The Pillow Friend by Lisa Tuttle

another room, but the stranger heard it and he moved, taking a couple of slow, shambling steps into her room and toward her. He had his hands out, pawing the air, groping for her. In a few seconds he would have her. She was trapped in the worst dream she'd ever had, and the fear she felt was paralyzing.
    But she wasn't paralyzed, and before he reached her she moved, scooting away, off the other side of the bed, snatching up the flashlight and brandishing it like a weapon. He was between her and both doors.
    Unless she wanted to go out one of the windows—which meant opening the screen and then a nine-foot drop to the ground—she would have to pass him. Thinking of the window (the screen would just require a push) as her secret plan made her more brave. She would, she decided, dazzle him with the flashlight, and while he was blinded she would rush past, calling for Marjorie as she went.
    She switched on the light and gave a rebel yell. But when she saw him, the yell turned into a scream, and she was frozen to the spot, unable to look away. He was completely naked. Apart from a few brief guilty glimpses of her father when she was younger—now imperfectly remembered—she had never seen a naked man before, not even in a picture. Some black-and-white photographs of classical sculpture in a book treasured by Leslie's cousin were her only preparation, and that was no preparation at all.
    She screamed again, and suddenly Marjorie was there.
    “What's going on? You! Get out of here! You're not supposed to be here—go on, get out!”
    She spoke to him as if he were a dog and, like a dog, he obeyed, lowering his head and hunching his shoulders against an expected blow as he turned and slouched away. He went out of the room and, after a moment, the back door opened and slammed shut.
    Marjorie reached out and took the flashlight. “What were you doing?” Her voice was accusatory.
    “Me! I was sleeping—I wasn't doing anything! I was asleep, and then that man came in—I was trying to get away from him. I thought he was going to kill me!”
    “Don't be ridiculous. I suppose you were dreaming.”
    She almost choked on the unfairness of it. “Dreaming? What are you talking about? That wasn't a dream.
You
saw him—you told him to get out! And you talked to him like—you must know who he is.”
    Marjorie switched off the light. “Of course I know who he is. He's mine, and you don't have any right to him. He shouldn't have been here with you.”
    In the darkness, her aunt was suddenly a stranger, the note of accusation in her voice weirdly menacing. It reminded Agnes unpleasantly of certain occasions with her mother, of being guilty of nameless, unspecified crimes.
    “Well, I didn't want him in here! He nearly scared me to death.”
    “You must have wanted him. He doesn't go where he isn't wanted. You were probably dreaming. He felt the pull of your desire, and he came to you.”
    “Could we have the light on?”
    “Why? What do you want to see?”
    “I just don't like being in the dark.”
    “Nobody does.”
    Her aunt was starting to frighten her more than the man. She backed away until she felt the edge of the bed and sat down.
    “How could I dream about somebody I'd never even seen before, never even knew existed? How could I want somebody I don't know? Who is he, anyway? What's the deal with him?”
    “I don't mean you wanted him, specifically. Just that you were dreaming of a lover. Well, it's natural. You're not a child anymore, you're a woman, and women have desires. . . .”
    “Stop it! What difference does it make what I was dreaming, if I was dreaming—
he's
not a dream. You can't say that, you saw him—”
    “He's something like a dream. I don't expect you to understand right now, but someday you will. I call him my pillow friend. He's a wish—my wish. I told you that wishes come true here—I think you know that's true. He exists because I want him to; he exists to satisfy desire. And although he's mine,