I had this frightening dream about ghosts. The kind of ghosts which would kill you in an instant. Gruesome deaths, too. Uncaring murderers. Always three of us would go to investigate, but only two of us would ever come back. We never knew when it would be our turn to be the one to die. And this was frightening. But I had to go. Each time, I had to go.
There was always a ladder traversing a crawlspace with a decreasing circumference. One time it was up three levels into the attic of the institution I was running. Once, three levels down, into the basement. Each level corresponded with a change in circumference of the crawlspace, which mingled the fear of being killed instantly with the nearly immobilizing fear of being trapped. To have any remote chance of escape removed from the equation.
On both trips I was apart of, by the time we'd finished the last level of the ladder, one of ghosts would be there to greet us with a pristine, frozen-expression plastic mannequin sliced cleanly into two pieces. Of course it wasn't a mannequin when we'd started on the ladder, it was a member of our expedition. It had felt like one of the ghosts had befriended me, that my logical conversations with him devoid of emotion moved him to kinship, but this never lessened the fear I had that he would strike me next without reason.
I kept waiting for Bill Murray to show up.
I figured if Bill Murray showed up, it would actually be a comedy, and everything would be okay.
But Bill Murray never showed up.