Night Terrors

My wife suffers from severe sleepwalking, so I always hide the front door key before we go to bed. Last Wednesday, I woke to an open door and found her in the cold stairwell. She was clutching a battered, dying stray cat, her eyes glazed over in her typical trance. That evening, buried at the bottom of the kitchen trash, I found our heavy wooden rolling pin caked in blood and fur. I quietly washed it and put it away. But the next morning, I found it in the trash again, dripping with fresh blood and a different color of fur. Staring at the gruesome sight, a horrifying realization paralyzed me: her episodes only ever happen when I am dead asleep. I have never actually seen her sleepwalk.