Pounding feet, running, darkness, fear. Gasping, terrified. Distant light. If I reach it, safe. Exhausted, fear pushing me, burning legs and lungs. Light far away. Screaming as hands grab me, hurt me. Pulling me into the dark, tearing my clothes, hair, skin, violating me.

Wake up screaming; again. Covered in sweat, heart pounding, hyperventilating. It was the nightmare again. Banish the darkness from my room, but not the adrenaline racing through my veins. Have to calm down. It wasn't real. None of it was real. Repeating this mantra, pushing the last dregs of terror from my consciousness, coming back to reality.

Cold floor to the bathroom, splash some water on my face. Mirror shows blue-tinged lips, shaking. Turn on the shower as hot as it will go. Step into the heat, imagine my stress flowing down the drain. My heart is slowing to a natural rhythm. Why do I keep having this nightmare? Why did it start? Three months and it's not getting better; quite the opposite. Sleep is a joke. Despite the makeup, I look like a zombie. The sleeping pills haven't helped. They get me to fall asleep but do nothing to stop the nightmare. I feel drugged the next morning. Some part of it hangs on, shadowing me through the day, making me jumpy and short-tempered. I can't keep living like this. One of these nights, this nightmare will give me a heart attack, and I won't wake up. Shiver at the thought.

Wrapped in a towel, I sit on the bed and flip through the journal I started when this nightmare started repeating. Nothing new to add; what happens is the same, but it's missing the fuzzy edge. It felt so real. I note the fear reaction was stronger, though what I saw was the same; it felt real. Like it was a memory.

Depressed, I realize nothing I have tried has helped. It's time to get some professional help. Resigned, I open my laptop and start researching psychiatrists.

The appointment wasn't what I expected. Or rather, it wasn't what I've seen on TV, no couch, and no Freudian probes. She read my journal, asked questions, gave me a prescription and homework. Three months ago, closing paperwork complete, I moved into my house. It is the only notable change in my life. My assignment is to research my house's history. I don't see how that will help, but I'll try anything.

County records yield two interesting facts. My house sat on a twenty-acre plot, and with one exception, no one has owned it longer than three years. It ended up in the counties' possession thirty-five years ago. They had it twelve years before selling it to a developer who divided the original acreage and built the suburb surrounding it. While that explains why it doesn't look like any house in the area, it makes me question how the county got it and why they had it so long. The clerk explains he doesn't have access to that information. This leads me to think it wasn't a typical purchase. He tells me it was for sale 11 of the 12 years the county had it.

The library takes longer. Dates of publication, but no article index for newspapers. Reels upon reels of microfiche. 1966 yields blurry vision and a hippie headache. The most notable thing was a public mass bra-burning. After a week, all I have is a history of protests. At least the meds have kept my reactions to the nightmare subdued.

Second visit with the psychiatrist. She's pleased the meds have helped dull my physiological response, and I look marginally better. The progress I've made researching the house is "interesting." Need to go further back; it takes time for the county to acquire a property they didn't want. Grind my teeth; back to the microfiche.

1965 contains hippies, demonstrations opposing the Vietnam War, and trials for a child trafficking ring. Disgusting.

Hippie headlines mixing into my nightmare - adding a warped mishmash of flower children and a street fair, sudden fear, the familiar nightmare.

January 1964, front page, "Police raid busts child trafficking ring." Queasy looking at the picture of my house. It can't be, only a similar house.

Under the photo - my address. Five people arrested, seventeen children recovered. Read the children's names.

My name.

My stomach empties into the waste bin as what is reality and what is nightmare flip.