Thurs­day night, in which Shan­non and her friends (fic­tional, face­less, exclu­sive to this dream) are seri­ally killing peo­ple for sport. Leav­ing a bag full of mason jars full of blood in a taxi cab. Eben had killed him­self in an aban­doned neigh­bor­hood man­sion; Shan­non moves in with the intent to die, because if you live in a house that hosted somebody’s sui­cide, you will be rained upon by ghosts from all over the neigh­bor­hood and they will devour your soul. I go in with her and soon leave out of fear. Walk­ing home, mid-day, I feel all these gusts, and watch tall, skinny, cloudy fig­ures with vague black eyes begin com­ing down the street…first only one, but I hear oth­ers in the dis­tance, now see­ing three or four at a time, and I know there are many more com­ing from other direc­tions as well. I walk past a small boy, maybe 12 years old, alone, I say “Don’t go in THAT house,” half know­ing that he will. He knocks on Shannon’s door, after a few moments I hear his extended and shrill scream. I imag­ine she’s prob­a­bly show­ing him one or part of one of her many vic­tims, as she has a lot of corpses saved up in there.