A shape lies huddled in bed. In the dark. They know IT will come. IT always comes. Clammy, sinuous tentacles would rend their clothes and pin them to the bed in one motion. They could almost feel its black ichor coating them. Invading them. Corrupting their very soul again and again and again. Heart pounding. Eyes wide. "Please God..." they say with a shuddering moan, "... Please hurry back!"