“A rock star,” husband Monsieur Gold repeated to his wife April Mae. “I could tell it was me because I was driving the narrow boat-plane again.”
“Steve, you can take away these dishes now. We’re done.”
“Go on with your dream you had, dearest.”
“Well… I was also a cannibal. Ate human flesh. Involved a haunted hotel with a secret story room.”
“Storage room,” April Mae corrected.
“That’s interesting. Cannibal, eh? Like Claude. Down in Schism.”
“I suppose.” Why is Steve the Gardener serving us our food today? Monsieur Gold asked himself. *This* must be the dream. He decided to test it.
“What day is this?”
“Wednesday, dear. You know that.”
But it was Monday. And Steve the Gardener didn’t have a wooden hand yesterday.
“How was your trip to the cemetery? I forgot to ask you.” *Why* did I forget to ask her? he thought again. Was the cemetery even *real*?
“Fine. You’ll be glad to know the ex is still dead and in his grave. Won’t be resurrected anytime soon.”
“That’s good. Vampires are the worst.”
“I know. Try being married to one for 736 years.”
But Claude was a cannibal dog and not a cannibal human, so logically he could never be a vampire. Monsieur Gold grabbed a knife from cleaning Steve’s wooden hand and cut his wrist, sawed at it even until his hand was severed from it and dropped to the floor in several, sickening beats. Yet there was no pain. Monsieur Gold then grasped Steve’s wooden hand, popped it off in one swift action, and then attached it to his own wrist, wriggling the fingers satisfactorily. April Mae acted surprised but not shocked. She looked at the now handless Steve. “He knows about us,” is what she came up with.
But Monsieur Gold never woke up, which was much more surprising. He lived with his new hand for the rest of his life. And he never saw Steve again after the gardener/manservant gathered up the other hand under the table and left the mansion in a huff.