Rain fell in the cold December night. Through the mist, he saw himself diving beneath a car as a rifle came to bear on him. The rifle bucked against a shoulder and a gout of flame flashed in the night, chasing away the roof's shadows. The bolt retracted and then slid foward again, a shell casing striking the roof with a tinny jingle. The rifle came to bear again and then suddenly the body went stiff. A huge galvanic push between the temples, a crimson tidal wave of pain flashed in the brain. An interior scream, and then suddenly falling over the dingy edge of the roof. The world spun for a moment and then the concrete filled his vision. Tony awoke with a start, flinching in the bed. He kept his eyes closed for a moment, shaking off the dream. The man falling off the roof, the wet squelch as the body hit the concrete. The broken face staring up at him with lifeless eyes amidst the growing pool of blood. The falling man was the most common dream. It usually came to him in the small hours like a lover. But its embrace always left him cold, shaking, and sure he would go mad. But it wasn't as bad as the shambling homeless men. Although they had just been normal human beings when they died, they became rotting, flesh dripping animated corpses in his dreams. Their arms always reaching for him, their teeth gnashing as they crept ever closer. And in these nightmares, he was never fast enough. Never clever enough. And they always fell upon him, their fingers tearing at his eyes, a metal pipe smashing his brains out for their evening meal.
While on a deer hunting trip with his father in deep east Texas, Tony discovers a new kind of psychic horror, and that playing with people's minds, no matter well intentioned, can lead to dire consequences.