Cold. The first thing he became aware of was the bitter, frosty cold. Strong gusts of wind had dispersed the unnatural heat of the day, raising goose bumps on his naked chest. For a moment briefly he wondered what had happened to his shirt, but for the life of him he could not remember.

It was a pitch black night, blacker than the inside of a black cat under a new moon. He could almost taste this kind of darkness on his tongue, and feel it on his skin. Thick, threatening clouds completely blocked the stars from view, so that the moon could only be glimpsed occasionally. Even then its sallow flare couldn't manage to send down enough light to banish the overwhelming darkness. He could not see his hand, though he held it close in front of his face.

Thick swaths of mist, absolutely wrong for this season, shrouded the ground at his feet and seemed to cling to him, so that he couldn't see the ground. The thick mist encircled the gravestones and bushes, totally disorienting him.

This didn't bother him. He knew the path he had to follow. He'd seen it so many times he could follow it with his eyes closed. A spooky silence surrounded him. At times it was almost deafening, broken only intermittently by the murmuring of the wind or a weird rattling sound. Occasionally he heard hushed voices, though he couldn't locate their source.

His heart pounded faster in his chest. He hesitated. But he was compelled to go on, to follow this path to its conclusion. He ran his hands nervously through his hair and moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. The voices seemed to both call to him and push him forwards. He found himself unable to resist their grisly lure.
He stumbled as he went along his way, and just managed to catch himself when he suddenly realized that the ground fell away in front of his feet. Shakily, he skidded and slithered to a halt in front of a seemingly fathomless depth.

Dizziness and nausea hit him when he realized that he had nearly dropped into the recently excavated grave of some poor lost soul. It took him a minute to pluck up his courage, and he stared as if magnetized into the hole that should have long since been refilled.

The fog obscured the ground, but he knew exactly what to expect. He didn't have to see it. But as if by his command, as if it was waiting for him and him alone, the fog split and separated and lifted to reveal a dark oak coffin. It took his breath away. The hushed voices grew louder, and he heard the rhythmic knocking sound again.

It would happen again, just exactly as it always had before. There was no escape, nothing he could do to stop it. He was totally helpless! He felt so defenseless. Not able to move, not able to cry out, not able to breathe let alone to think straight.

Something cold touched his arm and withdrew, to strike again instantly. It was not violently painful, but it was enough to make him wince. His blood froze in his veins. He attempted to turn toward his attacker to avert the blows. Despite his best efforts, he failed. Something held him immobilized, so he couldn't turn around, much less defend himself. All he could do was to strike out blindly at his assailant. This was no simple task from the position he was in.

His flailing arms encountered … nothing. He felt no assailant. Whoever or whatever it was had vanished into the slowly lifting fog, which seemed to scorn his efforts. No more ranging, whitely gleaming spots to at least soften somewhat the horror that seemed to await him.

As if compelled, he glanced towards the coffin. His destiny was unavoidable. He wouldn't do it, wouldn't look, would rather run away. But he was frozen in place, as if thousands and thousands of remorseless, relentless hands were holding him there, robbing him of movement. He couldn't even lift his eyelids. Even his heart, still pounding like a steam engine in his chest, seemed to him like an alien object. His stomach cramped in anticipation of what would happen next.

Slowly, very slowly, the heavy coffin lid opened with a ghastly creaking sound. It made him want to hold his hands over his ears.
"Please, this can't be real! Don't let it happen!"
Like a mantra this idea rushed through his mind, until he felt as if the only thing that existed was this single plea.

He still couldn't move, couldn't close his eyes, couldn't breathe. He could merely stare compulsively at the eerie events he knew would happen at any moment. It had always happened exactly this way; nothing would change today.

Two half rotten hands, their partly fleshless bones gleaming in the darkness, reached out to him from the now completely opened coffin. The fingers uncurled like claws toward him, just as in the scene that was replaying in his mind. They came nearer and nearer, so now he could see the appending arms, too, sparsely vested in their rags, the remnants of clothing that had survived the long time underground. His gaze compulsively wandered to the face, to the eyes only consisting of empty eye sockets that nevertheless weren't empty. Hundreds of wee squirming worms seemed to stare up on him from the eye sockets. A low moan struggled to escape from his throat.

Not a lovely sight. He felt the urge to throw up, but managed to keep the contents of his stomach down. No wonder, he couldn't even budge a single muscle. At this moment the corpse propped up to a sitting position, like he'd seen it countless times on TV.
In his heart he suddenly knew that nothing could harm him. It never harmed anything. The hands had never reached him before, and it would be the same today.
Relief flooded through him, but now he noted that he was dripping with sweat despite the coldness. A cheeky streak of his slightly too long hair was glued to his forehead with the moisture.
Slowly he regained more and more control over his body. The knot in his stomach began to loosen and he was able to suck in gulps of air again, which he thankfully absorbed in his lungs. Just as he began to feel safe, it happened.

With the increasing wind the rain started, saturating his already soaked hair. It lashed like small spiky needles on his naked skin. At the same moment his attacker returned.
A series of quick, precise, but not too painful jabs followed, this time against his upper torso. Even more threatening were the voices. A female voice filtered out of the muffled sounds, calling out his name.
"Peter… Peter".

He tried to escape from her, knowing that she bade him no good. With the increasingly urgent voice, the hands reached him this time. He felt as if his heart must stop beating as the claws grabbed onto his shoulders and … shook him.

With a sudden jerk Peter Caine jumped up. The infuriated face of his lover Jordan glared at him from right under his very nose.

"Peter! Peter! Come on, wake up! Just look at this mess! Everything is wet!"

Reality hit him like a blow. He could hear the trailer of the horror movie in the background. He glanced around bemusedly at the unfamiliar surroundings.

He was in Jordan's living room. He must have fallen asleep in the armchair in front of the open window, looking for a cool place to escape the sweltering heat. The window frame was banging in the violent winds that swept in the open window, causing it to rattle. The now sodden curtains fluttered in the thunderstorm, which had caused the sudden temperature drop and chilled his damp skin. He peered at the carpet, now sodden with the rain, and then again at Jordan's glowering face.

And he knew this nightmare wouldn't be over for a long time yet.

The end