Wed., Oct. 4, 2006

Quinn stood in the living room, a large kitchen knife clutched in his hand. It had been the first thing he thought of when he woke up, bolting from bed and heading straight for the only weapon he had in the apartment.

Just what good a knife, or any weapon, would do him was not clear. It did not even make him feel better. He just stood at the door, waiting for something to come through it.

It was a dream, of course. Just another in a long string of nightmares. But it didn’t matter. He could not shake the feeling-no, the certainty-that something was coming for him. It could arrive at any minute. Worse, it may already be here.

Quinn’s hands were sweating. The sound of his breath was so loud he held it briefly just to ensure there was no one else there. How many nights had he stood here, waiting for a demon that wouldn’t show? How much sleep had he even had?

He glanced at the clock on his wall, saw the hands creep past 5:42 a.m. He mentally calculated that he had four hours sleep even while he anxiously watched the door.

It would pass, he knew. He could not even remember how long he had been standing here. Fifteen minutes? Twenty? His heart was still racing. If he was lucky, he hadn’t screamed this time. If he had, he was certain to hear about it from Gertrude upstairs, who seemed to believe he was shouting in the middle of the night as a result of Satanism or some bizarre sexual practice. Somehow the real reason-a bad nightmare-just didn’t cut it with her.

He wondered if he could at least bring himself to sit down. That was usually the first step toward calming down. Never taking his eyes off the door, he retreated to his armchair on the back wall.

Janus had often joked that Quinn was the only guy he knew whose recliner was angled away from the television. Quinn never told him the reason why.