On the night when the girl with the dimes haunted my thoughts, terror took on a deeper meaning as I slipped into a second, unforgettable dream. Earlier, visions of an angel and a gramophone had filled my sleep, setting a surreal tone that lingered like mist. But as the night pressed on, I was thrust into a nightmare where I found myself in the seventh level of Hell.

At first, the dream felt oddly calm—almost empty, as if the air itself was holding its breath. But that peace shattered when I caught a glimpse, through a broken concrete window, of a massive, statuesque creature stalking the world outside. Though I could only ever see its shadow looming, its presence was suffocating, its size beyond comprehension. Every surface—buildings, streets, even the sky—was poured from cold gray concrete, casting everything in lifeless hues that reminded me of an endless, overcast day by the California coast.

I huddled inside a small, claustrophobic building, paralyzed by dread. The only movements I dared make were tentative steps in the adjoining hallway, each footfall echoing through the hollow structure. I never saw the creature fully, but its existence pressed against my mind, filling the air with a heavy certainty: I was deep within the seventh level of Hell. Somehow, in the dream, this knowledge was crystal clear—inescapable. When I woke, curiosity drove me to learn what the seventh level meant. What I found chilled me further, confirming the horror I’d felt.

The chaos in the house was more than just a background to my nightmares—it was a living thing, pulsing through the walls and into my bones. As I barricaded myself upstairs, every muffled scream and crash sent a surge of adrenaline through me. The air felt close, thick with dread and the weight of things left unsaid. My own heartbeat seemed to mimic the violence downstairs, thudding erratically as I pressed my back against the door, hoping it would hold.

But terror had not finished with me. As midnight crept closer, the lights flickered, casting elongated shadows that seemed to slither along the walls. I watched as the shapes twisted and merged, forming monstrous silhouettes that resembled the statuesque creature from my dream. The concrete hell I’d visited in sleep felt suddenly less distant—as if the nightmare had reached through the veil, clawing its way into the waking world.

A cold, metallic scent hung in the room, and my breath came in shaky bursts. I could hear the argument below quieting to sinister murmurs before erupting again, louder and more frenzied. Panic gnawed at me, urging me to run, but there was nowhere to go. My room felt impossibly small, the windows seemed to shrink, and the darkness outside pressed closer, eager to consume every sliver of safety.

The sense of being watched grew unbearable. I could almost feel the presence from my dream—vast, patient, hungry—waiting just beyond my barricade. Each minute stretched longer, the house echoing with rage, fear, and something unnamed. I clung to the fragile hope that morning would break the spell, but in that moment, every light felt unreliable, and every shadow threatened to swallow me whole. The seventh level of Hell was no longer just a vision; it was here, seeping through the cracks in my reality, and I was trapped inside its jaws.