The Right Honorable Milton Freemore was found dead this evening. There is no word yet on the cause of death, but . . . I dare not say. I saw . . . I know nothing, you understand, but I saw his face. The man died of terror, whatever the coroner says, pure freight. He had a pen by the bed, and he was found slumped over on his nightstand. He didn’t have paper, it seems. He just wrote it on the little table, direct onto the wood. On the last lines the pen failed, and he was scratching the words onto that table.
There are things in the darkness, and there are things of darkness. There are dreams, and there are nightmares. Sometimes the nightmares are real, and sometimes you don’t wake up.
I had a dream I dare not tell, I dare not make it real, but it follows me into my day; it whispers in the night.
I had a dream in the darkness, and I awoke with a wordless scream. There is something in the night, something unreal, and I fear it more than cold reality. What is reality but the dead effects of unreality?
I dare not tell you my dream, or else it may come true.
There is an end to all things, and these ends are shadows. I think the shadows grow impatient.
Tale Told 