When I was a child, I had this recurring dream -- nightmare, more like. It was the middle of the night, and I was getting out of bed. There was tea and some papers on my nightstand. As soon as my feet touched the floor, I fell. My room broke way into a deep pit, the brick walls of which were coated in frost. The pit only got darker and darker, but when I reached the pitch-black bottom, I could “see” everything, as though it wasn’t dark at all. In fact, at this point I wasn’t even afraid. I felt at peace...but then I saw it. In the pit, there was a young woman, sitting in a wooden chair, something like five meters away. Not in all my life had I ever seen this woman, nor would I want to. She had pasty white skin, with these long, rotting nails. Her hair was patchy and torn. Even her eyes were a burning red, the only true illumination in the darkness shrouding me. And she approached me -- she got up, out of her chair, and approached me. It was at this point my fear returned. She reached out and brushed my hair back. Then she gripped my head tightly. I could feel her nails piercing my scalp, working their way into my head. The pain was unbearable. But the more painful it got, the less afraid I was again. Right as I felt myself dying, I would wake up.

I stopped having that dream when I was fifteen years old. I only now recall it. Thirty-odd years later, sitting in a pool of someone’s blood, and that’s what I think of.

This blood. I still don’t know who it belongs to. Before Doctor Iain, Miss Parker, and I got here, there were no missing person reports in the area. And the blood’s too wet, too fresh for it to be from the 1800s, when the town’s populace disappeared. Actually, I haven’t seen the two in a while. I hope nothing’s happened to them.

I hear something approaching. The room’s door is shut, but whatever’s out there sounds too large for a door to stop it. I can’t let my fate mimic that of this blood’s owner. I reach to the handgun lying beside me and grab it. The door opens, and in instinct, I throw the chair at the intruder.

I can’t make out what it looks like, but I am terrified. I crawl backwards, looking for something else to throw. My hand meets the chair, and I throw it. It’s still coming closer. Throwing things at it clearly isn’t impeding its progress. I need to get by it, to the door.

I try to stand, but slip. The pool of blood coats my tweed jacket and hair. It’s close; staring at me. I reach into my jacket, brandishing a kitchen knife, and I lunge at the figure. I stab it in the leg, and it collapses in front of me with a horrible screech. I take no time climbing atop it, driving the knife into its chest repeatedly. Whatever it was, it wasn’t human; instead of blood, the knife drips with water.

Exhausted, I roll back over, into the pool, lying on my back next to the creature. My hand gripped a gun, but I threw a chair. I look over, past the creature, and see the gun lying next to the chair near the door. The panic must have impeded my perception. I look at the switchblade in my hand, and shake my head.

I need to get out of here before this place starts getting to me. I stand up, water dripping from my clothes. I feel cold. Walking out the door, my eyes meet another figure down the hall, staring at me. It clearly wants the same thing the last one did. I won’t take any unnecessary risks. I turn and dash down another hall, and it chases me; its feet are clicking against the hard wooden floor. I pass door after door, and the walls begin to peel. When we got here we saw the building had a fire at some point. I must be entering the burnt area. It’s noticeably warmer here too, like the fire was recent.

I’m paying too much attention to the damaged architecture, and trip over the remains of a door, stumbling forward. I feel the icy splinters cutting through my coat, piercing my body as I crash through the wooden railing to the stairs. Worse, though, is the swiftly approaching ground. We must be thirteen stories up. The moment I hit the ground, I’ll be gone.

Everything is black. The whole world. I don’t hear a thing...but I don’t feel dead. I try to stand, but I can’t feel my body. I try to turn my head, but I think my neck is broken. Suddenly, I hear something...and I can feel its shape. It’s a woman. She has this sickening form, skeletal, decaying. I need to get away. I need to escape her. She’s approaching me now, mocking me with her steps. I must stand. I must.

She embraces me, cradling my head. There’s no reason to flee. She’s no danger. Her nails are digging into my scalp, but I don’t mind. She’s protecting me. I let her claws dig in, and drown myself in the shroud of her wings.

I’m at the bottom of the stairs. My whole body is aching, and I hear cracks with every motion I make as I crawl to my feet. The beast that was earlier chasing me is standing before me. I’m not afraid anymore. But the beast must die. I dig my thumbs into its eyes and tackle it against the wall, impaling its neck on an exposed rebar. It’s choking on its water, and I make my way to the nearest door. I would like to find an exit. The door leads to a small room with a chair, a sink, and a window to a similar room. There’s a beast on the other side of the glass, staring at me.

I stab at the glass with my knife, and the beast claws at it on the other side. Our combined efforts only manage to crack the window. We both strike again, making just one more crack. It’s mirroring my actions. Mocking me. But I understand. I can’t just break the glass or it will run away. I know how to kill the beast. I raise my knife, and stab it into my

When I was a child, I had these comforting dreams during harsh times. I was in bed, a cup of water at my side, and some obscure text with it. I’d climb out of my sheets into a pit that filled me with this wonderful sense of gravity. Even the walls would look like the beginning of the Christmas season. When I finally reached the bottom my bones shattered, and I stood in pain. I approached the beautiful young woman sitting near me, and she’d stand and embrace me; gently grip my head, and breathe new life into me, healing my scars, body and soul.