of the more infamous students he'd dealt with over the years, but nothing jogged his memory.
       When it began to happen more regularly, I stopped mentioning it. The same way you'd stop mentioning if your partner had very loud digestion or the habit of cracking their knuckles while they watch TV. No need to comment on something unless you were the type who needed to control those things, and I'm not.
       They say in every couple, there is one who falls asleep immediately and one who lies awake all night, staring at the ceiling. I'm the latter. Which meant I heard not only every one-sided conversation my husband was having, but the lead-up.
       John's breathing would slow, deepen. Sometimes it sounded like he was struggling to draw in a breath. Not like he was having some kind of episode, more like if you'd been walking uphill and had to convince your lungs to expand more than they wanted. The exhales were faster; a hurried whoosh like air escaping bellows. Then the talking.
       "No."
       "No."
       "NO." Always by the third time, his voice would take on an edge sharp enough to slice. For the first week, this was where it would stop, and John would roll over, pull the blankets up to cover his shoulder, and fall back into his snoring.
       Then one night, things changed.
       John's breathing began its odd pattern, and I waited for the same steady denials. Instead, I heard: "She did?"
       "Why?"
       A longer pause now. I rolled onto my side and watched his profile. His eyes were fluttering under their lids, rolling back and forth. His head jerked slightly from side to side, disagreeing with his dream visitor.
       "No, she didn't."
       "She wouldn't."
       John flung one arm out from under the covers, landing hard on the pillow beside my cheek, fingers grasping.
       "Stop saying that."
       I decided that was enough. Laying my hand on his arm, I shook him gently. "John. John, you're dreaming. It's okay."
       The breath he drew in when he opened his bleary eyes was like a drowning man popping above the surface of the water. Ragged, gasping. His eyes were still rolling in their sockets, wild and. . .afraid. John was never afraid.
       "Do you remember?" I asked. "Do you remember who you were dreaming about?"
       "I. . .." John shook his head. "A woman, maybe? But no, Cybil. I don't remember anything for sure."
       He was asleep again in less than five minutes, snoring deeply. I stayed awake the rest of the night, eyes peeled and staring into the dark.
       After that night, the conversations got longer and more frequent; instead of a few times a week, they began to happen every night. I always had to shake him awake.
       Here is where I need to make my confession: I decided to let them go longer. I thought if we could figure out who he was talking to, we could find a way to make the dreams stop. John didn't seem that bothered by them; after I'd wake him up, he'd fall right back to sleep and stay that way till morning. But I didn't like it.
       "My mind just doesn't know what to do with itself, that's all." John was making soft-boiled eggs for breakfast. He'd perfected it years ago because he knew they were my favorite. "Think about it, Cybil: I spent all my time thinking about you, the kids, and my job. Now the kids are out of the house, and I'm done with my job. I still think about you, of course," he shot me the sunny smile that had drawn me to him in our college years. "But I still have a lot of brain space left over. It's just inventing stories to tell itself because it's bored."
       "Do you think you need a hobby? Thank you." I began to butter the toast John had set in front of me. "Or join. . .I don't know, like the Rotary or Lions Club or something. They do a lot of good. Maybe you need more social interaction."
       John set his own plate down, took his seat next to me. "Maybe. That's the sort of thing retired men do, right?"
       I looked up the information for all our local charity clubs and sent it off to him in an email. We didn't talk about it again.
       That night, however, someone else had a conversation with him.
       "What?"
       I rolled over, saw John's lips working together. I tucked my hands under my cheek and watched him in the dim light.
       "I want to."
       A long period of silence.
       "But I like to help."
       More silence. The other person had a lot to say tonight.
       Finally, John responded. "You can't tell me no."
       John's breathing stopped. From the back of his throat came a thick clicking sound, like something was stuck and choking him.
       I didn't tap him lightly that time. I shoved him, hard, and yelled his name.
        John sat bolt upright, gasping air.
        "You have to remember who it was this time! Who was it?"
        John shook his head, chest heaving. "I don't know, Cybil! I don't know who it is."
        My hand was on his arm, rubbing small circles. "Okay, I'm sorry. Do you remember anything?"
        John shook his head again. "Only that they want to steal something from me."

        The next morning was one of those gorgeous ones, sunny and bright. The scent of green was in the air as our neighbors cut their lawns, and later that day, we were meant to attend a barbeque to celebrate the college graduation of one of John's former students. When I asked him what time he'd like to go, he grimaced.
        "I'm not sure I'm up to it, Cybil. Maybe if I take a nap this morning."
       That was the first time I noticed the deep black circles under his eyes. The new lines carved into his face. His hair seemed more gray than it had just the month before, and his hands trembled when he picked up his coffee cup.
       "Do you think you need to go to a doctor? I can call and see if we can get you in on Monday. I'm worried about you."
       "I'll give them a call. Might as well have them check me out." He smiled weakly, his eyes so dull I almost missed the love that still shone there. "I don't want to be one of those old farts that kicks it a few months after they retire."
       His doctor scheduled a physical, and it was normal. He told John to start taking melatonin and to try drinking tart cherry juice before bed to help him sleep.
       Like doctors often do, he had missed the point. John had no problem falling asleep. It was what happened when he was under that was causing the problems.
       The night after his doctor visit, I listened to John's one-sided argument.
       "You need to leave. You're not supposed to be here."
       A pause.
       "No, you can't."
       Another pause. Longer this time. John's forehead crinkled.
       "You can't do that either. Not her."
       John's body was tense, muscles bunched. I'd seen him like this before, when a kid had pulled a knife on him at a football game. It had been a little knife, but John was the type to know that small things could have large consequences.
       To see his body ready to spring while he was still deep asleep upset me more than anything else. I pushed him hard, and his eyes flew open. He mumbled, rolled over, and was snoring in less than a minute.
       The doctors hadn't helped. I turned to the internet.

        "Cybil, what the hell is this? Why is the bed gritty?"
        "I read that salt can help. . .neutralize the air. I thought maybe some mold or bacteria is getting into your lungs and causing your dreams." It was a stretch, but if I told him the real reason, he'd laugh at me. When I'd plugged his symptoms into the internet, I was told he might have attracted the attention of a supernatural creature. I scoffed, but kept reading. We were not spiritual. We'd both been raised in religious families but had left behind superstition for rationality long ago.
       John staunchly didn't believe in ghosts or spooks, spectres or folk tales. From the little he'd told me of his upbringing, belief in such things had been a cornerstone of the abuses he'd endured (he mentioned once how he'd had homemade 'exorcisms' performed on him) and refused to entertain any of that nonsense anymore. That was fine with me.
       But this was different. Even though we didn't want to admit it, something seemed to be haunting us. Salt seemed like a universal purifier, according to the internet. There was no harm in sprinkling a little here and there.
        "Well, it's gross. I can't sleep in grit like this. Here, get up. I'm going to change the sheets."
        I grimaced but did as he asked.
        That night, the conversations started to turn.
        "Yes, I did." John's breathing was so compressed that night. Each inhalation seemed to take forever.
        "It burns? I'm sorry."
        Hearing his apology made my skin crawl. I woke him up immediately. Like always, he didn't remember anything.
        I started washing the sheets with salt in the water. John complained that he was allergic to the 'new detergent' I must be using. But the red streaks on his skin looked like scratches, not hives or welts.
        The internet said: try iron.
        "What is this?" John pointed above the bedroom door.
        "Oh," I did my best to sound nonchalant as I continued folding laundry. "I read that it can bring good luck."
        "Cybil, that's a whole-ass horseshoe. And good luck? Really?" John reached up and unhooked it from the nail I'd driven into the wall. "It's heavy as hell. That's going to fall and brain me one of these nights. And what the hell is on it?"
        When I glanced over, John was shifting the horseshoe from hand to hand like he was playing a solo game of Hot Potato. "There's nothing on it, John."
        "Well, it's burning my skin. So maybe there's a solvent or something."
        My heart sank. He was reacting to the solid iron horseshoe as if it were a spined cactus.
        John dropped the horseshoe on the dresser. "I think that's a better decoration for outside, Cybil love. It's not really our style for the house."
        That night, he began to thrash only a few minutes after falling asleep.
        "Why?"
        I rolled over as John stilled. He seemed to sink deeper into the mattress, as though something was pressing him down.
        "It burned. Like you said."
        A few more beats. John's breathing became more ragged. "You can't stay here then. She. . .she knows."
        Me. He was talking about me.
        "No."
        John's voice was breathy, wheezing.
        "NO." He was struggling. In the light from the slanted blinds, I could see his face darkening while he fought for breath.
        "John." I pushed his arm lightly. Previously, that had been all I needed to do.
        That night, he flung out his arm, struck me on my cheek. Although I knew it was involuntary, the shock of it threaded red rage between my ribs.
        "JOHN! Wake up!" I shoved him so hard he teetered on the edge of the mattress. I grabbed his night shirt as he awakened, flailing, eyes wide in panic.
        Pulling him to me, I felt his heart thundering against mine, felt his chest heave while he drew in breaths like a drowning man. His skin was clammy, cold.
        A dark patch hung above us, clinging to the textured ceiling. It scuttered toward the door, slipping out into the hall. I pretended not to see.
        By morning, my cheek was swollen and dark. John couldn't stop apologizing.
        "It's not like you did it on purpose." I spread mashed avocado on toast and set it on his plate. "If you had that'd be different. But you were asleep, John. Having another nightmare. Talking to. . .whoever you're chatting with these days."
        "But I hurt you, Cybil." John salted his avocado toast. He wouldn't meet my eyes. "I left a mark on you."
        It wasn't you, I thought. It's something else.
        The internet had taken me down the path of salt and iron, and that seemed to be right. But John was working against me, albeit unconsciously. My internet searches took longer, since I had to get more specific. The next thing on the list was so silly that I didn't even want to try it. But I was desperate.
        That night, I left John's shoes by his side of the bed, upside down and inverted from their usual position. The sites I'd researched said that confusing a spirit by doing this would make them leave rather than continue with whatever mischief they had planned.
       I was lying in bed reading when I saw John pause on his side of the bed and frown. He took one step forward, one back. Reached halfway down, then straightened.
        "Cybil?"
        "Yes?" I lowered my book.
        "What is going on here?"
        "I don't know what you're talking about."
        John nudged his shoes with the same hesitation as someone sticking their toe into scummy pond water. "Something is. . .wrong."
        "Just get into bed, John."
        But he didn't. Or couldn't. He stayed standing, staring at the shoes like they were a perilous rope bridge across a gorge.
        "Do you want to climb in from my side?" I sat up and put my book on the nightstand. Maybe this would work. After he got into bed, I could fix a pair of shoes on my side, too. Then he'd be safe. Protected.
        "Um, okay. But I feel silly."
        "No problem. You just need to get some sleep."
        I stood up and watched John crawl into bed. The hair on the back of his head had become so thin. At his retirement ceremony, it'd been thick as a lion's mane. Now I could see the delineation of his skull through skin as delicate as paper, and hair that would've been better suited to a corpse than my living husband.
        John climbed toward his side, then abruptly rolled back to mine. "We need a new mattress."
        I stayed standing, dismayed.
        "When did our mattress get so skewed? It's like it rolls downhill to your side."
        He tried again. And again. Each time, he hit an invisible wall and tumbled away from his side of the bed.
        I had a feeling that if I put shoes backward on my side of the bed, he would be ejected.
        "Don't worry, John. I'll take your side tonight. We'll figure it out in the morning."
        An hour later, I heard John's breathing slow, deepen. His snores turned to gargles, his hands twitched atop the blankets.
        From his side of the bed, I could see him more clearly than I had before, since the nightlight we had in the hallway lit up that side of the room more than I realized.
        I think this was the reason I finally fully saw her.
        One minute, John was lying still, and the next, he went rigid. Something crouched on his chest, huddled over him, thin hands braced along his collarbone.
        Long, tattered rags draped over the woman's thin body, and greasy strands of hair framed her face. The hands that caressed John--the way I had for so many years--were tipped with long, dirty fingernails. I watched her sink her filthy, bony hands into his chest, past his skin, knotty muscles in her forearms bunching when she clenched at something deep inside.
        My own heart stopped when John's breath caught. I was frozen, my hands curled into claws beneath my cheek.
        The hag leaned over, her mouth near his ear.
        John's breath skittered in an exhale, then his chest worked to expand under her weight. "No, I don't know, either."
        I saw the gleam of the woman's eyes as they slanted toward me. In the semi-darkness, her stare had weight, a familiar heavy feeling from nights past. How many times had she perched on my husband, her hands on him like he was her property, staring at me with her sly eyes?
        And was that bitch smiling at me?
        The fear that had suffused my chest melted into a fiery red anger, and I gritted my teeth. I wanted to wring her neck, tear that greasy hair from her flaking scalp.
       "No, I don't think so." John was still fighting for each breath. The hag's hands stayed in his chest, buried up to her knotty wrists. Her lips were close to his, moving quickly, whispering. Each time he'd exhale she'd pause, suck in his expelled air. The intimacy of it turned my stomach and prickled my skin.
       I couldn't let her know that I could see her.
       Despite my anger, I allowed my eyes to drift closed slowly, mimicking fatigue. Now that I knew she was there, I could feel her, a cold dankness radiating in our room.
       "Okay."
       My eyes popped open. He'd finally agreed to whatever she'd been asking him.
       "John," I kept my voice steady as I shook his arm. The hag glared at me, but I kept my eyes on my inert husband. "John, you're dreaming again. Wake up."
       It took too long for him to respond. Finally, his eyes opened, his face losing its slack countenance, again becoming the man I'd known half my life.
       He smiled when he saw me.
       "Cybil, I think it's done." His eyes were tired, shadowed. "I feel different."
       I forced my lips to curve, my eyes to soften. I caressed his cheek. "It'll be okay, John."

       John slept most of that day in one of the chairs out on our deck. I hauled a standing beach umbrella over to shade him; he barely moved at the scraping sound.
       I set up the laptop near the window so I could watch him. Since it was daylight, I didn't think she could visit him, but I was worried he'd somehow. . .fade away? That morning, he'd tried to make breakfast but had stared at the pot of water for several minutes before dropping a few eggs in, then staring some more. I had gently led him away from the stove before returning and lighting the burner. It felt like part of him was already missing, stolen and taken away by that hag.
        The internet wasn't much help. I'd finally hit a wall. Iron, salt, confusion. I disregarded any posts suggesting I speak with a spiritual advisor. I couldn't drag a stranger into this without telling John. And there is no way he'd allow it, not after the experiences he had when he was young. So I needed to figure something else out.
        The next night, that hag was back. Now that I knew she was there, I couldn't believe I'd ever missed her. One moment, John was twisting in his sleep, heels kicking, and the next, his body stilled and sank into the mattress, the crouched figure perched on his chest.
        I took out the spray bottle I'd hidden under the covers and misted her.
        Of course, the bottle was filled with salt water.
        The hag leapt into the air with an ear-piercing screech, her back hitting the ceiling. She twisted, long claws digging into the textured drywall, hissing over her shoulder. Her eyes reflected the low light of the nightlight, green-sheened and dilated like an animal.
        When she fully turned her head to glare at me, I stuck out my tongue and aimed the nozzle at her again.
        She scuttled along the ceiling, slipping into the hall.
        I wish that had been the end of it. And I didn't see her for a few weeks. John regained a bit of weight, his chest filling out again, his strength returning. His smile was as bright as it'd been at his retirement party. I'd like to say his hair came back, but it didn't, so he shaved it off, happy and cool in the summer heat. I bought him a collection of hats to protect him from sunburn. We began to settle into the retirement I'd expected.
        Most importantly, John stopped talking in his sleep.

        "You're back."
        My stomach dropped at John's voice in the darkness. I opened my eyes, but there was nothing sitting on his chest. His breathing was deep, regular.
        But it had been weeks since I'd sprayed that hag. I'd thought she was gone for good, but apparently she'd been planning a return.
        "She did?" Here, John chuckled. "I'm not surprised."
        She was telling on me.
        "Hmm. . .I don't know."
        A long pause. John's lips worked together, pushing and pulling as though he were working to remove something stuck in his teeth.
        "No, this is Cybil's house."
        Damn right it is.
        A darkness gathered on John's chest. It was wispy at first, collecting shadows around it to form a hazy ball. I could see through it to the curtains on the far wall.
        "Martha. . .no."
       Finally. A name.
        Shoulders formed within the dark ball, dirty white hands extending toward John's chest. Stringy hair twisted into existence, hanging down past sallow, sunken cheeks.
        "John, hey." I pushed John's shoulder. "Wake up. You're having another dream."
        That hag's eyes flashed toward me, and she gnashed her brown teeth at me in warning.
        John gasped, his body shaking. Her hands were deep in his chest, the stringy muscles of her forearms knotting as she squeezed.
        Froth appeared between John's blue lips. She wasn't here to haunt him this time. She meant to take him back with her.
        The spray bottle had been in my nightstand drawer all this time, and I spritzed her confidently, expecting her to flee. But the hag only flinched before grinning widely at me, a black tongue running over her teeth.
        I scrambled from the bed. The horseshoe had never made it outside; I'd casually left it under a pile of books on our dresser, hoping that John wouldn't notice. My hand clutched at the cold metal with a manic fervor, the books cascading to the ground.
        Swinging wide, the horseshoe passed through the hag's chest, my fingers shredded by the grating cold filth of the creature.
        She fell back with a screech, tumbling off the bed, her cries fading. The last thing to sink into the carpet was her burning green eyes, which were trained on me with such hatred I knew she was not coming for John next time. She'd take me out first.
        "Cybil?" John's voice was confused. He was sitting up in bed, rubbing at his bald head. "Why am I all wet?"

        My hand was bandaged, so it was difficult to sign the guest book.
        "It's so nice you're here to visit. No one has come to see Mrs. Geary in so long." The girl at the front desk was perky, bright. It was obvious she hadn't worked at the facility for long; she was missing the grey tiredness of her colleagues.
        One of whom, an older woman with frosted highlights and red-rimmed eyes, pointed down the hall. "She's the third door on the left. No food, no drinks. Use the call button near the light switch if you need anything."
        Martha Geary was sitting up in bed, staring out the window. Her thin hands were folded carefully in her lap, the long fingernails I'd remembered neatly trimmed to the wick. Stringy hair had been cut bluntly at her chin and was clasped back from her ears with battered rhinestone barrettes. Their uneven sparkle made the room even more depressing, highlighting the dingy grey sheets and pale beige walls.
        The view from Martha's window was the brick wall of the neighboring building.
        I perched carefully on a cracked blue vinyl chair, my feet flat on the floor.
        It was several minutes before she turned to look at me. Her green eyes were dull, milky cataracts skimming her corneas.
        How could this pathetic woman be the one who was sucking the life out of my husband?
        Well, he had been her husband first.

        "Who's Martha?" I slipped the name in casually, looking down at my book while taking a bite of toast. "Mmmm, is this the new marmalade you found?"
        John didn't answer. When I looked up, his eyes were round and startled. He'd paled so severely that his bald head gleamed like the dome of an orthodox church.
        "Where did you hear that name?"
        "You said it in your sleep. Sit down before you fall down."
        The story was easy to pry out of him after that: a child wedding between the two of them, when he was only seventeen. Matched by their parents, a ceremony was performed in the deep woods where the young couple shared blood from cut palms, pledged to be together through this life and the next, and promised an eternity of fidelity.
        Martha had not taken it well when John had escaped a year later, leaving her behind. She had stalked him through his first job, then through several years of college, appearing in his dorm, sitting behind him in class.
        "It was only after I met you that she left," John said. He had regained some color and was sipping his coffee. "I thought she'd given up. I haven't seen her since."
        "So. . .you're a bigamist?"
        John chuckled. "No. That wasn't a real ceremony. Nothing recognized by any government, for sure. We were just kids. We didn't know what we were saying. It didn't count."

        Martha disagreed.
       She still carried his last name. My last name. Which made it easy to claim to be her sister-in-law, and raised no suspicions at this facility where she'd been left to rot.
        The binding spell was easy. I based it on something I'd seen in a movie once, wrapping a ribbon around a piece of cardboard and chanting how she was bound from doing harm to herself or to others. Then I told her I'd warded our home and she could no longer enter. (I hadn't, but did it matter? She might've learned to spiritually travel, but otherwise this was all in her head.)
        Martha watched me, her face slack.
        I gathered my things, placed the ribbon-wrapped cardboard into my purse. Told her I was going to keep it somewhere safe where it wouldn't unravel.
        There was a bottle of hand sanitizer by the door, and I pumped out a healthy dollop, wanting to cleanse myself of her presence. I had one foot out the door when she finally spoke.
        "You might have won him in this life, Cybil. But he's pledged to me in the next."
        Turning, I saw that Martha's eyes were now keen, sharp. Her smile was filled with the same brown teeth that had been bared at me only a few nights ago.
        "My body is almost done, then I can finish collecting him. He doesn't have much time left with you. Enjoy it."
        It took me another week to get the nerve to visit her again. I didn't want to, but I also didn't want her thinking she'd scared me. If I could convince her to leave us alone in the daytime, maybe her night visits would stop.
        But when I tried to check in, the perky girl at the desk was perplexed. Martha had died a few days after my visit.
        I haven't slept since. Not at night, anyway. I get in naps here and there during daylight hours. But when John is asleep, I need to keep watch. Make sure Martha doesn't steal him away from me. So far she hasn't returned, but I know the minute I let down my guard she'll be there, crouched on his chest, her hands deep inside his ribcage, stealing his heart.
        John says I'm not looking so good. That maybe I should see a doctor. He's worried about the dark circles under my eyes and how my hands tremble. I tell him I just need to get some sleep.