Ethel Rodgers held her head in a feeling... what feeling? Some form of pain, yes, but not just the usually headache pain. That was layered underneath everything else. The fear, (of being caught, of being next) the anger, (at herself for getting into this situation in the first place) the sorrow, (at the loss, at the recent death) and guilt. Guilt for keeping quiet, for going along with it, for being a murderess. That's what she was. A murderess.
No, don't think like that. Just sleep this bad spell off.
Just sleep, will you?
The sensible part of her mind climbed into the bed, pulled up the covers, and laid her head onto the pillow. She closed her eyes and found herself so exhausted; she could barely lift them back up to check for her husband. She turned on her side, looking for a comfortable position. Slowly drifting off to sleep, she found herself trapped in an inescapable nightmare.
Hurtling downwards, through a pit or a tunnel. Falling. Complete blackness.
She crash-landed in 1929, in Miss Brady's household. Raindrops fell like nails on the roof of the estate, pounding into it so loudly talking was impossible. Thomas had gone to "fetch the doctor" just a bit too late. It was only a matter of time before the old bat would be dead, and it would look just like an accident. After all Miss Brady had never been in good health, and the town knew how devoted the Rodgers couple was to her....
"Doctor?" Miss Brady wheezed. "Is there a doctor?"
"Oh, hush it."
Mrs. Rodgers turned her back to her employer, trying to avoid the guilt rising in her chest. The elder woman couldn't live for too much longer, now, could she? She tossed her head over her shoulder, watching Miss Brady cough (a disgusting sound with her withered lungs) and let out a choked sigh. Her eyes began to glass over, the intelligence in them fading. In the one second their eyes stayed locked, both women knew what was going on. Mrs. Rodgers shuddered at the fire in her dying employer's glare, the hatred and rage and disappointment. She dropped her gaze, ashamed, and the elder woman closed her eyes for the last time.
Feeling as though she might vomit, she walked out of the room, ridding herself of the evil she had just done.
The dream (memory) ended, but her sleep did not. There was a chilling peace, a sort of eerie silence that swept over her. A quiet that couldn't block out the screams. A darkness that couldn't hide the skeletons in her closet. A numbness that couldn't release her from her pain. Her muscles relaxed, and Mrs. Ethel Rodgers drifted off to death.