So yesterday I had that strange new neighbor girl come over.

The day before that, I had the meeting at the cafe.

And now last night, I had the strangest most vivid dream I’ve had for a long time.

I was in the corridor again. The door stood as shut as ever at the end of the hall. The corridor reminded me of something you’d see in a manor house or hotel from the 1800s. It was dark and dusty, yet it had been beautiful once.

I walked forward, step by step, down the hall. The door grew closer and closer. A heartbeat, echoing through the hall, boomed louder and louder the closer I got. Finally, I reached out a hand and turned the handle. The door opened with a sigh.

In the room, dust motes drifted through the air and cobwebs clung to the corners. A gray light, like sunlight slipping through the cracks of boarded-up windows, filled the space. Before me stood a mirror as tall as I was. I looked at my reflection, which grinned back at me. In some remote part of my brain I was weirded out. But in the dream, I thought this was all very normal.

My reflection self held something up. I squinted, leaned in close. It was an address. Then a hand reached from inside the mirror and pulled me in. A freezing cold wave struck me, driving the air from my lungs.

Then I woke up.

The address was still in my head, so I wrote it down. I think—I don’t know how this is possible though—that it is a real place. The street, at least, I knew was real.

341 Newcastle Street.

I don’t know what to do. This is all too much. No amount of morning whiskey has helped clear my head. I’m due in the office to hand in an article, so figuring this out will have to wait. I’m too scared right now anyway to go to the address.