Dreaming again

I was conscious that I was dreaming, yet I somehow still believed it was really happening.

I was sitting in a magnificent room with checkered marble floors. Vases and art decorated corners and walls. 

A man sat next to me: sleazy with a small, pencil-thin mustache, beady black eyes and a comb-over.

He asked, ‘What do you see?’ and waited for my answer, smugly smiling with a glint in his eye.

So I looked at the far end of the room. In front of the door was a ghost: a faint outline of a man, standing, doing nothing more. He was not walking towards me. No sense of impending doom. If that ghost was friendly or not, I couldn't tell. Simply, I was afraid because it was not supposed to be there. It offended my senses, defied my rationale.  

I woke up screaming. Terrified, I drew the blanket tight around my body. My heart thumped so hard. Sweat beaded along my tingly-tight chest. Had I been dreaming about my own bedroom transformed into something grander in the dream?

For a long time I lay there waiting, unable to turn on the light and look towards the door for fear there would be something there I shouldn't see, didn't want to see.