A very unusual dream situation:
I was in the house I grew up in – at least, that’s where the dream ended up. The earliest scene that I remember is that I was constructing a display about the British monarchy. I started with an early king and got as far as the first woman who was queen in her own right. Her name should have been Mathilida, but in the dream it was Gertrude. There was either a television on in the dream, or the scene changed to The Night Of The Living Dead. There was a woman running toward her house (with blue socks) because she thought she’d just seen her husband. I can’t remember whether he was a zombie, or whether he was dressed as a woman, but by the time she made it back, he was still wearing a wig and makeup. He didn’t have a shirt on. He tried to play it off like he didn’t know who she was, said something insulting to her that I can’t remember, and slammed the door in her face.
Then, somehow, where I was, making the display in my room in the house I grew up in, became a part of the movie. There was a man in the room who was my husband. He revived, and I started running from him. He chased around the house. I managed to get outside, ran down the back steps, and in the downstairs section of the house. A couple times he caught up with me. He was very strong, but I managed to fight him off. I made like I was going to jump through a hole in the brickwork, and tricked him into doing it himself. He was outside, and I had a few moments before he figured out how to get back in. I ran back to, and up, the back steps. I shouted to my sister who was there in a flowered short dress, casually talking on the phone. I told her to come inside with me, but as she turned to me, she suddenly grew very old – her hair turned gray, and her face wrinkled, and she became feeble. She couldn’t run. I ran back down the stairs and picked her up, and quickly brought her into the house. I managed to close the door just as my husband was coming up the stairs again. I closed the door and locked it, and ran into the living room. I turned to my left and could see the shadow of a figure climbing through the window in the bathroom. He’d found his way in. I screamed, and that’s when I woke up, still screaming.
(I’d spent just about the whole previous day watching television. There was a show on about the moguls of Hollywood which contained a 5-second clip from Night Of The Living Dead; the husband in the dream was the husband-patient in a documentary about the emergency room of a hospital who couldn’t stop screaming; the last thing that I watched between sleep and wake before turning the TV off and going to bed was a documentary about British monarchical history on Netflix)