It must have been about thirty years ago now. I was still newly married back then, and having just had a child, my days were a blur of activity.

“I have a favor to ask…”

My mother, who lived nearby, called me on the phone. When I asked what was going on, she said the police had contacted her and asked if I could go with her tomorrow.

Apparently, there was a deceased person whose identity was unknown, but among their belongings, the police found an item listing my parents' address, contact information, and even our family members' names, so they wanted us to verify it. At the time, however, every single one of our relatives was accounted for, leaving us utterly confused. In the end, we agreed that some relatives living nearby would go with us tomorrow so we could all check it together.

The next day, when we gathered, what we saw was the corpse of a middle-aged man none of us recognized at all. He looked to be in his fifties. Everyone in our family checked his face and last known address, but no one had the slightest idea who he was. The cause of death was likely heart failure; he had been found on a futon in his room with no signs of foul play, so it was assumed to be from natural causes. There was absolutely nothing among his belongings to identify him. He used a fake name and seemed to have drifted from job to job, leaving his true identity a complete mystery. The only thing resembling a clue was an open notebook by his pillow, where the words “Contact them here” were written along with my parents' address and our family members' names.

When the police showed us the notebook, its cover was painted red, giving off an unsettling vibe that made me hesitate to even pick it up. Opening it timidly, I saw our family's information clearly written inside. My name was there too, and just thinking about how this stranger knew my family sent a chill down my spine. Creeped out, we simply told the police we’d leave the rest to them and went home.

After investigating further, the police eventually agreed that the man was a total stranger with no connection to us. I have no idea what happened after that.

Years passed, and I entered my fifties. I had completely forgotten about the incident—until something triggered the memory. Out of nowhere, that mystery man started appearing in my dreams.

In the dream, I’m standing in a stark, empty room. There’s only one exit door. Deep inside the room lies the motionless corpse of that mystery man who died all those years ago, sitting all by itself. Creeped out, I try to leave through the door, but no matter how hard I struggle, it won't open—and then I wake up.

Having this same dream over and over, I eventually noticed a change. Every time I dream it, the room gets smaller.

As the room shrinks, the distance between me and the mystery man grows shorter. Now, the corpse is so close that I can clearly make out his face. It’s terrifying, and I’m scared to go to sleep every night. I tried talking to my family about it, but they brushed it off, saying it was just a dream. Sure, it is just a dream... but I’m gripped by an indefinable dread, an overwhelming anxiety.

What will happen to me if I keep having this dream? I’m terrified that one of these days, that mystery man will open his eyes and come crawling toward me. Who on earth was he, and why do I have to suffer like this...?