When I was growing up in Plimmerton there was a dark, cramped store on the corner of the main road through the village. It sold books, toys, collectibles and various other curios (it’s gone now, replaced by a pizzeria). Last night I dreamed I was back in that store, talking to the elderly owner when a man stormed in, pointed a gun at us and ordered us down onto the floor.
The gunman was young with a shaved head and a crazed look in his eye. We obeyed, and lay and watched as he walked to the far wall of the store, swept all the stock off the cluttered, dusty shelves, than smashed the wooden shelves up with the butt of his gun.
Behind the shelves were plasterboards, and the gunman kicked the boards in, revealing a dark cavity hidden behind the wall. After clearing enough space he leaned into this cavity and fired his gun; bright flashes illuminated the unlit space, and the owner of the store and I put our hands over our ears.
When the gun was empty the young man ran out. The owner of the store crawled over to the counter and phoned the police. I approached the hole in the wall, reluctant, afraid of what I’d see inside it, and looked in.
It was a hidden room, narrow and long, windowless and dark with only a single mattress on the floor. Lying on the mattress was a man bleeding from multiple gunshot wounds. His skin was white, he was skeletally thin and he had long dirty blond hair, a long beard and very long fingernails. There were no other exits from the room.
I told the store owner to call an ambulance, and he did, but the man in the hidden room died before it arrived.