That Nightmare Again

I'm having that nightmare again.

The one that always starts
with me standing outside an old, decaying mansion
my hand hovering over the doorbell.

There's nothing wrong, really.
Nothing to tell me it's a nightmare.
It's not a dark and stormy night with thunder crashing
there are no graves bursting with the living dead
and I'm standing their fully clothed and uninjured
like a normal day.

But for a reason I'm unable to determine,
my palms are sweaty
and dread's wrapped tightly around my lungs.

With the way I'm feeling,
you'd think the doorbell would ring with shrieks.
But when I press it
those all-too normal chimes ring out.

And when the ringing ends
the whole world goes silent.

I can't even hear air enter or leave my lungs.
Can't even tell if I'm breathing.
Not even my fingers will twitch.

And I watch frozen
as the door inches open
taking what could be days to reveal the shadows inside
inch by inch.

I don't even see your face.
Just the skin of your fingers as they wrap around the wood
stained and rough.

Then I wake up
and I still can't breathe.