“Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in waking, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil.”

― Edgar Allan Poe, Complete Tales and Poems

You knew this was going to happen.

The words played in Lochlan Ward’s head over and over as he crouched down between the red vinyl bench seat and the table in the back of Rose’s Diner. The words weren’t exactly wrong but neither were they entirely true.

Loch had been having the dreams ever since he was a kid. And sure, they were becoming more vivid in the past few months. That was hardly a clear indication that his nightmares were about the leek into reality like a faucet drip turning into a dam break.

The wet sounds from the other end of the diner were dwindling. Either the unlucky diner that had woken up and started fighting back against the hooded figures that came in was giving up the ghost or the cultists were done poking holes in him.

Running a hand over his face, two days worth of stubble on his chin and eyes dry and raw from lack of sleep - he hardly ever slept when working on a big story. Now, however, it hardly seemed important that the head of Arkham Police Department was taking money under the table from the Governor’s brother. Not much mattered when you’re hearing people die and you could be next.

Loch needed to get the hell out of there. He had no weapons on him unless you counted car keys and a swiss army knife. The second was in his hand, the tiny blade out. It wouldn’t do much but at least it was something.

Slowly, Lock stuck his head out to look around. Something shuffled to this right. He turned to see a body, unconscious or dead, dragged away by a hooded figure. The dingey tile was streaked with what could only be blood but it looked black in the darkness.

Pulling back under the table, he took a breath, listening to see if he was spotted. Nothing came closer and he couldn’t hear any of that strange language - gurgling at times and high pitched and drawn out at others.

Looking back out, he turned to his left. There was another booth and then the cubby where the waitresses sorted out change and kept rolls of silverware.

Past the cubby and around the corner was the rubber-edged swinging doors into the kitchen. Loch knew there was a back door through there and probably a number of knives he could grab that would do a better job than the one in his hand. The only problem was this meant moving, likely making noise, crossing an open space between the cubby and kitchen doors, and then the door movement itself.

He wasn’t particularly stealthy. Loch knew this from years of attempts at listening in on conversations or trying to sneak information out of a place. But he was fast and relatively strong.

Grimacing at the idea of outrunning or having to take down one of those cloaked figures, he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Besides, there was more than one of them.

The door to the diner opened and closed, sending the bell above it clanging.

Loch slipped out of the booth, almost crawling. He made his way into the waitress cubby and stopped for a breath. Listening, he heard more wet dragging, the bell, footsteps at the other end of the diner. There was no way of knowing the orientation of the robed figures without looking up over the edge of the cubby. Loch wouldn’t risk it.

Instead he peeked out and continued his shuffle-crawl around the side towards the kitchen doors.

The open space between cubby and doors was a direct path between the back of the diner and the front door. Outside was dark, much darker than it had been only moments ago…before.

Loch pushed the thought away. He would contemplate the moment of vertigo and headachey way the world felt like it slid sideways when he was safe. For now, the robed figures and their golden knives were the problem. Loch didn’t see them.

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A deep breath and he stepped across and through the kitchen doors, pressing them shut behind them so they didn’t flap back and forth and call more attention.

It was too dark to see. Loch almost reached for his phone but remembered it was dead, which had made it impossible to call 911 when the robed figures came in and started stabbing.

Loch tried to remember where the back door was based solely on seeing it when driving around the building and making note of Charlie, the cook, throwing out trash. Figuring it was near the back corner, he stood slowly and held out his hands, Stumbling blindly. Hopefully the grill wouldn’t be so hot it burned him and maybe he could find a knife without harming himself.

Something shuffled to his left. Loch almost called out to see if it was the cook or one of the wait staff. He bit his tongue and took another step in the opposite direction. If it was Charlie or Rose or anyone else…well…the risk was too high. It could be one of those robed bastards with a knife and Loch…he wasn’t a hero.

His hip hit the counter, alerting him that his hands were too high up to find anything before his torso did. He carefully moved around it, trying to make as little noise as possible. Loch didn’t try and feel for a knife, opting to get the hell out of there instead.

Another shuffle, still on the other side of the room. At least it wasn’t getting closer.

Loch felt along the center island until he reached the far corner. To his right he felt heat and knew it was likely the grill. Over the grill was a window between the kitchen and front room. Loch turned and could barely make out the wall of windows and the front door. A robbed figure was standing there, looking away from Loch, thankfully. He couldn’t be sure but they seemed to have no trouble moving in the darkness as if able to see through the dim lighting. Could they have night goggles on? He didn’t doubt it.

Tearing his eyes away from the robbed figure, Loch tried to peer through the dark kitchen. Still nothing. An outline of something large in the back corner that was likely the freezers. Otherwise, very little.

He turned and made his way along the short edge of the island counter and then reached out into the open dark space. His hand landed on the cold metal of the industrial sink. This became his new anchor, following it.

Thud. Rumble. Crash.

“Fuck.”

Loch hit a trash can with his hip, again his searching had was too high to catch it before his body did. Footsteps. Scurrying then a yelp. The flap of the kitchen doors.

Loch scuttled over the trash and found the back door, throwing it open and lunging out into the night.

The back parking lot was all wrong. Where previously the asphalt stretched and met up with a small back road, now the space was bisected by dense overgrowth and sickly looking trees. Loch didn’t have time to wonder at this.

He turned and saw Charlie’s old beat up truck. Half of it anyways. It was like something had sliced off the back end and replaced it with plant growth and brush.

Still, it was the only thing Loch had to hope for so he ran for it. The backdoor of the diner opened again. He could hear it slam against the side of the building followed by that strange gargled language from the robed figures.

As Loch’s hand closed on the truck door’s handle, the hooded figure behind him let out a shriek. From across the parking lot, near the front of the building the shriek was met with another. They were coming for him.

Inside the truck reeked of stale beer and cigarettes. Behind the passenger seat was an open tool box, a testament to how often the truck broke down and Charlie’s handiness. What was sorely missing from the truck was any sort of firearm. Loch checked under the driver seat but found nothing. Turning, he saw one of the robed figures approaching from the front of the truck, unhurried and certain. Its dagger gleamed under the starlight - gold and twisted.

Shutting the driver's side door, Loch made sure both doors were locked and turned back to the tool box. Wrench, screwdrivers, hammer - all ok in a pinch but only in close combat. Just behind the tool box, Loch found something better.

Something heavy and wet sounding thudded on the driver side window. Knock knock.

Loch grabbed the tire iron and turned to see the robed figure. Really see it.

His stomach turned.

What was under the robe wasn’t human. The eyes bulged nearly out of their sockets. The mouth hung slack and behind thick, flabby lips were too many, too sharp teeth in rows. Its tongue lolled to the side, swollen and black. Hands, webbed and taloned, knocked on the window.

Loch shook his head and wriggled across to the passenger side. Holding the tire iron up in a pathetic threat, he grasped the passenger side door handle.

Once unlocked, he nearly fell out but for something stopping him. Another robed figure, missed in his panic.

Its knife came down swift and sure. Loch cried out as the serrated blade tore through his shirt and slid against his collar bone. Flailing, he hit the figure as hard as he could with the tire iron before landing on the pavement.

Another shriek as the figure moved back. Not much but enough, just enough.

Loch scrambled up just in time to see the knife come down on him again…