����������I wonder whether he will appear tonight. I lay my head down on my pillow and drift into an uneasy slumber.
����������In my dreams, I saw a dark-haired young man with the lower body of a tree. He seemed to plead with me for help, his eyes piercing my soul. As I watched, he began to wilt, his leaves turning brown and being blown off by the wind. His body twisted smaller and smaller. I turned away, not wanting to acknowledge the living creature dying just a few feet from where I was. When I turned back, all that was left was a single gnarled branch. I moved towards it, intending to pick it up, but something unseen prevented me from reaching it and turned me around to face an exquisite white marble fountain, carved with intricate designs of dryad-like spirits and century-old trees. Clear water trickled over its spout. I walked towards it, looking down into its depths. First I saw nothing, then something began to take form beneath the innocent-looking surface of the water. Before I could clearly see what was in the fountain, I awoke. The thing in the water left a feeling of horror in my heart.
����������I had had this dream each night for the past week. Never before, though, had there been anything in the fountain. Throughout the morning the mysterious dream was on my mind.

����������"Ms. Osborne?", my secretary's voice interrupted my reverie.
����������"Yes?", I replied.
����������"There's a contractor here to see you about a project," she told me.
����������"Send him in."
����������The man who came in was in his late thirties, perhaps, blonde, medium-height, with a tinge of an outdoorsy beard, but complemented his suit well. He came up to me and shook my hand vigorously.
����������"Ms. Osborne? I'm Charles Atkinson."
����������"It's a pleasure."
����������"Same here."
����������We got down to business. It turned out that he wanted to develop a plot of woodland that sat on the edge of an old property. Put up a nice mall, he said. Since I was head of the city and outskirts planning division, he came to me for my approval. I gave it, with the stipulation that I be at his site tomorrow morning to inspect it. We shook hands once again and he departed.

����������That night, I dreamed of the fountain and the tree-man again, but this time, I succeeded in picking up the branch. It was surprisingly light. Once again I turned to face the fountain. This time I could clearly see the object in the depths of the fountain. When I awoke, however, I found that all I could remember about the thing in the water was the sense of terror it instilled in me.

����������I went about my business the next day, haggard and pale. Arriving at the site, I was greeted by Atkinson. He took me on a tour of the property, such as it was. They were cutting down an old-growth forest to make room for the construction. The estate that it bordered, I was told, had once been the home of a wealthy painter. He often walked in the woods for inspiration. I was invited to explore the grounds, and I did so despite the noise of the nearby equipment. It was a beautiful estate, and the years of abandonment and decay had lent it an enchanted quality.
����������As I came to the edge of the woods that were being cut down, my eye was caught by a black object on the ground. It was the gnarled branch of my dream. I reached down to pick it up. As in my dream, it was surprisingly light. I felt compelled to turn around, and I was hardly surprised when I saw the white fountain of my dream before me. I was so absorbed in the sense of deja-vu as I walked to the fountain that I didn't hear the shouts of "timber!" and "watch out!" that were directed at me by the workmen. The last thing I thought of before I blacked out from the blow of the tree trunk was that I remembered what had been in the fountain. It was my body.