Emil Petaja

“ Lisa. Warm, cosy little Lisa. Like a tawny kitten curled up by the fire. She could never stand a single breath of cold air. Maybe that was why. Maybe some of his words were breaths of cold air. In the beginning everything had been so warm and cosy. Then—coolness, coldness. Why weren't you here when I telephoned today? You're always so careful to answer the telephone. Why not me? Who was the man that called you on the telephone while you were out? Not your hairdresser! Not again!
Then Lisa went away.
John Reeve curved a smile into the darkness and walked to the bed and strangled Lisa. ”

“ Of course! He hadn't really killed Lisa. It was only this dream he kept on having over and over and over. A man could go out of his mind—
And always the same. That was why he couldn't remember going to Lisa's apartment, or getting in, or anything like that. Just being there, feeling the oppressive summer heat, the dark silence, scenting Lisa's jealous perfume, wondering why she never opened a window, and then strangling Lisa.
But the telephone was the worst thing.
He didn't like to strangle Lisa, it was definitely not the act of a gentleman, and John Reeve considered himself a gentleman. ”

“ It was just as Lisa, or Lisa's ghost in the dream, said. He was curious. He had to know. It was driving him crazy not to know. Once he thought that by straining at the dream and forcing it to go on, his fingers did actually contact the cold surface of the telephone. But he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure.
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? ”