[The following is part dream I had, part daydream, part complete fiction and part external influences. You may make of it what you will. Up to and including a fetching hat.]

The fog was out of season, and even thicker than it would have been at the right time of year for it. And it was cold. Very cold. Colder than he remembered it being for a long time. He wasn't sure how long it had been cold and foggy, but it had certainly been for the whole day. And that seemed to mean that everyone was staying inside, since there was not a soul on the street.

He reached the shop and walked in. All was silent inside. The lights flickered slightly, and the buzzing of the fluorescent tubes suddenly seemed very loud. There was no-one here either; no sign of the usual student rabble laughing, joking and buying beer. No sign of the shop staff behind the counter. Nothing. Yet apart from this, the neatly-stacked shelves looked just as they always did. But there was something wrong, something sinister about the whole thing.

He walked over to the coffee machine, pulled out a cup and placed it under the nozzle before jamming his thumb onto the "large latté" button. The machine whirred, ground and made that curious sucking noise as the milk and coffee poured into the cup. It seemed very loud amidst the silence in the rest of the shop. Then it was quiet, and the cup was full. He pulled out one of the flimsy plastic lids from the dispensers and set it atop the cup.

He fumbled in his pocket for some loose change and left it on the counter. Just because there was no-one here was no reason to take advantage. He wasn't that sort of person.

Something was wrong. The lights were flickering more, and the buzzing was getting louder. Suddenly, they went off entirely, and the shop was plunged into darkness. Loud, metallic scraping sounds filled his ears and he didn't know what was happening. It shouldn't be dark; it was still light outside, despite the fog. He tripped and fell in the darkness, somehow managing to hold on to his coffee cup. The ground began to shake, and he fell again trying to get back on his feet. This time, he dropped the cup. The tremors became stronger and stronger; it felt like the ground was somehow shifting beneath him, changing, becoming… metallic?

A small light flicked on above the counter.

The floor was cold, and where there once were simple tiles was now covered in metallic grates, darkness beneath them.

He scrambled to his feet, not wanting to stay here any longer than necessary. Outside, the fog was gone, but it was dark now. There was little light by which to see, so he pulled out his phone and used the bright light from the screen to see his way. The street seemed to be covered with the same curious gratings, the soles of his shoes clanging on them as he walked.

In the distance, in the darkness, he could see his building. He needed to get there, to be home, to be safe, to be inside. He didn't like the feeling that this strange new environment was giving him. He quicked his pace to a light jog and headed towards the building, up the stairs to the front door. He punched in the door code and opened the door.

Inside, like outside, all was darkness. The small pool of light from his phone was just enough to see by, but it didn't make him feel any better. He opened the door leading into the corridor that held his apartment and stepped into the blackness. He walked forward down the corridor, stopping and turning where he thought his door should be, but there was nothing there, and the corridor continued into the darkness. He couldn't see the end of it.

He turned to face the corridor, stretching into the distance, took a deep breath, swallowed, and continued to walk down it. As he continued down the seemingly endless passageway, the only sound were his footsteps echoing on the metallic floor.

He wasn't sure how long he walked for, but he was starting to get out of breath after a while. That's when he heard the sounds. A mechanical sound of some sort, though he couldn't tell what. He walked towards it and it slowly, gradually, got louder.

A voice whispered in his ear and he gave a start, almost falling over with the shock. He didn't hear what the voice said, but it sounded familiar. Then the other ear, again, something said, not meant to be heard. The machinery growing louder and louder, the whispering voices growing more urgent. And now it felt like the corridor was sloping downwards. Just a little at first, but the further he went and the closer the sound became, the more it sloped and sloped until he thought he was going to slide down it and then—

The corridor came to an abrupt end along with the sounds, and he almost walked into his neighbour's door in the darkness. He turned to face his own apartment, drew out his key from his pocket and hesitantly slid it into the lock. Pushing open the door slowly, cautiously, he shone the light from his phone into the black hallway, a sense of dread gripping him from inside, tightening every organ in his body, making him feel coiled like a spring.

The light bounced off a metallic object that was sitting on the side in the hallway. He walked over to it to see what it was.

A cook's knife. Clean, shining in the light and sharp as a razor. He picked it up, not certain what he'd use it for. And he walked slowly towards the bedroom, figuring that if the world was going to do a passable impression of night-time, he might as well try and get some sleep.

The door creaked open as he pushed it, but suddenly he was wrenched through it, the wind knocked out of him as he fell to the ground, still gripping the knife in his hand, his phone skittering across the floor, face up, its light shining around the small room.

Then the sound. That terrible sound. Like a scream, but not of pain or terror. It sounded like rage. It was formidable and terrible, and it was somewhere in this room.

He looked up at the pool of light on the ceiling. That's when he saw it. Its skin glistening as the light reflected off it, it screamed again as it knew it had been spotted.

He gasped, and his breathing quickened. This was—

The thing let out a horrifying screech again and something glass shattered. A window? A mirror? He couldn't tell, because he couldn't see. But he knew what had to be done. Brandishing the knife in a shaking hand, he walked towards where he had seen it hanging and looked up again. A tendril, like a thick piece of rope, hung from the ceiling. He raised the knife over his head and brought it down in a smooth arc, slashing through the tendril and slicing it clean in two. The part which had been stuck to the ceiling fell to the ground with a wet slapping noise, and there was another terrible scream.

His head hurt. His vision, what little he could see, felt hazy. This was difficult. It wasn't as easy as he thought. But he had to—

The thing roared and lunged at him, but he staggered to one side at just the right moment, placing him right beneath another hanging tendril. Gritting his teeth and raising the knife, he cut through this one too. This time, images flashed across his eyes. Memories? He wasn't sure, because they were gone as soon as he could focus on them. And still it was there, howling in pain now, writhing, yet still trapped. It lunged again and pushed him to the floor, knocking the wind out of him and the knife clattering across the floor. He dove towards where he thought it fell, gasping to recover his breath, and fumbled around until he felt its handle. Unsteadily, he picked himself up and got to his feet. His head was hurting now, like a migraine but worse. Instead of flashing lights across his vision, there were images, but they were still too elusive to grasp hold of. He recognised them, loved them and feared them at the same time, and he knew that there was only one way to—

With a yell, he leapt at the thing, knife raised aloft and slashed through the fourth and final tendril. With an awful screech, it fell to the ground, helpless against what was to come.

He stood above it, looking down at this pitiful thing that could engender such fear, hatred and anger. There was only one thing left, and that would be it. That would be the end. That would be—

He knelt before it, glowering at it, eyes narrowed, teeth grinding. He looked at the knife in his hand, now stained with blood and ichor, and then back to the thing again. This would be the last—

He plunged the knife deep into it and the horrific noise that ensued made the ground shake. But he pulled out the knife and plunged it in again, the tremors becoming more and more forceful, the screech becoming more and more deafening. He could hear walls cracking, collapsing, falling around him. He hoped it would be enough time to—

With the final thrust of the knife, there was a blinding white light, a sense of sudden, incredible, release like every trace of tension leaving his body; and there was a sound, a sound like a rising wind, louder and louder and stronger and filling his ears with noise and sound and it was too much and—

Then sudden, awful, total silence. Nothingness. The white light enveloped everything. Made it impossible to see. But it was—

She stood by the door to the apartment, not sure whether or not to go in. She stared at that number on the door, the number which for so long had meant "home" but was now just another meaningless digit. She looked at the lock, and at the key in her hand.

The key slid smoothly into the lock and she pushed open the door. Inside, all was quiet. The lights were off, the curtains were open and there were no signs of life. She walked ahead into the bedroom. Bare. Nothing but a bed. No sheets, no pillows, nothing. Back into the corridor; nothing here. The closets: empty. The study: nothing to see.

Panicking now, her heart racing, she ran to the living room. Nothing here besides the table, the sofa and the chairs. The things that had always been here, but nothing that meant—

Then she saw it. A folded piece of paper on the table, sitting by itself, alone.

She took it, unfolded it, read it.

Then she stuffed it into her pocket, turned and fled.