I had a dream last night. There was a house, it hasn't been lived in for a long time. Two friends bought it as a sort of college bachelor pad. One would live in the living room on the couch, the other in the bedroom. The house needed some reconstruction. The garage especially. It was in a lower income neighborhood. Part of the garage was sealed off by wooden frames, like where a wall had once existed. Through the gaps in the wall they could see what looked like an old vinyl record in its cover. The exterior was a misty gray. A girl with a panicked expression, with her hand facing the viewer as if he was pressed against glass, stared out from the mist, waist up, so she was pretty near the front of the cover. Across the too of the record cover, which say propped up on the ground, the title said "Jessica Whildon's Numbers". It was a confusing title. They didn't know what it meant. At night they began hearing scratches on the walls. In their dreams they saw a recurring series of numbers. One day a police officer outside struck up a conversation with the pair. The last owner of the house suffered from extreme obsessive compulsion and delusional visions. At night they began to see a creature in their dreams, walking the halls of the house, something like a massive broad elephant drunk forming most if its body so It had no distinguishable head, short stumpy feet and hands emerging from the trunk, a pair of eyes at the top, it's body covered in a tattered brown cloak. It dragged its hands along the walls, nails scratching them, a low guttural voice speaking a series of numbers. They began waking up drenched in sweat, hearts beating hard, the face of Jessica Whildon the last image they saw before awakening.
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"Hah! It's like we don't even have feelings. Now pardon me while I recline in my huge executive chair and guffaw, cigar in-hand. "
"ill just go with what Winslow always when something that funny about a location in monkey island is said"
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