"I awoke not with a bang, not a whimper, but a long steaming tongue scraping its way up the side of my face."

Detective Ambrose's eyes refused to leave his notepad as his right hand darted from left to right. He's a fast writer for a middle-aged man, and I can't help but question his penmanship because from where I'm sitting everything looks like scribbles, chicken scratch as some would say.

"And the woman who licked your face was your landlord?"

His monotone voice is almost offensive. I knew my story sounded outlandish, but I figured he'd share some form of interest in what I had to say. Otherwise, why would they bring me in for questioning? I considered asking for a new detective...but was that a thing? Would Detective Ambrose be offended if I asked for a replacement?

He straightened in his seat, as though he'd read my thoughts on replacing him. He cleared his throat like he was like he was trying to prove that I still had his interest. "How often did you interact with Cheryl and her husband Oscar?"

"As you know she lives in the apartment across from me. I don't see Cheryl or her husband very often, in fact, I can't remember the last time I'd seen them. When that happened, I'd only seen them a handful of times, and every time I saw them she had a walker...she looked sick."

I considered my next words, unsure if I wanted to say them. I thought them over and they sounded cruel. I felt bad for merely thinking of them. Ambrose's eyes narrowed, urging me to continue.

"Okay, I honestly thought she was dead before tonight. A few weeks ago at like, five in the morning, I saw an ambulance come by and wheel someone out on a stretcher. I naturally thought it was her. Since then I haven't seen Cheryl or her husband come out of their apartment." I watched as Ambrose scribbled away on his notepad. "I know someone's home though. Their blinds go from closed to open...just slightly, but open regardless. I can see a light on when it's dark. I just don't know who's home."

Ambrose set his pen down on the table and folded his hands tight. I could see the gray in the crevices in his palms and it made my skin crawl. I have no idea how anyone can go through a day without applying some form of lotion. Ambrose's hands were so dry that I questioned if he even knew what lotion was.

"Tell me again, about the incident that happened last summer."

"You mean the licking?"

"That's right Ms. Dawson, the licking. And this time give me more detail."

"Right." Ambrose made me uncomfortable. I could feel his cold gray eyes on me, and they made me shiver. I felt like a child being scolded by the principal. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and continued forth with his request.

"It was a random summer weeknight. On weeknights, I try to be in bed by ten and asleep by eleven so I can start my morning routine. I live on the second floor, and I always check the front door before going to bed. I'm positive I checked it that night like I would any other night. I watched some TV and fell asleep around eleven. At some point during the night, I heard footsteps making their way through my apartment-"

"And you thought you were dreaming?" Interjected Ambrose.

I gave him a cautious nod. I told him how I had a history of having weird dreams. How I tended to remember the nightmares more than the good ones. I told him that when I heard the footsteps, I thought they were coming from downstairs and that my neighbors below me had a history of being loud. I didn't think much of the footsteps as they made their way through my apartment. I figured I was having a lucid dream because I had those frequently. That I knew I wasn't dreaming when she licked me.

Ambrose asked. "What did you do when she licked your face?"

"I freaked out. What was I supposed to do? That night my window was open and the only source of light was the moonlight. I knew it was Cheryl because of her body frame. I couldn't quite see her facial features in the darkness, but I could tell that she was smiling. A big wide smile because I could see the shine in her teeth."

"What did she do after she woke you?"

I scoffed. "She stood there for a few seconds, but it felt longer. Then she turned and walked out of my bedroom. I was so shocked and confused that I couldn't leave my bed. She unlocked the front door and left. I think I finally snapped out of my daze when she got to the base of the stairs. I ran to my window and just watched as she walked across the grass toward her apartment, she went inside and that was it."

"And you still think this scenario was a dream?" There's a heavy emphasis on the word "dream", his voice is stern.

"I do...I did." I fumbled. "The situation was so weird that I think I convinced myself that it was a dream. I'd seen Cheryl with a walker for months, there was no way she could make her way up my stairs. I know landlords have a copy of our keys, but they legally can't come in without the tenant's consent. I woke up the next morning and my apartment seemed fine, the door was locked as I remembered, and my face didn't feel weird. I just cast it off as a creepy lucid dream. I didn't think much of the event until the cops came by to...well, bring me to you."

"Do you know why you were brought in by the cops tonight Ms. Dawson?"

I shook my head no.

Ambrose cleared his throat, and it sounded dry. It made me question the last time he had so much as a sip of water. Made me wonder how much self-care this middle-aged detective had put into himself.

"Oscar was found dead a few hours ago."

My throat went dry, instantly turning into a tube of sandpaper. I felt dizzy, intoxicated by Ambrose's chilling words. The interrogation room suddenly felt small, far too narrow and suffocating for me and the detective.

"What happened?" I managed. My voice sounded hoarse, and dry to my ears.

Ambrose shook his head with a sullen expression. "Can't tell you yet. But it's not pretty. Your landlord's apartment is currently a blood bath, and she appears to be missing."

My interview with Ambrose didn't last much longer after he told me that. He said to call him if I remembered anything else. He shook my hand (which was very gross), and suggested that I stay somewhere else for the next few nights, maybe even the next few weeks. That night I took a drive, and I was moved out of that apartment within a week.

Weeks later I found out that Cheryl had eaten her husband Oscar. I wouldn't find out until months later that she'd only eaten the contents of his torso. Eating his intestines, his heart, his lungs, his kidneys, and whatever else was in our torsos.

The authorities never found Cheryl, my landlord, and to this day she still remains at large.