In that foggy intermediate state between sleep and wake, the dream starts.  No.  Not a dream.

Unease, a tingle at the base of the skull, finds a spot and waits.  The unease creeps along the spine, quick and determined.  When it gathers its strength, it transforms itself into fear.  The fear is a living thing, which detaches itself, now a beast.  The beast has tentacles.  Each dreadful tentacle coils and uncoils, nearly touching, not touching.  It stays just out of the field of vision. Only detectable by a shift in the air.

The heart squeezes, blood races through constricted vessels. Each breath comes in short, shallow gasps. The eyes slam open.  To nothing. Darkness. Solitude.

A gentle breeze sighs through the open window.  The cicadas hum. It’s the only noise.

Except for the pounding of the heart. And the crackle of the unquiet mind.