It never is hard getting to my house. I find a undisturbed room, make sure I have free time, and close my eyes. When I feel the gentle confusion of sleep arriving, I begin to count.
"1234, 2234, 3234, 4234, 2234..."
Flashes of my house appear on my eyelids, and take shape.
It's a brick rectangle, built on a hill. To many people, it may have a type of boring charm, nestled back in a 2 acre strip of land. To me, this house will always be home. Memories in every inch of this place, on every inch of the ground. This place was created to help me remember things I had forgotten. Important things. I hoped if I wandered around long enough, I'd come across the right one.
In my design of this place, I tried to make inconsistencies. A green sky, Black windows, and a thick fog, concealing the fact that there was no neighborhood surrounding this house. Walk far enough into the fog, and you'd find yourself back here. Always back at the house.
I'm at the end of the driveway, fog behind, and the house in front. The entire thing was disconcerting, of course. But it's best to be on edge in a dream. If you forget that it isn't real, there's a chance you may forget the entire dream. That did occasionally happen. I would wake up with no recollection of what had happened at the house.
I strolled up the gravel driveway, and heard the crunching of rocks below my feet.
I walked forward to the house, to the little used front door. I hopped up five steps, hand on the knob, turned, and pulled hard.
She was dead.