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His sleep was restless. His body twisted and turned as his mind wrapped and warped in and around itself. He would later only recall snippets of the dreams arising during his sleep, comprised of snatches of shadows, of colors, of costumes, of decorations far older than anything he'd ever been exposed to. Upon waking, he felt his head was filled with a number of mismatched shapes; these shapes all somehow fit together, but he was at great pains to understand how.

It was late afternoon, and daylight was waning. He grabbed his overnight bag and fished out a notebook and pencil pouch. He set his notebook and pen on the kitchen counter and took a seat on one of the stationary stools. Opening the notebook to a fresh page, he went about recording his dreams, but he faltered. He was unclear of what he dreamed. He remembered checkers; there was a clown or jester, but two of them; blinding light; and lots and lots of red. He recalled fear, disgust, terror, and a very faint glimmer of hope. It wasn't much he remembered, but he recorded it all.

One full day in the house, and already his dreams were taking a dark turn. He didn't like it. In most situations, he dreamt of the trouble and banished it; in times where this wasn't possible up front, he broke the hold of the entity over time. But in all cases, the darkness--the shadow, the spirit, the entity, whatever it was--never came on so strongly as it did now. He didn't know what to make of it; he thought only this mystery, this thing, would take longer to unravel.

Having slept for most of the morning and afternoon, he wasn't ready yet to make another dream dive. Grabbing his phone, he pulled up an app and ordered dinner. He then walked the length of the house again, exploring in the same way he did earlier. He found himself repeating the same motions in the same places, pausing in the same doorways, brushing his fingers along the same walls, spreading out on the same floors. This was unintentional, and so he determined there must be something to the pattern. This too he recorded in his notebook.

His phone was next to him, thus he saw the screen light up with a notification indicating his food was delivered. He finished writing out his thoughts before placing his pen in the crevice of the open notebook, then stood and stretched before walking to the door. His stomach hurled insults in no particular direction; there was only the desire to make its unhappiness known, due to the lack of sustenance over the prior day. He thought about the meal waiting for him on the door step, which only seemed to aggravate the riotous organ further. He opened the door, and the scent of the waiting food slammed into him, heightening the hunger he felt. He leaned over, hooked two fingers beneath the knot at the top of the bag and lifted it, bringing it inside and bumping the door closed with this hip. He set the bag on the kitchen counter and tore it open, not bothering to lift the styrofoam box out of the bag before pulling open the lid.

Continued after the break

Orange chicken and beef and broccoli over a bed of chow mien and fried rice. He stared at the food for a few moments before liberating the chopsticks from their paper pouch and plunging into the savory meal. Every bite was heaven-sent, every morsel welcomed into his body with eagerness. He devoured the meal without pause.

When finished, he looked at the empty container and remaining litter of the meal. He realized too late there was no trash bin, no trash bags, no place in which to stow the remains of his meal until the garbage collector came around to empty the outside bins. Frustrated, he tucked the bits of trash into the styrofoam container, then wrapped the plastic bag around it. This would have to do until he had a chance to purchase supplies for this little sojourn.

The rest of the evening was spent wandering around the house in much the same fashion as he had earlier. At times, he moved with intention in the pattern he recognized and had taken notes of. During these, he wondered if there was a significance in the pattern. Other times, it was his intention to counter the pattern, or move about at random.

Nothing revealed itself through his regular trips across and around the house; little came to mind as the evening progressed. The only constant was the oppression he felt throughout the house; stronger in some places, weaker in others, but always present in all rooms, halls, and thresholds. There was nowhere he might go within the house to escape the grasp of the presence, and he had no desire to leave the house until he had revealed its mysteries and released the evil. For surely a presence of this temperament and magnitude could not be good, right? Only the most ruthless presence would drive all inhabitants to their doom.

The sun set, twilight passed, and he sat on the floor of the living room next to his sleeping bag as midnight approached. Having done all he could think to do in preparation for his next dream walk, he determined there was no further avoiding it. He felt apprehensive about diving into this work, though he could not determine the cause for it. This work was second-nature; he had banished innumerable spirits, and not all of them benevolent. So why the anxiety now?

He walked himself through one of his breathing practices. This did nothing to alleviate the apprehension, but he did feel better prepared for the dream walk upon completing it. With a deep breath, he rolled onto the sleeping bag and began going through his lucid dreaming ritual: steady awareness of his descent into sleep; willing himself to look at his hands with his mind's eye. A few breaths later, he was standing in the living room; nay, he was standing in a living room.

His confusion lasted for a scant few seconds before something slammed into him from behind, throwing him to the ground and knocking the wind out of him.

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