Fear. I've stumbled upon a strange internet conspiracy. A group of European(?) terrorists have kidnapped an important personage and are holding him for ransom. They've set up a website on which to broadcast photographs of the tortures to which they are subjecting their unfortunate captive.

The pictures are ghastly and merciless, each containing an image of bloody, lopped-off body parts and mangled, still-attached appendages. The terrorists have somehow logged my e-mail, my I.P. address, and my location. They know where I am, and they will be coming for me shortly.

Bloody paper bags, each containing evidence of the sordid spectacle to which I was just privy, have been transferred to my home. I have very little time to hide them before the terrorists arrive. My mind is awash with terror, doubt, and inchoate plans to save myself from this nightmare. I rush to my car, bags in hand, and attempt to stuff the bloody sacks into the trunk. I get them inside, but the trunk won't close!

Too panicked to try another hiding place, I desperately slam the trunk shut again and again, each time staring in horror as it refuses to stay closed.

As my trepidation reaches its zenith, I hear the voice of a little boy coming from the driveway. There is another car, this one unfamiliar to me, parked where my parent's vehicle should be. I'm drawn towards the sound of the voice, compelled by hope, confusion, and morbid curiosity to discover who exactly has come for a visit.

Suddenly, I'm struck by comprehension. This situation is bizarre and implausible. How did a website transfer material goods to my house? In fact, this isn't my house at all. Why, then, is my computer inside? This must be a dream!

This realization frightens me even /more/, somehow. I scratch my arm, hoping to wake myself up if this is, indeed, a dream. It doesn't work. The absurdity of the situation still has me convinced that I am, indeed, asleep.

So I do what any normal, rational person does when he thinks he's asleep, I try to fly. It works, but I only get about two feet above the ground. This is cool for a few moments, but then I realize I can neither ascend nor make my way back towards the ground, no matter how much I strain in either direction.

My exertions produce some of the strangest imagery I've ever experienced without the use of psychadelic drugs. I simultaneously remain hovering, unable to move, and end up being thrust into space. A prismatic array of nebulae, galaxies, and quasars mix and meld with choice slices of bits of my yard, bedroom, and living room. This should be /very/ cool, but it terrifies me for some reason. Although I can't move my mouth, a strident mental scream continually echoes through my brain, wake up, wake up, wake up

I feel my leg move. Not my leg in the dream, but my real leg. I have two bodies. Two bodies! I can feel both, but the one which I just moved is definitely the genuine article. My dream body feels somehow /less/, as if projecting myself into another world has somehow attenuated my essential self.

I move my real body to the edge of the bed before my eyes finally adjust to the real world. My bedroom comes into focus. I'm here! I'm alive! My heart-beat is impossibly fast and irregular, and my limbs feel like ice. I pace around my house for a few minutes, expecting my environment, rubbing my arms, and attempting to ascertain whether or not I'm in reality. Finally, accept that I cannot discern any real difference between this reality and the one in the dream, outside of plausibility and memories.

I don't know why these images elicited such ineffable horror in me. My entire body was soaked in sweat when I awoke, and it took me an entire day to get over the fear. Perhaps it was how bloody realistic and vivid this dream was. Or maybe it was my complete inability to distinguish the difference between my verity and versimilitude outside of a few facts and general staples of my life.

I literally cannot extricate this dream or the feelings it invoked from my mind. It was as if the images and events were merely symbols for some sort of unspeakable evil. While writing this dream down, I came to realize that, by themselves, the situation or the images aren't very novel or original, and, in written form, it will be difficult to understand how they could evoke any fear whatsoever. I umm, just had relate this thing to someone. So, I'm sorry for wasting your time. I suppose that's what dream logs are for, though. Sigh.