Dream CLXXXVII

It had been raining for a while, so I decided to go to sleep with the rhythm of the rain.

Because of the apartment's layout, the sound of the rain outside would sometimes seem to a listener to be soft footsteps on the bedroom carpet.  I heard these sounds and ignored them, knowing that they were most likely just reflections from the outside.

But as I drifted off to sleep, my fingers were gripped by another hand.  I could feel the cold fingers grasping my right hand, on fingers three and four, and grabbing them tightly.

I didn't feel that this was menacing.  The grasp seemed more determined to prove their existence to me, rather than be menacing or enticing.

I grabbed the fingers in turn, and tried to twist my grip so that I could determine the size of the fingers.  I wanted to know if these were adult fingers or child fingers, because then I could gauge the fright they seemed to convey.

And I screamed to my mind, trying to open my eyes, trying to prove that this was real.  I managed to turn my grasp, and I discovered that the fingers were small, not like a child's fingers, but definitely not fingers like mine.

At the same time, I FORCED my eyes open, against my mind, and I stared around the room, looking at the walls and the furnishings, and I convinced myself that this was real, and the fingers were real.

And the fingers slipped from me, but at the same time touched me with warmth, and I relented back into sleep.

In the morning sun, I knew that what I had seen in the dream was an unreal house.  I held out hope that the fingers were real, but knowing that everything else wasn't, my faith faded.