Disclaimer: I still don't own Doctor Who.

AN: Hello! Just so we're all on the same page, this is the sequel to A Living Nightmare. If you haven't read it, give it a go before this one or else you'll be confused.

To all of my returning readers, I'm very glad you were interested in continuing reading this series! (A series, whoa!) Compared to the first, this won't be as gory and bloody. You're welcome. But it won't be all rainbows and unicorns either. Consider it a gothic unicorn, no, a thestral- dark but lovable. That's it. Genres may change, idk yet. Same with the horrible summary.

So, I had this awesome idea to coordinate DW tracks to scenes in the story and tell you guys when to play what track but… it proved too time consuming to sift through. It would have been awesome but you can independently listen to the DW OST as you read along to get into the atmosphere, if you want… Anywho.

As a forewarning, the updates might be (ha! will be) slow due to work at Uni as well as the lack of a concrete plot at the moment. It's still pretty abstract but I have a direction! Just read and let me know what you think. I'm open to suggestions. :D

Er... Geronimo!

A Dying Dream

Chapter One: Running From Phantoms

12-19-11

It's about …two in the morning and I can't sleep, as per usual. Obviously. I've filled this book with more rubbish than actual decent entries as of late. I'm going to need a new book soon. It's been such shit these past few months. Aside from the lack of torture (something you don't say everyday), things haven't changed much. Well. That's not counting the great dose of paranoia I've come down with recently.

What's worse? Thinking something's watching you or knowing something's watching you? ...Or not being able to tell the difference?

Sometimes, I really think I'm going balmy. But that's the Catch 22; a crazy person doesn't know they're crazy. So what in the bleeding hell am I?

Cold weather is constant now since we're well into winter. I guess it gives me a reason to wear long sleeves. I'm still steamed that some old scars got left behind. What good is amazingly fast healing if it only does a half arse job? I know, I really shouldn't complain. I'm alive, aren't I? I've tried healing myself again but, alas, I no longer have super brain powers. They seemed to leave as soon as he did. Which is more than a fair trade, I think.

Like I said before, it's pretty cold. A snow storm is supposed to hit Brentford next week so I should prepare for the idiocy that is undoubtedly going to ensure. I swear, people act like they've never seen snow before and go into a blind panic, rushing to buy food and supplies. And here they already were with their running about doing their holiday shopping and being obnoxiously cheerful, I didn't think they could get any worse. Surprise, surprise.

Waitressing isn't the job for me. The people are almost always aggro and with the deadly combination of the impeding storm with holiday hysteria, they'll be much more intolerable. I just might quit. Actually, I'm astonished I've made it this long without ramming a roller skate up someone's-

Miranda stopped writing and threw down her pen. The sound of her fine-point pen scratching against paper had soothed her, lulling her into a serene mood but as the night passed, however, Miranda began to find the sound rather irritating.

Sighing heavily, she put her face in her hands, elbows resting on the table. She sighed again, opening her eyes and leaning back in her wooden chair, lazily glaring at her open diary. Bored out of her mind, she shifted her gaze to her mug of tea that went cold long ago. She rapidly drummed her nails on the table then stopped.

This was maddening. This was just stupid. Miranda resisted the urge of slamming her head on the table and stood quickly, nearly toppling the chair over. She went into her room and a few moments later, came out with her trainers on. Time to run, she thought, as always.

Miranda let the glass doors of Ellsworth Flats shut quietly behind her. Her breath came out as a small cloud before her face, warming her nose slightly. For a moment, she considered going back for a coat but reasoned it'd be too much once her blood got moving. She started jogging in no particular direction, just as a warm up. Recently, her nightly jogs became longer as she found herself more and more restless. Her insomnia grew so bad one night that she ran all the way to London, a good twelve kilos, at least, and returned with the rising sun.

After a few minutes, she couldn't feel the chill of the winter air and she could barely hear the crunch of strangling leaves under her feet. Once comfortable, she broke the pace of her jog as she sped into a steady run. Miranda shut her eyes for a moment, trying to calm her mind. Running was supposed to be a release, a way to relieve her tension but as of late, it hasn't been as effective. Now it just seemed as if she were running from something.

Miranda found herself sprinting down a road, having left the familiar pavements of Brentford. She followed the main road, making sure to stick to the sides in case any cars came along. Even with the streetlamps, she felt uneasy in the dark. Of course, her brief but terrifying history with streetlights a few months ago didn't improve her disposition.

At one point, Miranda entered Chiswick, her typical indication to turn around and head home but tonight she kept going. She ran down Wellesley Road, the buildings and parked cars passing as a blur. Again the overwhelming feeling of paranoia befell her. She could feel intense eyes boring into her back and it may have been her imagination but a cold spectral hand seemed poised ready to close around her ankles. This only spurred her faster, urging her to keep moving despite her protesting limbs.

A familiar feeling arose in her mind, a nagging twinge telling her to turn around. She refused, as she always did. She never looked back for the fear of there actually being something behind her, chasing her. Sometimes, she could feel the solid presence of an entity inches from her back and despite her fervent disbelief, she couldn't quite bring herself to embrace it. She lived on the verge of knowing what plagued her but whether it be monster or mirage, neither truth would bring her relief. Instead, propelled by anxiety and fear, she ran faster, trying to dispel the iron grip of fear from her chest.

Miranda suddenly felt herself falling forward, having tripped over her own feet. The impact upon the pavement took the air from her lungs and sent a shock through her body. She was fortunate her teeth hadn't hit the cement but she could already tell she'd have a few bruises by the next day.

A breeze washed over her, chilling her sweat-coated skin and making her shiver. Miranda lay still on the pavement, her heart racing. The feeling of being watched hadn't left her, it had actually gotten worse. Don't look, don't look, she chanted to herself, don't look. Something was there, she knew it. She was positive. Don't look, don't look, she repeated. There was a scratching noise some ways behind her and Miranda quickly rolled onto her back to finally face it.

There was nothing. No. Her eyes caught sight of movement; a single leaf scraping across the road, caught in the wind. She resisted sighing as she shut her eyes. Miranda picked herself off the ground, wincing at her sore ribs and glanced around. She had either imagined being followed or the thing had disappeared without a trace.

"What's wrong with me?" she whispered aloud.

Miranda crossed her arms over her chest, trying to retain her body heat as the cool air started to worm through her clothes. She considered heading home but ruled it out quickly. For some reason, she felt she should stay a while longer.

She made it a point to keep from shuffling her trainers on the pavement, trying not to disturb the stillness of the night. Miranda aimlessly walked down the block, warily glancing at the dark unfamiliar buildings. It was some obscene hour in the morning, explaining why all the shops were locked up and lifeless, their dim windows staring blankly as Miranda's reflection passed by.

The illumination from the street posts provided just enough light to see by but not enough to feel comfortable walking under. In the distance, Miranda could make out two lights, small and red, distinctly separate from the street lamps. She moved closer towards them, curious as to their origin.

As she approached, Miranda saw that the lights were flickering candles, seen from behind a pane of a stained glass window. A church, she thought, standing before the towering building. She paused a moment, then spurred by the rush of wind, began to walk towards the entrance.

Miranda hadn't been a pious person in many years. She had a moderately religious upbringing and had taken it very seriously, but all that changed after she woke from her coma. In her childhood, she prayed for her Nightmare Man to go away but he never did. After that, she prayed for a guardian angel to keep her safe in her dreams but none came. In her teens, she prayed for just a single night of peaceful sleep but, of course, it never came either. After that, Miranda didn't pray anymore; her parents would attend Sunday mass but she never came. Never again had she set foot in a church until now.

A slow groan escaped the heavy wooden door as Miranda pushed it open, however, it was silent when it shut behind her. The air was thick and warm, the smell of melted wax and a subtle incense hung in the room like a dense unseen fog. It was relatively dark inside, save for a few clusters of candles lining the tall elaborate windows. The church was empty but it felt as if it were occupied.

She took a few steps into the church, her footfalls making no sound on the polished redwood floor. Despite the comforting warmth, Miranda shivered as a chill ran up her spine. Undeterred, she cautiously continued down the length of the aisle towards the rear of the church, vacant pews on either side of her. She stopped just before the alter, its ornately carved marble covered by a plain white cloth. Behind the alter were three expansive windows, depicting who she figured to be saints. The windows covered nearly the whole of the back wall and reached up to the ceiling; she figured they'd look nicer during the day when they weren't dark and looming.

Miranda stood there, uncertain as to why she even bothered to stop in the cathedral. She glanced up at the high ceiling, taking in the large columns and expansive arches with a distant appreciation then sobered shortly after. Shaking her head, she decided to leave but just as she began to turn away, something caught her eye for the briefest of moments that made her stop dead in her tracks.

On the leftmost window amid the puzzle of stained glass, sat a small image nestled in the bottom left corner. The modest depiction would, by most, go unnoticed but the sight of it, so suddenly, hit Miranda with all the force of a thousand angry gales of wind. Her knees went weak didn't buckle just as her breath lodged in her throat. The image that drove her to such distress and shock was a small blue box seated at the feet of the saints, a small halo around its top.

Miranda took a few steps back, her eyes fixed on the blue box, his box. The feeling of paranoia was on her again like an unshakable shroud. She felt eyes on her back, boring into her skin and bones. Slowly, painfully, her own eyes edged around her peripheral. She nervously glanced around the church to find she was still alone. And that is what scared her more than anything.

AN 2: Useless crap, I forced myself to look up so everything fits: I've officially stationed Miranda in Brentford (real place in England.) Brentford is west of London, about 8 miles(12ish km). It's also in west of Chiswick (where the Nobles live) and east of "Leadworth". Okay, I'm pretty sure Leadworth isn't a real place (don't exterminate me if I'm wrong). But some of the Leadworth scenes were filmed in LLandaff so I used that as a reference. Told you it was useless. But I'm anal about unimportant details like that.