Last night my wife woke me in the middle of the night. I had been sitting up in bed yelling in terror. Even after she woke me, it took a long time for me to understand where I was and to be convinced that I really wasn’t in any danger. I sat there, trying not to hyperventilate while she told me over and over again in the voice one might use to calm a bewildered infant that it was all right, that I’d just been dreaming.
When I tried to describe my dream it sounded comical, ridiculous; but to me it had been simply horrific. I had dreamed that a demon had come into the room and was standing beside my bed. It was bottle green in colour and its skin was leathery, like a lizard’s. It wasn’t a conventional devil with horns and tail. It looked more or less like a man though it was smaller, but not as small as a child, and it radiated malice. I had no doubt that it had come to kill me or worse. I also knew that it was my fault that it was there. Somehow or other I had summoned it.
I wish my mind was not so leaky. Then all this stuff would stay in the part of my imagination that is reserved for writing books.