When I was a kid, I used to creep out of my bed­room, through the kitchen, and into the din­ing room, where I would hide under the table and illic­itly watch what­ever tele­vi­sion pro­gram my father was watch­ing. Inevitably, he would catch me and send me back to bed. This habit pro­voked one of the most mem­o­rable dreams I have ever had in my life.

In the dream, I crept out to my hid­ing spot, nes­tled among the criss-crossing legs sup­ports beneath the table, and peeked out at the TV from beneath the over­hang­ing table­cloth. I like to think that, in the dream, the show on TV is a rerun of “Star Trek,” the orig­i­nal series. I pic­ture Kirk and McCoy and Spock in their bright uni­forms dis­played on the over-saturated screen of our mid-1980s tele­vi­sion set.

In the dream, my father gets up from his chair — it faced the TV set, which aided my night­time creep­ing. This is nor­mal, as this is what always hap­pens when he catches me out of bed. But this time he’s dif­fer­ent. He’s about 10 feet tall and lum­bers into the din­ing room, the floor­boards of our old house creak­ing beneath his heavy steps.

In the dream, my father’s eyes glow an evil red. In the dream, my father is Frankenstein’s mon­ster, and he is com­ing to kill me.