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In a haunted house, a classic manor, an open dining room, every surface spray-painted blue-black and draped with plastic cobwebs, and two symmetrical staircases spiraling up in opposite directions to a balcony overlooking a long wooden table spread with plates and platters filled with bones, I look up at the purple stage lights shining from the rafters, but somehow this peek behind the scenes doesn't quell my growing unease. I notice a red glow emanating from under a doorway. Did the doorknob wiggle slightly or did I imagine it? Hello, I squeak, but nothing replies, so I approach and open the door. Inside: an ordinary bathroom unnaturally clean and modern for this house and divided in two sections separated by saloon-style swinging doors. In the first half are twin sinks and mirrors I dare not stare into. the red glow I follow fills the latter half of the room behind the saloon doors. I push through. An ordinary toilet ahead, a normal shower on the left, but mounted on the right wall: a large opaque rectangular light, the source of the red, pulsing like a slow heartbeat. Without warning, a strong wind blows, lifting and pushing me back a foot. Is someone here, I blurt dumbly. There is a presence; I can feel it. A gentler breeze from the other direction swirls around me, cooling me, whispering my name. No, I think. No, this is not him. He is not here. I am, the voice insists. Do not be afraid. The red light glows in sync with the voice. I reach out my hand and place my palm against the warm plastic. The identity of that presence, although absurd, is undeniable. I found you, says the voice. I didn't think it was possible. It isn't; you're dead, I say, and the unreality strikes me as I remember where I am: a bathroom in a haunted house located where? At the end of this thought, a sharp wave of vertigo embraces me and the room tilts out of alignment and I wake up, possibly alone.