Never the less I was not “captured” in the dream, and the descent that I spoke of was pretty much perpetual like an audible illusion. It only seemed like the arbiter of death was getting closer, though it was definitely behind me.

My focus is completely broken when a new sound erupts from my left, from the shower stall. Once my heart beat returned to a semi-normal state I wiped away the sweat and glanced over the edge of the shower doorframe to see the masked view of a gray rat. The door glass is made of the bubbled privacy variety that does more to hold the grime than it does shield your view of what lies on the other side. Mr. Rat scraped his claws against the glass while inspecting it for a supposed exit.

Delight courses through my body as I realize my discovery absolves many of my fears about my haunted house. A rat in the walls explains so many of the noises I have been hearing and dreading over these last several months. Although I was not certain how this rodent made his way into my shower, and ultimately caged himself, I did know that this pest was not going to escape. The rat day spa was going to turn into his deathbed. I giggled while plotting his demise.

Quickly I scurried to the kitchen and threw a large pot of water onto the stove and cranked the knob to “10″. Soon the element below the metal base began to glow its orangey light showcasing the crumbs I have let collect and neglected cleaning in the pan below the coil. I make incalculable trips from the warming pot to the shower and back again. Determined to prove the adage that a watched pot never boils, I spend a good deal of time watching the bubbles slowly form at the base. The rat has stopped scratching and seems to be content just sitting and waiting. I haven”t dared open the shower door, expecting the rat to be light on its feet, though his muddled image through the bubbled lens makes him look pudgy and fat. I wonder what foods he”s been pilfering from my cupboards.

The water eventually becomes too hot to touch and begins to boil. It”s not a rolling boil, but it is plenty hot for what I plan to do to my little invader. I remove the steaming pot of water and haul it into the bathroom just next to the shower. The rat hasn”t moved. I say a quick prayer that it didn”t have a heart attack – and then I hastily pour the contents of the cauldron over the top of the stall. Mickey shrieks and clamors about the walls creating an echo and reverberation that makes the threads in my spine ache. His grisly screams subsided and turned to a whimpering – I smiled and returned to the kitchen to grab another vessel of scalding death. Smirking I wonder how many pots it will take to remove his fur.

It was when I returned with the third boiling drum of water that I realized something was amiss. The image from behind the glass was larger now and a ripe red color. No noise came from the stall other than the lingering drips that hung from around the enclosure from all the steam. I”m not sure if it was curiosity or pity that made me swing the door slowly open to examine the shower floor. It was terror however, that made me go cold and my knees buckle. Lying on the hot floor was a balding child, red from exposure and limp.

With my eyes full of tears and a huge knot in my throat I crept on my knees closer. I didn”t see any rat. In fact all thoughts of the intruder had left my mind, I just needed to check that this once beautiful baby was okay. My fingertips inched closer to her skin and hovered for a moment. Bringing them closer and making contact let me feel the tacky flesh that sought my attention. My full palm lay on her shoulder when her head popped around to look me straight in the eyes with her bloodshot gaze. Her limp mouth hung open agape and empty of everything but a new shriek – this time my own.

I lay there in bed screaming to my wife shaking me awake. It was all part of another dream. A dream from within a dream, and I was safe now back in my own bed. Sweating and panting I returned to lying on my back and staring at the ceiling€¦ resting in a puddle of hot sheets.

My desk is littered with glasses and bottles. I have cans in the bare spots on my windowsill next to my radio. The bottles, some of them beer, occasionally jitter about and nudge each other as if they are making jokes about me and trying to hold in their laughter. The cocktail party never ceases, though the soda cans that I have made wallflowers of just sit silently, ever watching me just above my head and seeing the words as I type them even now.

Another downside to this insatiable dilemma is the countless bathroom breaks I have to take. Making my way past the shrouded laundry room and over the threshold right next to the bathroom. This of course is a bigger issue at night, taking twice as long to reach my destination as I peer around each doorway and corner on my lengthy journey of about fifty feet to the toilet. Double takes and long bouts of waiting in the doorway as I make certain that the shadows are just shadows, and not lumbering souls in the corner.

My medicine cabinet with its three mirrored doors mock me when I sit down for relief and have to face it. Its panes break apart my face in its reflection and make me look at my different parts, sneering at the others and then focusing on me. My reflection hates me – and its making me thirsty.