The cell is like any other, cold, dark and damp. A scrap of food is being fought over in the corner by two monstrous rats. The single prisoner doesn’t seem to mind the struggle, as seeing something else fighting for survival reminds him that his current state of affairs is not unique. A tiny hole in the ceiling lets through just enough moonlight to illuminate the surrounding cells. His momentary feeling of calm quickly disappears. He is not only alone in the cell, but is also alone in the entire room.

“Where did they take them?” the man wonders. He stands to his feet to better gather his bearings. He takes a step toward the barred walls imprisoning him, and the rats scurry away, leaving behind the scrap of food. He takes a closer look and recoils when he realizes it is not food, but rather a human foot. The man leans down to pick it up and holds it up to the moonlight.

“Poor sod. Sadly, no indication to whom you used to be attached to,” he says. The loud creak of the wooden door at the end of the room startles the man, and he drops the foot to the ground. He retreats back to the corner of his cell and sits down.

“I wonder if this idiot is still asleep?” a high-pitched voice says from the now-opened doorway.

“That’s what we are here to ensure, you dolt,” replies a soft but confident female voice. Their footfalls slowly approach the man’s cell. The clanging of wood on metal is heard as they walk until they stop in front of their captive.

“Wakey, wakey!” the high-pitched voice screams as he bangs a baton against the door. The man lifts his head to view his captors for the first time. Before him stands just one man, a portly fellow covered in dusty rags, the remnants of a hood dangling from his shoulders. The baton he holds is poorly crafted but clearly has seen some use, as the grooves along its side are deep and plentiful. His pants are tattered and patched and his shoes are burlap bags tied right underneath his knees. At his feet, a black dog, which is surprisingly clean compared to its master, slowly wags its tail. The captor looks past this person and back down toward the doorway.

“What are you looking at?” shouts the man holding the baton.

“He’s looking for me, you imbecile.”

The man in the cell quickly stands up and briskly makes his way to the cell door.

“What kind of trick is this? Is there someone behind you?” inquires the prisoner. The dog stands up and approaches the cell. It sticks his head through the bars and raises it, his eyes locking with the man.

“No trick, you simpleton. Not that you would understand a true trick if one were staring you right in the face,” the dog replies. It removes its head from between the bars, let’s out a dismissive laugh and walks back toward the other man.

“What kind of game are you playing? I demand answers! What have you done with my friends?” the prisoner cries. The man with the baton wraps it against the cell door.

“Enough questions from you!” he screams. “We’re here for you to give answers to us!”

He looks down at the dog and asks, “Did I say that right?”

The dog lowers its head and sighs, “Yes, you said that correctly,” it replies. “Now go back upstairs and let our master know that the last prisoner is awake. The grown ups need some time alone to speak.”

The man, pleased that he didn’t anger the dog, smiles and begins to run to the door.

“Stop!” screams the dog. “Leave the keys, will you not?”

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The man stops and turns and slumps down. “I’m sorry. You know how I get excited.” He grabs the keys from his waist and motions them to the dog.

“Is this supposed to be a joke? So easy for such a small brain to get excited, but not quite large enough to realize I don’t have hands?” says the dog. The prisoner stares at the pair on the other side of the bars, a bewildered look across his face.

“You’re a talking dog?” he asks incredulously.

The dog turns back towards the prisoner, looks him up and down and then looks back at the fat man. “It appears maybe yours isn’t the smallest brain in the room after all. Now go, tell the master we will be ready with the last prisoner shortly”.

The man drops the keys on the ground next to the dog and walks away without saying another word. The dog watches him leave, waits until the door is closed and then turns to face the prisoner.

“Do not pay heed to that oaf. Why our master has kept him around all of these years is beyond my understanding,” the dog says. The man in the cell, still unsure of what he sees before him, throws reason out of his mind and decides to engage in conversation with the animal before him.

“So, you’re a talking dog,” he says.

“Established. Really my quip about your brain size was just that, a quip, but please don’t let it be true,” the dog replies. The prisoner lets out an astonished laugh and sits down to better view the dog.

“Try to pet me and you will lose your hand,” the dog commands.

“Lose my hand? I am in a dream and you think I am afraid of a talking dog, a dumb, fat lackey, and losing my hand?” the prisoner retorts. The dog, equal parts enraged and impressed, takes a few steps back from the cell door. “Tsk, tsk. Now you had to go and upset me. A shame, really, for you really are quite the handsome specimen. But I am sure when all that remains of you is a hand, it will still be a handsome one,” the dog replies.

Before the prisoner can respond he is dumbstruck by what takes place before him. The dog begins to mutter to itself in some language he cannot understand. The air around him, already cool and damp, becomes chilled. The dampness turns to ice as little crystals form on every surface of the room, including him. He looks back at the dog and notices it has gotten bigger and its hair has gotten longer. The icy particles fly off of his bare skin, leaving little cuts behind, some deep enough to instantly draw blood. He reaches for his right forearm in pain.

“What is this?” he cries out. The rest of the ice in the room begins to swirl around the dog, obscuring it from view. The soft mutters from before are now loud commands being spoken over and over again. He tries to make out any words, or even a sound that he recognizes, but it is all alien to him. The ice continues to spin faster until it violently comes to a stop, leaving behind a tower roughly six feet tall.

The once chilled air now begins to warm. The room grows humid and the dank smell of human waste from before becomes almost tangible in his mouth. The heat continues to increase and he notices the bars his hands are grabbing begin to glow. Before he can remove them, the smell of burning flesh erupts into the air. He lunges his entire body away from the cell door, causing bits of his hand to remain on the bars. Through his watery eyes and dizziness he can notice the skin already beginning to sizzle.

“WHAT IS THIS!” he screams in pain and horror. He wipes the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. He looks down and sees the imprint of the metal bars burned into his now exposed palm. The room is now filled with steam, thick and acrid. Unable to determine one smell from another, he reaches down to grab his shirt and keels over in unimaginable pain. His shirt has melted to his chest and in spots the skin has been charred to the bone.

Somehow, amongst the horror of realizing he is being cooked alive, he manages to get to his feet and look out of his cell. The severed foot the rats were battling from before is now a heap of blackened bones. The bars can no longer be seen. The steam is so thick he tries to wave his arms through it as though it is a spider’s web. Each pass through the air sees more of his skin bubbling as a result of the heat.

“Please! I beg of you! What is this madness?” he desperately cries out.

At that moment a void appears just outside of where his cell door once stood. The ice tower from before is gone and in its place is the fuzzy outline of a person. What appears to be a hand reaches through the steam towards the prisoner. It gently lands on his cheek and caresses his now deformed face.

The prisoner musters the last of his strength to open his eyes once more. He knows that when he does they will be boiled inside of his own skull. He knows that it doesn’t matter because soon his eyelids will melt away. But, most importantly, he knows soon he will awake from this nightmare. As he opens his eyes he sees the striking image of a woman with long black hair. As the man slips away into unconsciousness he hears the woman say in a soft, but confident voice, “Assuredly, not a dream”.