text: I wrote this short story as a joke based on a funny dream my friend had. I'm genuinely curious for some feedback about the writing style though, any and all thoughts appreciated, thanks! John awoke with a stifled cry of terror, his brow doused in sweat, and his chest heaving anxious gasps of air. For several minutes, he sat upright in bed, attempting to recall the details of his nightmare, but failing. As he calmed down, he became aware of the starkness of the night air, which gave an unpleasant sensation, like that of oil on skin. Suddenly, a few feet to the left, his door knob began to rattle frantically back and forth. John's breathing became labored once more, as he nearly screamed in terror, only just managing to stay his base instincts of horror from betraying his desperate situation to whatever nocturnal interloper waited at the door. Then, from the hallway he sensed a presence so noisome and dreadful, he shuddered at the mere thought of its existence, and shuddered further to think of its proximity. For it was then that he knew, he must fight the ancient dream wolves. Taking a paper plate to hand, he leapt towards the door a cry that was equal parts fear and desperate fury. He flung the door open, revealing only an empty hallway. This brought him no comfort, and acting upon his rush of adrenaline, he pushed forwards into the hallway, raising his improvised weapon to strike whatever might offer itself to his vigilant hand. His heart raced, his body poured sweat into the night air, and he was once again struck with the smothering feeling of that oily night air. Making up his mind after a few moments to discover whatever disturbed him, and to find some resolution to his terror, even if it were a fate he dared not think of, he rounded the corner, and saw the grotesque thing that had haunted his dreams, and driven him from his nocturnal sanctuary to the brink of madness. He stopped cold as he saw the thing, a creature in the shape of a wolf was outlined against the dim rays cast by the moon as they trickled through a window. His eyes wide with terror as they passed over the it, with its putrescent and withered flesh, spotted with patches of matted hair, and eyes that should belong to no beast of the earth. Oh, those eyes, those terrible eyes. As he gazed upon them, he knew he could know no other night on earth, seeing in them the dreadful horror of a thousand souls tormented in the abyss, and twisted into the perverse designs of some daemon from beyond the veil of the physical world. But as suddenly as the horror had been revealed to him, it was gone. John awoke, crying out in terror once more. Frantically surveying the room, he saw no sign of the night visitor. As his terror began to subside, he fell backwards onto his mattress, feeling a cold draft waft over his skin, now without the suggestion of oppressive oiliness. Pondering however, that no source within the room could produce such a result, he turned to see: *the hallway door stood open.