This is getting frequent, too frequent, he thinks.
He can’t remember exactly what the dream was – he’d remembered it when he woke up right after the dream, but he was too tired and dozed off again.
All he can he remember is that in the dream, there was a figure sitting in front of him, veiled under opaque white fabric, and then that fabric was yanked off and he saw the figure, he saw the face, the skin wrinkled and droopy and sagging and almost red, but maybe that memory is tainted by the images of the devil he’s seen in movies and paintings.
All he can remember is the realization that there’s something familiar with the face: that face was also his, with the skin wrinkled and droopy and sagging. That face was also his.
Then there was a sense of dread when he woke up, but as he dozed off again, he half-wished he could dream the same dream again, or the continuation of the dream.
His other satanic dream was two weeks prior. It involved falling down a rabbit hole. Like Alice. Down, down the rabbit hole. He was clinging to a figure. The figure was wrapped in opaque white gauze. As they were falling down, he unwrapped the gauze in panic, he unwrapped it and unwrapped it and unwrapped it until the thing beneath the gauze was uncovered and he was clinging on to it, and he woke up screaming and crying. He woke up alone.
When one dreams, one dreams alone. And that dread, the dread that comes from dreams, it can never be shared.