HARRY LYLE WAS dreaming. A gut-churning sweat-drenched horror of a dream. A nightmare, one from which he desperately tried to wake.
Something was hunting him. He didn’t know what it was. He didn’t want to know. He did know, however, with the certainty that dreams bring, that it hunted him.
Hunted him through the dark. Hunted him through narrow alleys and twisting backstreets of a city that was a sick parody of his own. The streets curled back on themselves. No matter which turn he chose, he’d emerge once again into the same bizarre square where he now stood.
The square was thirty paces a side. Windowless, gray-bricked walls enclosed it, towering to a night sky above. And in the middle sat a perfect recreation of his bedroom, including his bed.
And on that bed lay…himself.
Dead or dyin
