I froze, too. Even my hands were steady as I pointed the pistol at her head.
My god, I was hallucinating.
It couldn't be Hannah. And it was. The moonlight highlighted her lovely face. I caught a whiff of her sweet shampoo.
"M... M... Matt," she breathed. It was Hannah's voice in perfect replica, husky with halftones of fear.
She began to inch along the wall. I lowered my gun.
"You're not real," I said.
Hannah's dark eyes were pinned to the gun. I tapped the barrel against my thigh. Her nostrils flared.
"It's me," she said. "Matt, it's me. G... give me the gun."
"Give you the gun?" I laughed and waved it. "So what, I can have some horrific dream in which a figment of my imagination blows out my brains? No fucking thanks."
"I'm real, Matt. Please. It's me, I—"
Hannah reached for the pistol. I backed away, smirking.
"Oh no you don't. This is Chekhov's gun. You know what that means, right?" I aimed at a wall, sighting down the barrel. I thought about going outside and firing a round into the forest. Fuck, that would feel good.
Hannah's clammy hand touched my forearm. Our eyes met. Too real, that touch. I moved my finger off the trigger.
"Hannah?"
"Yes, Matt, it's me. God, it's me. Help me."
She slid her hands down my arm to the gun. She covered my fingers with hers and lowered it slowly.
"Help me," she whispered. "How do I..."
Her hands shook on mine.
"Here. Like this."
I popped out the magazine and racked the slide. A round clattered to the floor.
Hannah flinched.
"It's okay," I murmured, locking the slide. "It's empty now."
"Can... can I—"
"Anything," I said.
Hannah stood so close that our hips touched. She loosened the pistol from my grip. She took the magazine and collected the fallen round.
"I'll be right back," she said. "Right back. I promise." She darted to the door. I shuffled to the window and peered out, but I couldn't see a damn thing.
My god, Hannah was here. Could it be?
And I pulled a gun on her.
And however she got here, she was probably about to hightail it into the night.
With my gun.
Fuck.
I slumped on the couch.
Was this really happening?
I began to drink from a bottle of bourbon standing on the coffee table. God, this stuff tasted seriously sickening.
I didn't hear Hannah return, but suddenly she was kneeling by my feet. She gazed up at me with teary eyes.
"Do you have any other guns? Any weapons?"
"No," I mumbled. "Unless kitchen knives count."
She let out a breath.
She reached for my bottle, then retracted her hand.
"Oh, Matt. What's happening? Look at you."
I looked at myself. I was wearing a cheap pair of boxers and two tatty slippers with pompoms on them.
"These aren't mine. These—I found them here—the slippers. Not mine."
I swallowed another shallow mouthful of bourbon. I couldn't think about any of this—Hannah being here, me, the gun, anything.
Hannah smiled. A tear slipped down her cheek.
"That's okay," she whispered. "That's okay." She patted one of my slippers. "Nice and warm. You gotta keep your feet warm."
I shifted my feet on the floorboards. I stared off.
"Yeah, it's cold," I said.
"It really is. It's freezing. Let's close these windows, okay?"
Hannah stroked her hands along my face. God, I needed to shave. She tried to make me look at her. My eyes were burning. I rolled them away.
"Here, I'll get the windows. You stay put."
I nursed my bottle while Hannah drifted around, closing windows in the main room.
"Do you want to sleep? Are you tired?"
"No," I said.
"You want the lights on?"
"No."
"Okay, how about a fire? I'd like to build a fire."
I shrugged.
Hannah began to move wedges of oak from the holder to the grate. I watched her work. Wordlessly, she found matches in the kitchen and got the fire going. Then she started to load dishes into the washer.
The mess around her was incalculable. I knew she couldn't put a dent in it and maybe she knew that, too, but I sensed she needed something to do.
As for me, I remained seated on the couch.