I am trapped in the limbo between waking and sleep and the Thing is standing over the foot of the bed. “Thing” is the only term I have for this manifestation. It appears out of the dark of the bedroom, accompanied by an unholy demonic choir, as if music is being piped in from the depths of hell. A light begins to grow behind the figure and the shape shifts from a shadow to a tall cloaked being with a face hidden by a hood. A towering Angel of Death, wrapped in a hooded shroud, whose face I cannot see. Nor do I want to see it. For I know, in my soul, it is the face of Death. To look upon its horrible visage will cause my heart to burst from terror. A hand reaches out from the folds of the wispy shroud. It consists of long fingers of blackened bone and touches my right foot. I feel the sharp fingertips of the thing through the blanket over my feet. 

            I scream again. 

            "Bad dream, honey?" My wife turns in the bed to look at me with her sleepy, brown eyes. 

            I look at the end of the bed as the Thing fades away like ghostly spider webs. 

            "Yeah," I answer. My forehead is wet with sweat. Under the blankets, my body feels clammy and the touch of the Thing's fingers on my foot still lingers. "Did you hear me scream?" 

            "I heard you making some weird gurgling noise. I didn't know what was wrong with you." 

            "Just a bad dream." I roll closer to her and wrap my arms around her slim body. 

            "I know babe, but this is the second one this week." She snuggles closer to me. "Is it the same dream?" 

            "Yes." But I lied. It is not the same one I had earlier in the week. The nightmare is becoming more intense and real. The cold sensation where the thing touched my feet through the blanket still tingles on my skin. 

            "They say dreams turn bad when you’re upset or feeling guilty about something." She turned to look in my eyes. "Your not having an affair on me, are you?" 

            "No," I reply. "Don't be ridiculous. Go back to sleep."
            "You might check online about information on what causes bad dreams. You can find out about anything on the internet," she said sleepily. 

            "I'll do that." I slide out of bed and left her drifting back to dreamland. My wife is right. You can find out anything online. I wasn't going to be able to sleep for a while, anyway. 

            Downstairs, I sit in the chair in front of the computer and light up a cigarette. Going online, I use the search engine for info on nightmares. Instantly, a dozen pages related to sleep therapy and dream institutes pop up. I browse through them, but after two more cigarettes, and a lot of reading, I find nothing helpful. None of the information seems to relate to my specific problem. I am about to give up my search when a banner advertisement catches my eye: The Nightmare Hotline. I click on the banner and it takes me to a website. I scan through info about how you can call operators on the hotline 24/7 and they will discuss your bad dreams and teach you how to cope with them. Expecting there to be a charge, I check the phone number and it's toll-free. I stare at the phone number for a long time as I puff down another cig. 

            Do I dare call the number? It's toll-free but the service will probably ask for a charge once I make the call. Still, what can it hurt? I'm starting to feel sleepy again and a chill runs down my spine at the prospect of having another visitation by the Thing in my bedroom. I grab my cell phone and dial the number. 

            Three rings. A young woman's voice picks up. "You've reached the Nightmare Hotline. I’m your operator, April. How may I help you?" 

            Her voice seems detached. In my mind's eye, I imagine a bored college psych major sitting on a bed in her dorm, with a cell phone against her ear, as she paints her toenails. 

            "I was just wondering what kind of service this hotline provides." 

            "We are here to help you interpret and cope with any bad dreams or nightmares you may be having." 

            "Is there a charge?" 

            "It's a free service. The hotline is the brainchild of Dr. Albert Whitaker, a dream therapist and prominent psychologist." I got the impression she was reading from a cue card. 

            "What do you get out of it?" 

            "We gather information about your nightmare for our research database. Dr. Whittaker believes there are basic similarities to all nightmares and, by gathering a large database from thousands of sufferers, he may be able to help others recognize those similarities and learn to take control of their nightmares." 

            "I've got to agree to be part of a research project?" 

            "Yes." 

            "Okay, what do I have to lose?" 

            "From this point on I'll be recording this conversation for our research purposes. Do you agree?" 

            "Fine." 

            "Your name?" 

            "Michael Robertson." 

            "Age?" 

            "Thirty-five." 

            "Married or single?" 

            "Married seventeen years." 

            "Are you under any medications for schizophrenia, sexual dysfunction, depression, or insomnia?" 

            "No." 

            "Do you suffer any chemical addictions, such as illicit drugs or alcohol?" 

            "I smoke too many cigarettes," I answer lighting another Camel. 

            "In your personal life, are you currently experiencing grief from the death of anyone near to you? Are you under a lot of stress? Suffer from anxiety or deep depression?" 

            "No, to all the above." I began to get annoyed at the girl's monotone questions. 

            "Since you’re married, are you currently having or feeling guilt over an extramarital affair?" 

            "Why would you need to know that?" 

            "It's for the research project." 

            "No, I'm not involved in an affair." 

            "Very well. Tell me of your nightmare as best you can remember." 

            I tell her everything about the Thing in the bedroom, my inability to move as it touched my foot, the unholy music and the glowing light―all the frightening details about the experience. As I relate the awful dream to a complete stranger, I look around the shadows in my living room. The presence of something watching me seems to hover just beyond my senses. 

            "Pretty crazy dream, huh?" I say into the phone when I finish. 

            Silence. 

            "Hello, are you there?" Maybe the call got dropped. 

            "Mr. Robertson?" The girl's monotone voice now seems tinged with concern. 

            "Yes, I'm still here. What can you tell me about my dream?" 

            "You experienced what we call a Night Fright, a state of intense paralyzing fear existing between the waking and the sleeping mind." 

            "Yes, that sounds right." I say as I remember how paralyzed my body was during the dream. "What can I do to control these Night Frights? The one I keep having is getting more intense." 

            "Your dream is a special situation, Mr. Robertson." The girl's voice seems tinged with worry. 

            "What special situation?" 

            "We have your number on our caller ID. I'm going to pass it onto Dr. Whittaker who will call you shortly. Is that all right?" 

            "I guess so." 

            "I suggest not going to sleep until then." 

            The line goes dead. I put the phone down and stare at it. What the hell is going on? My nightmare is a special situation? What did she mean by that? Maybe the whole thing is a gimmick? The next call I'll get will be the good doctor offering therapy for a price. 

            I take my cell with me and walk over to sit on the couch. My eyes are heavy with the need to go to sleep and I can't keep from yawning. I've been putting extra hours in at the factory all week and I'm bone tired. Putting the phone on the coffee table, I lie back and smoke another cigarette, watching the smoke curl up toward the ceiling. Minutes pass and I feel my eyes starting to close. 

            The phone rings loudly and I snatch it from the table. 

            "Hello?" 

            A man's cultured voice spoke into my ear. "Is this Michael Robertson?" 

            "Yes." 

            "I'm Dr. Albert Whittaker of the California Dream and Sleep Therapy Institute. Did you recently call our Nightmare Hotline?" 

            "Yes. I told one of your representatives the nightmare I've been having. She said I was a special situation," I replied, waiting for the doctor to drop the hammer and start talking expensive therapies and credit card numbers. 

            "What you experienced could be nothing but a simple bad dream or …" The doctor's voice trailed off. 

            "Or something else?" I replied. 

            "I don't want to alarm you, Mr. Robertson, but have you been contemplating death?" The man's cool voice spoke in my cell. 

            "Why do you say that?" 

            "During our research, we've discovered a similar dream experience preceded the death of the dreamer." 

            I swallow hard. "You're kidding me, right?" 

            "This is still preliminary research, but we've documented a certain dream experience shared by the terminally ill and suicidal schizophrenics." 

            "The Angel of Death?" I can't believe what I'm hearing over the phone. This is insane. 

            "It's nothing so supernatural, Mr. Robertson. The mind knows it is about to die so it manifests a certain iconic image representing death from the subconscious. We all have one. What troubles me is why you're having this dream. Are you in good health?" 

            "Yes." 

            "Have you been considering suicide?" 

            "No." 

            "Then it is perplexing as to why you would be having this encounter in your sleep." 

            "What can I do about it? Never sleep again?" I'm starting to feel apprehension growing inside. 

            "Of course not. The mind needs sleep to function and eventually you would succumb to the need. There might be another way to deal with your problem. At the institute we've been experimenting with lucid dreaming. Do you know what that is, Mr. Robertson?" 

            "No." 

            "In layman's terms it is the ability of the dreamer to gain control of the dream and alter it." 

            "Is that possible?" 

            "Oh yes, we've had many subjects who find lucid dreaming quite enjoyable. They have entire adventures in their subconscious while sleeping. They gain control of their dreams by using simple memory images and shift the dreams to their desires. Some find it the most joyous experience of their lives. I can teach you how to gain control of your dream of the Angel of Death and banish it." 

            I laugh quietly to myself. This is what I was expecting, the real purpose of the phone call from this smug sounding doctor in California. 

            "You want money, don't you?" 

            "If you flew out to the Institute for a weekend, I could teach you lucid dreaming skills so you could control your nightmare of death." 

            "I have to admit, you got a pretty good scam going here, doctor. First you have the sucker call your hotline and then you come on the phone scaring the poor person half to death before you offer some course at your institute on dreaming. You had me going there. I'm hanging up now." 

            "Wait, I'm not after money. I'm trying to help you avoid a potentially dangerous situation. The next time you have the death dream, think of a beloved pet you had during childhood. You may be able to banish the nightmare." 

            "Good-bye." Disgusted, I end the call. 

            So it turned out to be nothing but another internet scam for money. I check the clock on the wall: 4:33 am. In less than three hours I've got to be at the factory and put in another double shift. Now, I'm going to have to work it with no sleep. I've wasted half the night over a stupid bad dream. I tap out a cigarette from the pack and light it up. Lying back on the couch, I blow smoke and watch it curl toward the ceiling. I should go upstairs and climb into bed next to my wife but I want one more smoke first. My eyes grow heavy as long minutes pass in slow procession. 

            Before I realize it, I slip back into the half-dream state. I'm paralyzed and unable to move as I lie on the couch. The living room looks the same as when I was awake but my eyes stare at a shadow in the corner. I know what is coming as the formless darkness begins to shift. I try to scream but my mouth hangs open in absolute fear and makes no sound. The shadow is shifting, taking shape. Oh God, I don't want to see it! The Thing is returning. From some deep corner of my unconscious I remember the recent conversation with the doctor on the phone. 

            The next time you have the death dream think of a beloved pet you had during childhood. 

            I clutch at the thought like a drowning man grabbing at straws. The pet I remember the most from my childhood was a brown mutt named Queenie. The memory of her brings feelings of happiness from when I was eleven years old. I stare in fear as the Thing is forming into the horrific grim reaper and approaching the end of the couch. 

            "Queenie," I say aloud, not in the waking world, but in the half-dream world I am now part of. 

            Instantly, the Thing retreats back into the shadows and fades away. In my amazement, Queenie is standing in its place and just the way I remember her before she got run over by a car on one sad summer day. The beautiful dog I spent so many warm afternoons playing with in my backyard; she’d always trotted along side of my bike when I went out riding. She bounds across the living room floor and leaps right up on my chest where I lie on the couch. Joy at the sight of the long lost dog from my childhood washes over me. In the dream world, I laugh like a child. She looks at me with her big, brown eyes and her panting mouth opens. 

            "Fire," Queenie says. 

            In shock, I wake from the dream. Around me the living room is engulfed in flames. Fire is spreading up the curtains and across the ceiling. The room is filled with black, boiling smoke and I choke on it. My wife has always warned me about falling asleep while smoking. Oh God, my wife! I roll off the couch away from the intense blast furnace of flames devouring the ceiling above my head. 

            "Madeline!" I scream as loud as I could as I choked on the smoke. "Madeline, get out of the house!" 

            I remember my cell on the coffee table. I grab it and dial 911. 

            "Emergency operator," I hear in the receiver. 

            "My house is on fire!" 

            "I'm sending the fire department now. I have your address." The operator's voice says in a subdued urgent tone. "You must exit the house now." 

            "I can't. My wife is trapped up stairs," I reply in a hoarse whisper. I choke on the smoke entering my lungs. "I have to save her." 

            Dropping the phone, I crawl across the floor toward the stairs. I know if I stand, the flames above will ignite me like a giant matchstick. Tears are rolling down my face and I can't see anything in the thick smoke. Oxygen is being sucked out of the room by the raging inferno overhead and it is impossible to breathe. 

            "Madeline!" My voice is so hoarse it is nothing but a croaking whisper. 

            Somehow, through the thick smoke and the crackling flames, I reach the foot of the stairs and collapse. 

            "Madeline!" I attempt to shout but I'm not certain any sound comes out of my smoke filled lungs. "I'm so sorry." 

            With teary eyes, I look up the expanse of carpeted steps and I now know I’ll never reach her. Flames have spread along the ceiling and are catching on the second floor as well. There is nothing but black poisonous soot to breathe. I realize I'm going to die. 

            At the top of steps, I watch in horror and fascination as the cloud of smoke begins to shift and take form. I know what is returning. I begin to hear the unholy demonic choir as a golden unnatural light shines through the black smoke like a beacon. Floating toward me down the steps is a tall cloaked being in a hooded shroud. A towering Angel of Death whose face is hidden in the shadow of the hood. Skeleton hands of blackened bone reach slowly up to pull the shroud back. 

            This time it is no dream. 

            This time, I get to look upon its face.