The dream is not always the same.
Sometimes the man in the black suit enters the room backwards, so that I hear him speak before I see the dreadful leer of his face.
There is, in the man in black's face, something deeply. . . unsettling. Beyond the constant expression it wears of mingled derision and sickly, unwholesome smile, there is in the features of the face itself more than the suggestion of deformity, distortion.
It is nothing easily identified. A certain asymmetry, perhaps. As if the face had been split in two and reassembled by inexpert hands. Maybe it is the dark and deeply set eyes like black holes in the skull, tugging at everything in the room, sucking even the light into themselves.
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