The dream goes like this: I wake up on the far side of midnight. It’s summer, heading towards fall, and the night is dead quiet. No cars passing by, no crickets chirping, nothing.

I get out of bed and realize I’m alone. The silence has me spooked, so I go outside and I know – just know – the houses on my street are all empty.

Maybe there’s no one left in the world.

There’s an old white church around the corner, built in colonial times. I’ve never been inside, but it seems like the place to go in case of Apocalypse. I try walking there calmly.

In the end, I run.

The streetlights glow yellowish-amber, painting the front of the church a sickly, jaundiced hue. The bells in the tower begin ringing, more cacophony than hymn.

I go in and I am on a ledge, looking down. There are no pews, no altar. Instead, it’s a cave, a gaping wound in the world. The door behind me is gone. A hand falls on my shoulder.

Now, here I am, awake on the far side of midnight, and the world is dead silent.

Except for the bells.