And here it is:
It was two weeks ago when I first awoke with a start. I had been dreaming, I realized, but the vague images faded as quickly as the sleep from my mind. I tried to remember my dream, what had taken me from a deep and restful state to one of startled awareness, but I could not grasp it. It fled my memory, and left nothing but ghosts in its wake. Mumbling my discontent at having my evening disrupted, I eventually slept again, and I did not dream again that night.
To my great surprise, however, I had the dream again the following night. I knew it was the same dream, even before I began to try to remember it. This time, I recalled the image of a house, and a path leading me toward it, but nothing more.
The third day, upon waking, I realized that the house I was seeing in my sleep was the house of my childhood, a place of bittersweet nostalgia and memories. In my dream, I walked a path toward the house, bathed in the light of a summer sun. Before me, the house was curtained and silent, but I thought I saw just the hint of movement behind the curtains, and as I awoke, I choked out my disappointment, wanting to find my way home again, and wanting to see who waited for me behind those silent walls, but sensing something else below my disappointment, a feeling I could not yet identify.
On the fourth night, I anticipated the evening, hoping to dream again, and hoping to progress. I was not disappointed. I found myself back on the path to my childhood home, progressing to the front door I remembered so well. Again, the curtains shifted slyly as I approached, leaving me uncertain as to whether they were moved by a hand or simply by a draft of air. I picked up my pace, wanting to reach the door, so intent on my goal that I did not immediately notice that the sunshine had faded, and that a gloom was starting to surround me. I stopped and looked about, and the entire path was in shadow, both behind me and before me. A chill shuddered through me, unbidden, and yet I turned to continue to the house. Suddenly, I was awake and sitting up in my bed, and the feeling that had saturated my waking over the past several days suddenly was clear to me -- it was a feeling of great unease.
The next several nights found me closing upon the house: each night, the path disappearing into the gloom; each night, the curtains shifting subtly, so I was not sure if they had actually twitched, or if it was a trick of the light. Unlike previous nights, however, I did not look forward to reaching my destination. Each night fed into the dread that was starting to engulf me in my sleep, and I realized that I no longer wanted to reach the house, nor even traverse the path, and that I did not want to met whatever waited for me behind that closed front door.
I have been trying to not sleep these past few nights. For, in the most recent incarnation of my dream, I placed my hand upon the doorknob, and felt the metal warm and dry, as if I had touched flesh rather than brass. The house, or some thing within the house, thrummed with feverish anticipation. Reluctantly, I started to turn the knob, revulsion and fear welling in my throat, and I awoke screaming.
I have had the dream fifteen nights now. I fight sleep, but eventually must succumb, and each time, I find myself in front of that monstrous house, my hand on the doorknob, my throat closed with terror. I do not know how many more nights will pass before I must open that door, but I think not many. I leave this note for whoever may find it. I fear the night. I fear sleep. With sleep comes the dream, and with the dream, the door. I know I must open that door, and either step through it or let whatever is waiting for me there, step out. I wait in terror for sleep to come. I wait in terror for the dream to come. But God help me, in my terror, some part of me also welcomes what is to come.
