The Frostman

Last night I dreamed of the Frostman again. I sat at a bank of desks in an open-plan office, talking to someone seated next to me. We had been making a joke, when the Frostman appeared: a pale, disheveled man, white stubble washing along his cheek like mica dust. He wore a long white cat, and his eyes were hidden behind white glasses, from which plastic sheaths protruded, making them resemble mensur goggles. As he approached, his steps long and hurried in the confines of the room, I became aware that only I could see him, and I began to shout and scream as he walked around the desk. His features began to scramble, like something from a TV broadcast, assuming the features of a famous politician, an actor, an old friend. Finally, his features settled on his original appearance, his stride not breaking as he reached out and brush a finger against my cheek.

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