This is going to be weird. My girlfriend woke me up at like 3 AM while I was talking in my sleep. I guess I was. I don’t remember talking. What I do remember is what I was dreaming about, and it was very strange.

I am at my old home. The home that my mom grew up in and the home that my parents raised me in for the majority of my life. It is abandoned and left in a state of dusty decay. It is not falling down at the seams, but it is forgotten. The golden hour hue isn’t doing anything to illuminate any bright spots.

I am walking through my old home and have the sense of eerie connection and also sad emotional abandonment. This is a home I recognize but find it hard to reconcile.

I am walking down the second staircase that is towards the back of the house (well it was meant to be the front but became the back). I turn toward a closet that I only remember for housing ice skates and having spiders when I played hide-and-seek. I try to open the door, but it does not open.

I am perplexed why it doesn’t open. In a light bit of frustration, I kick the bottom of the closet door. To my surprise, my foot goes through the rotting wood and there is a six inch gap. From that hollow hole, I hear something. Pitter-Pattering. Cooing. Odd sounds that make no sense coming from the dark and from what I know to be a closet.

I lower my head down toward the hole in the door. After one blink, I can’t see anything. I light brighter than anyone could have predicted blinds me and I stumble back on the stairwell. I brush my eyes with one hand and brace myself from falling with the other. Through the dark spots clouding my vision, I see black hole of darkness become wider.

The door is open now. It is a vacuum of dead air. It seems to be sucking the minimal light seeping into the decaying home. I push myself up, and walk toward the door, because I am an idiot. The blackness is intoxicating.

I am still three feet from the entrance of the closet, but I can hear that same pitter patter sound even louder. I still have no idea what it could be, but my heart races when I see a slow light growing brighter and larger. It is like a taunt; come towards the light…even though you have no idea what is there.

The dread I am feeling increases exponentially when the world around me turns black. The golden hour sunlight that was my guiding light suddenly vanishes. I am standing in emptiness. I am panicked, and I can not move. I am trying to steady my breath, but I become breathless when I see a man.

A man that looks far to similar to the character that Ethan Hawke is playing in The Black Phone (2022). A mask just like it. It was a stance like Pennywise The Clown walking toward Eddie Kaspbrak in It (2017). In his slouched, slimy stance, he was still holding the light as steady as if it was held in a vice.

My feet are stumps. i can not move.

I only get my mental saws out when I see the outline of misshapen toddlers walking just behind this Slender Man-esq figure. I crawl up the stairs, and the light is following me. It is nipping at my heals, trying to lasso and pull me into the depths of whatever depravity i am seeing.

I run though the house, thankful for unconscious knowledge of the layout of my old home. I don’t look behind me. I am stumbling through the utter darkness and get to the front door. I open it, and fall onto the dusk tinted sidewalk. I look at my hands and am thankful I can see what I am touching.

I turn my head back toward the front door, and that creepy-ass man is just standing there. He is waiting. His feet, or whatever they are, are as close to the edge as they can be. This man, being, evil, is just smiling.

I am terrified. I run to my car, get in the driver’s seat and slam the door. I turn the car on. All I want to do is step on the gas, but my curiosity send a jolt to my neck and I turn back towards my old home.

What I see sticks with me. It is standing in the door. It looks less like a man now. It looks like it’s seven feet tall and its neck is hunched in the doorway. Yet despite its uncomfortable stance, it is not wavering in its desire to stare into my soul. I pull my gaze from it, and what I see in my periphery is horrific.

There are toddlers. Babies. Tykes. Younglings. Whatever you call them. There are youths in every window, sometimes doubled. Their misshapen heads, drooling mouths, sharpened and broken teeth and protruding bones are all framed by windowsills, as if there are a dozen horrific portraits staring right at me.

No one is saying anything. There isn’t a sound.

I retreat my gaze away from the kids and return to the doorway.

The being is no longer there.

I floor it out of the driveway. This place is no longer my home.

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