The house was perfectly still, the kind of heavy quiet that only happens at 3:00 AM. I was on the edge of sleep myself, drifting in that hazy middle ground, when the atmosphere in the room suddenly changed.
Beside me, Chloe shifted. It wasn’t the usual rustle of blankets. It was deliberate. It was intense.
My girlfriend talks in her sleep.
Usually, it’s harmless—muttered nonsense about “buying more stamps” or “the cat needs a tuxedo.” I’ve learned to tune it out. But last night was different.
She didn’t just mumble. She reached out and grabbed my arm with surprising strength. I bolted awake, my heart hammering. I turned my head, expecting to see her having a nightmare. Instead, she had sat up slightly. Her eyes were open, and she looked me dead in the eye with a gaze so piercing it felt like she was looking into my very soul.
The room felt cold. I was paralyzed, wondering if she was possessed or if I was about to receive a message from the beyond.
She leaned in close, her breath warm against my ear, and whispered the four words that would haunt the rest of my night:
“‘The cheese is under the sauce.’“.
Before I could ask if this was a threat, a recipe, or a code for a dead drop, then she snored. She collapsed back onto her pillow, instantly returning to a deep, peaceful slumber, leaving me sitting upright in the dark, clutching my arm.
I don’t know what it means. Is she a secret agent for a Chicago-style pizza chain? Is she criticizing my cooking from a past life? Does she know a secret about the local deli that I’m not privy to?
I’m too scared to ask. I spent the next two hours staring at the ceiling, trying to decode the “Cheese Directive.” Every time I look at a pizza now, I feel like I’m missing a vital piece of information, and I live in fear that one day she’ll wake up and tell me exactly what happens to those who put the sauce under the cheese.