Thunder echoes in my ears.

My eyes fly open.

Hard white light fills the room, washing out the colors. I see myself reflected in a mirror. I'm naked, and I don't remember why. My legs are weak. They start to tremble, and I prop myself up on the vanity in front of me. A quick look around shows tile and stainless steel, marble and porcelain. I'm in a restroom. But where? And how did I get here?

Muted sounds from...somewhere. My head is throbbing, my ears seem stuffed. But I can hear the buzz of the fluorescent lights. I shake my head, to try and clear it.

It doesn't work.

The sounds fade.

The lights go quiet.

I flinch as a deafening cacophony of noise assaults me. I press my ears closed with my thumbs and the volume drops enough for me to recognize that what I'm hearing is music. Too much bass. Each note is like a physical blow. Then, as quickly as it began, the assault wanes. The music doesn't go away, but it does fall off to a bearable level.

I still don't know what is going on, but I remember.

Club Desire. Arcadia's hottest new 'adult' nightspot. Where any and all pleasures of the flesh are for sale. I can't help but laugh. Sure, such things are technically illegal, but in Arcadia the syndicates mostly do as they please, thanks to their well tended stables of corrupt cops and bribed judges. The only time anything gets done is if there is overwhelming evidence of wrongdoing, and since the cops can't (or won't) look for it, it falls to the press to ferret out the truth. That's why I came here. I'm a reporter. Elisa Cameron, pleased to meet you. I came to Club Desire to see if the tip I got was true.

On the face of it, Club Desire is an ordinary dance club, owned by respectable and upright pillars of the community. But a little bird told me that they are just a front for Vincent Gasbini, Jr., the head of the Gasbini crime family. The same bird said Gasbini was at the club most nights. Being an ambitious girl, I decided to see if it was true.

It was. Gasbini was here. I spotted him not long after I arrived. I didn't stare at him, of course, but I kept an eye out. I danced. I had a few drinks. No, they weren't alcoholic.

Nature called.

I went to the bathroom.

And something happened.

I rub the back of my head. The headache is fading. Did someone slip me a Mickey? And then...rape me? Panic flares briefly, but fades. No. That's not it. Theft? I had a fair amount of money in my purse, but why take my clothes? Nothing makes sense. So what do I do now? Given the goings on in Club Desire, my nakedness probably won't draw much notice. I can call my sister, she can bring me some clothes, take me home. Resolved on my plan, I reach for the bathroom door.

My hand passes through the knob.

I blink. I shake my head. Nah. I just missed it, that's all. Still a bit woozy from whatever happened, that's it. I try again. I'm very deliberate.

My hand passes through the knob.

Panic returns. Ok, I'll be honest. I freak out. I slap my hands together. The clap is comfortingly loud. I try the knob again. Same result. It's then that I catch something out of the corner of my eye. A shape. A shadow. I spin around. I'm alone.

But I'm not.

The shadows rush in...

Thunder echoes in my ears.

My eyes fly open.

I'm back where I started, naked, staring at myself in the mirror, leaning on the vanity.

Leaning on the vanity. Even as I think about the strangeness of it, the thing turns as solid as smoke. I barely keep my balance. As I stare uncomprehendingly at the now insubstantial vanity, music starts up. The same as last time? Different? I can't tell. And frankly, I don't care. I just want to get out of here. I spend Lord knows how much time trying to grab the doorknob, trying to find whatever it was that let me touch the sink. Otherwise, how am I going to get out?

Yeah, I thought of that, eventually. Like they say, sometimes the answer is too obvious.

As I pass through the door the sound disappears. It doesn't fade, it's simply there one instant and gone the next. The club is full of people, of light, of motion, of frenetic activity. It's dead quiet. Like watching a silent movie. Then, as I watch, the people flicker like mirages and fade away. The light goes with it.

I can feel the shadows gathering.

I bolt for the door.

I don't make it.

Thunder echoes in my ears.

This time, I try to pay attention to my mental state as I'm leaning on the vanity.

It doesn't help.

I try a few times, but my heart isn't in it. I leave the bathroom. The club is different than it was last time. The people are translucent, the music muted. I don't linger. This time, I make it to the street.

Something is wrong with the world. The sun is overhead, the sky is clear, but it isn't bright. Instead, there is an odd kind of twilight, like the dimming you see during a partial eclipse of the sun. At the limits of my vision the twilight gives way to true darkness. What is going on?

Phantom pedestrians brush past me, walk through me, ignore me.

I start walking.

I don't know where I'm going. Not consciously anyway. I end up at the Times. Joe, the grandfatherly doorman who says hello to me with a smile, every morning since I started working here, ignores me. I reach out to touch him. He's as insubstantial as everyone else.

I'm confronted with the problem of how to get to the City Room. It's on the twenty-second floor, and I can't punch the elevator buttons. I'm seriously considering taking the stairs when two of my colleagues walk in the front door. I slip into the elevator with them, listen while they exchange small talk, follow them as they debark.

I pad silently through the neatly ordered cubicles. Mine isn't far off, but...

But...

I stop. Turn. Paul Miller is my friend and mentor. His cubicle is nearby. I almost feel drawn to it. The feeling is strange, unnerving.

Paul isn't there.

No surprise. Paul is a bit of a workaholic, usually chasing several stories at once. I smile, and look around. Paul's desk is cluttered with folders and notebooks and all the little bits of flotsam a veteran reporter picks up over the years. One in particular draws my eye.

It has my name on it.

As I reach for it a shiver runs down my spine and my skin crawls. Somehow my fingers find a purchase and the folder flops open. The first thing in it is a clipping, the upper half of the front page of the times. A picture of me takes up the left half of the page below the headline. To the right of it are three columns of text. It's the headline that gets me, though.

'TIMES REPORTER SLAIN'

I feel myself start to shake. I have a hard time focusing, but I manage to read the first lines of the story: 'Arcadia Times reporter Elisa Cameron was found dead in a women's restroom in the Club Desire late last night. Cameron, 29, had been shot execution style...'

This dream isn't funny anymore.

This dream.

This nightmare...

I want to wake up.

I feel it, and look up just before it happens.

The shadows rush in.

Thunder echoes in my ears.

I'm not going to wake up...

...am I?