Last night I dreamt I was Bram Stoker.
Only I wasn't.
I was Bram Stoker, the author of (among other things) Dracula, but I was chasing down a creature I had tried to assemble and breathe life into, but (surprise, surprise) my experiment had gone horribly wrong.
One of my assistants/associates had betrayed me and now, pursued by a mob, I raced against time to find my creation before my enemy did.
What, exactly, the betrayer wanted with the monstrous product of my pride, my vanity, I don't remember. That information didn't come through the veil of sleep.
All in all it was a tantalizing dream. I don't usually write my dreams down but I'm trying to change that. Hopefully, if I do, I'll be able to recall more of them.