Insomnia Horror Collection

It is I Who Walk These Halls

My name is Summer Donovan and I had a dream. No, if I'm honest I keep having a dream. The same damn dream, over and over. It's a house— the house; two stories and white. I can see it, because I'm there, always there, when the dream starts. I'm standing in front of this house about twenty feet out from the beautiful wrap-around porch staring at the windows. Five windows on top and four on the bottom, all the same height with the four on the bottom separated in the middle exactly by a beautiful, heavy wooden door.

There is a swinging chair at the right-hand side of the porch and, just to the right of the door, are two rockers and a kind of outdoor love seat with a small, metal-worked table in the center for people to place drinks. The roof is a kind of teal green with a smoke stack from the fireplace on the far right that I bet feels wonderful in the winter. I can guess in my dream it is always fall because the woods that sprawl behind the property are a fire-orange and brown.

As I make my way up and onto the wrap-around porch, I can see into the windows of the first story with the drapes pulled back and blinds opened. There are no lights on and no people seem to be inside. In fact, it seems to always be sometime during the night. I feel so at peace here, so drawn and naturally at ease. Like when you move out, but return to your parents' home— it will always have that comforting feeling to it; familiar and warm.

I reach for the door knob and turn it. It opens and I enter. The inside is just as homey as the outside; all the woodwork on the stairs and floors is original and well-cared for. Although I see no people, the home seems lived-in and kept in pristine condition. I find myself moving slowly from room to room; stopping in each and just taking it in.

At times, I feel like someone is watching me, but no matter where I look, I'm alone. It all feels so real. I can even smell certain foods that were just made or wood burning from the fireplace in some of the visits to this dream home.

In this visit, I climb the stairs to the second story and, as usual, I am in awe of the home. I move to view even the guest bathroom. I am shocked to hear the toilet running as if it were just flushed. I walk in just as the water is circling the bowl and going down. As per usual, I am alone— always alone. I dismiss it, because I am quite positive I am in a dream and the normal laws of reality and physics do not apply.

This beautiful home, why do you haunt and linger in my dreams so...

I wake up sometime between three and four in the morning and decide to just stay awake since my normal wake up time is five. I walk into my kitchen and make a pot of coffee. After it is finished, I sit with my steaming cup at the dining table and reflect on the dream as I have done so many times before. I don't know where the house is and I wonder...

Have I seen this place before? Have I visited it or seen it on television? Did I see it as a kid or did a friend describe it to me or maybe even on a postcard or just anything? I try to rationalize it over and over in my mind as to why I keep dreaming of this house; this damn beautiful perfect home, because that's exactly what it feels like... home.

I half-consider calling my husband, Tim, knowing he is awake by now, but I remember that he is probably sick to death of hearing about this home. He has dealt with me waking up countless times over the years, telling him about it with him patiently reassuring me it's just a dream. He even humors me by asking me to describe it and fantasizes with me about it... Bless his heart. He is a good, patient man.

My husband is out of town, working. He designs and installs security systems for businesses, small and large. Recently, he got a contract for a series of office buildings somewhere in New England. I probably should just let him be and keep this one to myself. Not like he hasn't heard it before.