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I’m still convinced that I’m locked in some type of night terror.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

Dark walls that look like moss-covered stone create a circular shape around me. I’m in a large bed covered with worn linen sheets and a tapestry with green and gold swirls that looks like it was meant to be a curtain and not a comforter. The delicate carved canopy bed seems out of place, sitting in what looks to be some kind of… cell.

No. Nonono.

Panic claws its way up my chest as I struggle to breathe.

This can’t be happening.

Deep breath.

This isn’t real.

Deep breath.

This is only an illusion.

Deep breath.

I’m safe in my bed.

I keep trying to use the exercises Doc taught me to wake myself up from this dream, but I can’t. The only illusion is me pretending none of this is real when something in my bones tells me that what’s about to happen is the realest thing I’ve ever experienced.

What scares me is this isn’t a dream I’ve ever dreamed before, a dream that feels so real I look for some sign of familiarity, but there’s no woods, no snow, no blinding light, no crying in a castle. No hunter in the shadows. Only footsteps on stone that stopped the moment I sat up.

I jump off the bed and nearly collapse to my knees from the sudden movement, still groggy from sleep or the drinks. The pieces are so fuzzy. I try to make sense of what happened.

“Where am I? Where is Bea?”

My instinct is to scream—to yell for help—but I’ve watched enough television to know that sometimes it’s better to quietly assess the situation.

So, I feel around the perimeter of the room. Cold—damp—stone.

I move closer to the door, guided by a glowing light coming from the small, barred opening near the top of the arch.

Something about the door seems familiar, maybe the shape. My trembling fingers brush the wood, still convinced this is a dream.

I count backward.

I count forward.

I hold my breath.

I pinch myself.

Nothing wakes me up.

Moving away from the door, I tiptoe back toward the bed, for the first time noticing a small wooden table holding a vase of dying roses and what appears to be a pewter goblet filled with liquid that I wouldn’t drink if I was dying of thirst—and I am.

Which makes no sense at all… One drink and two shots shouldn’t have made me lose an entire night.

Somebody did this to me. On purpose.

But who?

Gus? Luther? The bartender?