The dirty sheets were twisted through his limbs and up around his head, and he felt like he was caught in a spider’s web. He wasn’t certain if he was breathing; he checked, realizing with horror that he was not. In a panic he thrashed and commenced a writhing paroxysm. He choked up phlegm, spat and tumbled to the floor. The room was silent but for a faint chirping of birds outside the window and the low hum of traffic on a nearby street. Although the curtains were drawn, damnable sunlight entered, penetrating his eyes, burning the retinas. The image of the graveyard, the moon and the hovering mist remained in his head. He had never had such an intense dream before. The Dream Beings had been there with him. The private investigator had been too. The man. The Vessel. The one lying at the bottom of the grave. The one they wanted him to kill. Finished with his coughing fit, he rolled onto his back.
