"He said ..."

The scowl grows deeper and Heather lifts a hand to tap her fingers at her temple.

"He said he'd 'have' me. ... Or 'be' me. One of those. ... Or maybe it was both. Don't remember. Just that it was BULLSHIT and I told him so. And I... picked up a knife, and was telling him to come out and stop fucking around, but he just..."

She pounds her fist on the end of the table slightly, sounding almost indignant.

"He just kept GOING. Saying things like... like we "belonged" together and that I couldn't fight him, that he had my... like, heart... in his mouth, or something, and he brought up Dad at one point, and I finally just got fed up and asked him what the fuck he wanted, and then there was this ... weird light, and ... yeah. ... Yeah, there he was. Standing right there."

She points to the corner by the window-- not far from where they're sitting, actually. Quite a bit of that conversation had turned vague in her memories, but THAT was one image that had stayed clear as day in her head.

A man that wasn't a man, standing there in the corner with a mane of grizzled gray hair and eyes that could cut glass.