When had the dreams started? Months? Years? It was impossible to say; Murray couldn’t remember life before. They came with the comet, that’s all he could be sure of.

No one talked about it, but there wasn’t a person on earth who didn’t have them. Who wasn’t stalked nightly. Strange and twisted, lucid dreams, rich with murder and fire and death.

During the day, the sun was dimmer somehow, at night the comet a terrible red gash in the sky. There were…things as well. Stalking the shadows, taking the unwary. It was impossible to understand. Madness whispered terrible secrets in every ear. Nothing was clear, there were portents and signs everywhere. Crosses bled, alters cracked and collapsed. Holy places burned, rivers turned to blood.

The television had been snow for weeks. The radio, static. The last broadcast a desperate plea. God, help us all. Murray knew he had to leave. Had to get out. The metal of the key burning from the heat of his palm. Don’t think. Just go.

Murray pushed through the door.

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