When I was about twelve years old I had a dream in which my Step-Mother was murdered like Slutty Girl #1 in a slasher film. I was on the telephone with the killer and heard the whole thing go down. I was helpless standing in a lane separated from a meadow by a wooden fence. The dream was interesting considering I haven’t got a Step-Mother, unless there’s something my family has failed to share with me, cell phones weren’t the norm in 1997, and somehow I could see what was going on as well as hear it. It was very Hitchcockian. She was in a shower.
It was then I decided I read too many murder mysteries.