You dream of the house.

It stands on the hill. Stone. Cold. The ivy is black now. Not green. You have seen it in the fog. You know the way. You always know the way. Your boots are wet. The mud is thick. It pulls at your heels. You walk. You must walk.

Your name is Thomas Bradshaw. You are old. Your knees ache. The rain is cold. It soaks your coat. You are a police officer. You are the head of the precinct. You are a man of law. You are a man of order. But the order is broken.

The house is the Pemberton estate. It was your father’s home. He is dead. He has been dead for ten years. But the house remains. It waits. It breathes. The windows are dark. They look like eyes. They watch you. You feel them on your skin.

You carry a gun. It is heavy. It is cold steel. It is part of you. Your hand is steady. Your heart is fast. You are not afraid. You are focused. You are hunting.

Who are you hunting?

You do not say. You do not think. You only walk. The path is overgrown. The grass is tall. It whispers against your legs. The air smells of rot. Of wet earth. Of old blood.

The gate is open. It should be locked. It is never locked. It invites you in. You step over the threshold. The stone is slick. You grip your gun. You scan the yard.

Nothing.

The silence is loud. It presses against your ears. You hear your own breath. It is shallow. Quick. You move toward the door. The handle is brass. It is tarnished. You turn it. It does not rust. It never rusts.

The door opens.

The hallway is dark. The chandelier hangs above. It is dusty. The crystals are dead. They catch no light. The floorboards creak under your feet. Each step is a warning. Each step is a promise.

You go deeper.

The house knows you. It remembers you. The walls are thin. They breathe. You feel a presence. It is not a ghost. It is a memory. It is a weight. It is your father.

You stop.

You close your eyes. You breathe in. You breathe out. The smell of pipe tobacco. The smell of old paper. The smell of fear.

You open your eyes.

You see the mirror.

It is tall. It is oval. It stands in the corner. The glass is dark. It reflects nothing. It swallows the light. You look at it. You see yourself.

You are young. You are clean. You are strong.

You look away.

You continue.

The stairs are steep. The wood is old. It groans. You climb. Your legs burn. Your lungs burn. You do not stop. You cannot stop.

The second floor.

The rooms are empty. The furniture is covered in sheets. They look like ghosts. They look like shrouds. You pass them. You do not touch them. You do not look at them.

You reach the top.

The corridor is long. It stretches into the dark. The carpet is red. It is faded. It is stained. You walk. You walk.

You find the door.

It is oak. It is heavy. It has no handle. Only a keyhole. You reach into your pocket. You pull out the key. It is small. It is cold. You have carried it for ten years.

You turn it.

The lock clicks.

The door swings open.

The room is small. It is round. The walls are stone. There is no furniture. There is only the window.

The window is open.

The wind blows in. It is howling. It is screaming. You step inside. The door closes behind you. It locks. You hear the click.

You are alone.

You look at the window. The night is dark. The stars are out. They are cold. They are distant. You look at the glass.

You see a face.

It is not your face.

It is a woman.

She is old. Her hair is white. Her eyes are black. She is crying. She is screaming. Her mouth is open. But there is no sound.

You know her.

You do not know her.

You know her.

She is Eleanor.

She is your mother.

She died twenty years ago.

You drop the gun. It hits the stone floor. It makes a dull sound. You lunge at the window. You grab the glass. It is sharp. It cuts your hand. The blood runs down your arm. It is red. It is bright.

You push. You pull. The window does not move. It is stuck. It is frozen.

You scream.

Your voice echoes. It bounces off the walls. It comes back to you. It is distorted. It is wrong.

You turn around.

The room has changed.

The walls are moving. The stone is cracking. The floor is tilting. The air is thick. It is heavy. It is hard to breathe.

You see a figure.

It stands in the corner. It is tall. It is dark. It is wearing a suit. It is wearing a hat.

It is your father.

He is not a ghost. He is not a memory. He is real. He is here. He is solid. He is angry.

He steps forward.

His face is blank. His eyes are empty. He is a void. He is a hole in the world.

He raises his hand.

You raise yours.

You fight.

It is not a fight. It is a struggle. It is a wrestling. It is a tearing. You grab his arm. It is cold. It is hard. It is like iron. You pull. He does not move. He is anchored. He is rooted in the stone.

You pull harder. Your muscles tear. Your bones crack. You do not care. You will not lose. You will not fail.

You push him.

He falls.

He hits the floor. The stone shatters. The room shakes. The dust rises. It fills the air. You cannot see. You cannot breathe.

You cough. You gasp. You crawl. You feel for the window. You find it. You break the glass. The shards cut your face. The wind rushes in. It is freezing. It is clean.

You fall out.

You fall onto the grass. The grass is soft. The mud is wet. You lie there. You look up. The sky is clear. The stars are bright.

You are alive.

You are free.

You stand up. Your legs are weak. You lean on the wall. You look at the house.

The house is gone.

There is only the hill. There is only the stone. There is only the ruin.

The roof is caved in. The walls are cracked. The windows are broken. It is dead. It is finished.

You feel a tear on your cheek. You wipe it away. You do not cry. You do not feel.

You turn around.

You walk away.

Your boots are wet. The mud is thick. You walk. You must walk.

The rain stops. The sun rises. The light is golden. It is warm. It is new.

You walk down the hill. The path is clear. The grass is green. The air is sweet.

You think of Eleanor. You think of your father. You think of the house.

They are gone.

They are past.

You are here.

You are now.

You are Thomas Bradshaw. You are the head of the precinct. You are a man of law. You are a man of order.

The order is restored.

You walk to the car. The door is open. The engine is cold. You get in. You start the engine. It hums. It is smooth. It is strong.

You drive away. The road is long. The miles are short. You drive. You do not look back.

You do not see the shadow.

It is on the dashboard.

It is small. It is dark. It is moving.

It is a hand.

It is your hand.

It is not attached to your arm.

It is waving.

You do not see it.

You do not feel it.

You drive.

You drive into the light.

The light is bright. The light is white. The light is everything.

You are lost.

You are found.

You are free.

The story ends.

The dream ends.

You wake up.

The room is dark. The bed is cold. The sheets are wet. You are sweating. Your heart is racing.

You are in your bed. You are in your house. You are in your life.

You look at the clock. It is three in the morning. The time is late. The night is deep.

You sit up. Your body aches. Your soul aches.

You look at the window. The moon is full. It is bright. It is cold.

You see the house on the hill.

It is there.

It is real.

It is waiting.

You get out of bed. Your feet touch the floor. The wood is cold. The air is still.

You walk to the door. You open it. You step into the hallway. The hallway is dark. The walls are white. The floor is clean.

You walk. You walk.

You go to the garage. The car is there. The door is open. The engine is cold.

You get in. You start the engine. It hums. It is smooth. It is strong.

You drive away.

You drive to the hill.

The road is long. The miles are short. You drive. You do not look back.

You see the gate. It is open. It invites you in. You step over the threshold. The stone is slick. You grip your gun. You scan the yard.

Nothing.

The silence is loud. It presses against your ears. You hear your own breath. It is shallow. Quick. You move toward the door. The handle is brass. It is tarnished. You turn it. It does not rust. It never rusts.

The door opens.

The hallway is dark. The chandelier hangs above. It is dusty. The crystals are dead. They catch no light. The floorboards creak under your feet. Each step is a warning. Each step is a promise.

You go deeper.

The house knows you. It remembers you. The walls are thin. They breathe. You feel a presence. It is not a ghost. It is a memory. It is a weight. It is your father.

You stop.

You close your eyes. You breathe in. You breathe out. The smell of pipe tobacco. The smell of old paper. The smell of fear.

You open your eyes.

You see the mirror.

It is tall. It is oval. It stands in the corner. The glass is dark. It reflects nothing. It swallows the light. You look at it. You see yourself.

You are young. You are clean. You are strong.

You look away.

You continue.

The stairs are steep. The wood is old. It groans. You climb. Your legs burn. Your lungs burn. You do not stop. You cannot stop.

The second floor.

The rooms are empty. The furniture is covered in sheets. They look like ghosts. They look like shrouds. You pass them. You do not touch them. You do not look at them.

You reach the top.

The corridor is long. It stretches into the dark. The carpet is red. It is faded. It is stained. You walk. You walk.

You find the door.

It is oak. It is heavy. It has no handle. Only a keyhole. You reach into your pocket. You pull out the key. It is small. It is cold. You have carried it for ten years.

You turn it.

The lock clicks.

The door swings open.

The room is small. It is round. The walls are stone. There is no furniture. There is only the window.

The window is open.

The wind blows in. It is howling. It is screaming. You step inside. The door closes behind you. It locks. You hear the click.

You are alone.

You look at the window. The night is dark. The stars are out. They are cold. They are distant. You look at the glass.

You see a face.

It is not your face.

It is a woman.

She is old. Her hair is white. Her eyes are black. She is crying. She is screaming. Her mouth is open. But there is no sound.

You know her.

You do not know her.

You know her.

She is Eleanor.

She is your mother.

She died twenty years ago.

You drop the gun. It hits the stone floor. It makes a dull sound. You lunge at the window. You grab the glass. It is sharp. It cuts your hand. The blood runs down your arm. It is red. It is bright.

You push. You pull. The window does not move. It is stuck. It is frozen.

You scream.

Your voice echoes. It bounces off the walls. It comes back to you. It is distorted. It is wrong.

You turn around.

The room has changed.

The walls are moving. The stone is cracking. The floor is tilting. The air is thick. It is heavy. It is hard to breathe.

You see a figure.

It stands in the corner. It is tall. It is dark. It is wearing a suit. It is wearing a hat.

It is your father.

He is not a ghost. He is not a memory. He is real. He is here. He is solid. He is angry.

He steps forward.

His face is blank. His eyes are empty. He is a void. He is a hole in the world.

He raises his hand.

You raise yours.

You fight.

It is not a fight. It is a struggle. It is a wrestling. It is a tearing. You grab his arm. It is cold. It is hard. It is like iron. You pull. He does not move. He is anchored. He is rooted in the stone.

You pull harder. Your muscles tear. Your bones crack. You do not care. You will not lose. You will not fail.

You push him.

He falls.

He hits the floor. The stone shatters. The room shakes. The dust rises. It fills the air. You cannot see. You cannot breathe.

You cough. You gasp. You crawl. You feel for the window. You find it. You break the glass. The shards cut your face. The wind rushes in. It is freezing. It is clean.

You fall out.

You fall onto the grass. The grass is soft. The mud is wet. You lie there. You look up. The sky is clear. The stars are bright.

You are alive.

You are free.

You stand up. Your legs are weak. You lean on the wall. You look at the house.

The house is gone.

There is only the hill. There is only the stone. There is only the ruin.

The roof is caved in. The walls are cracked. The windows are broken. It is dead. It is finished.

You feel a tear on your cheek. You wipe it away. You do not cry. You do not feel.

You turn around.

You walk away.

Your boots are wet. The mud is thick. You walk. You must walk.

The rain stops. The sun rises. The light is golden. It is warm. It is new.

You walk down the hill. The path is clear. The grass is green. The air is sweet.

You think of Eleanor. You think of your father. You think of the house.

They are gone.

They are past.

You are here.

You are now.

You are Thomas Bradshaw. You are the head of the precinct. You are a man of law. You are a man of order.

The order is restored.

You walk to the car. The door is open. The engine is cold. You get in. You start the engine. It hums. It is smooth. It is strong.

You drive away. The road is long. The miles are short. You drive. You do not look back.

You do not see the shadow.

It is on the dashboard.

It is small. It is dark. It is moving.

It is a hand.

It is your hand.

It is not attached to your arm.

It is waving.

You do not see it.

You do not feel it.

You drive.

You drive into the light.

The light is bright. The light is white. The light is everything.

You are lost.

You are found.

You are free.