The psychotherapist regarded me patiently. “And tell me about these dreams.”

These dreams. “Well, so, okay this is going to sound weird, but there’s this man who keeps popping up in my dreams, over and over again. Every night. Standing on a street corner, leaning on a bridge railing, waiting in a hotel room. Waiting. It’s like he’s always waiting for me.”

She nodded. Beyond that I couldn’t read her expression.

“Is this weird?”

“Tell me more.”

“So it’s not weird?”

“Tell me more about this man. What does he look like?”

What did he look like? “Well, he’s very big. Tall. Like six feet. And his face is covered in tattoos, like all over. He’s got this full moustache and beard, and his hair’s in a messy bun. Lots of jewellery on his fingers. And his smile, oh god his smile, once I see it I can’t get it out of my mind, it’s like a smirk, it follows me everywhere, even when I’m awake.”

“Post Malone.”

“What?”

“The rapper. The man you’re seeing is Post Malone.”

She must have sensed my incredulity, because she got up, pulled a manila folder off a stack on her desk, and opened it to a fact sheet including a headshot of the rapper, Post Malone. “Is this the man you’re seeing?”

It was. The ink, the smirk, everything. The spitting image of my nightly tormentor. I nodded.

“And what does he do?”

“In my dreams?”

“Yes. Does he just stand there?”

“Well, once he notices me, he smirks. And then he comes toward me, mouthing words. Sometimes I try to escape him, but it’s futile. I can see him gliding through the walls like a ghost. I can even see him faintly when I blink. And when he closes in on me, it’s like I’m smothered by the smell of stale beer, and I black out.”

“And that’s when you wake up?”

“Yeah, that’s when I wake up.”

“I see.” She walked over to her desk again. This time she unlocked one of the lower cabinets and produced a glowing ruby pendant. “Take this.”

“What is it?”

“An amulet. And for hundreds of years, the traditional treatment for those affected by Post Malone.”

“Hundreds of years?”

“You will need to carry it around with you long enough that it sinks into your subconscious and you can begin to access it in your dreams. Once you can do that, pull it out the next time you encounter Post Malone to ward him off.”

I turned over the translucent gemstone in my fingers, marvelling at the lambent play of lamplight upon its facets. “Are you sure this will work?”

“It’s the only weakness we’ve found so far. Let me know how it’s going next week.”

She rose from her chair, and I from mine.

“Thank you, Dr. Morales,” I said. With the care I assume one reserves for sacred objects, I deposited the amulet in my purse.

“You’re welcome, Jessica.”

I smiled in gratitude and made my way to the door. Then I glanced back to say thank you again, but in the moment something about her had changed. She was a man now, a big man. Fingers bedecked with rings. Face festooned with ink.

“It’s you,” I whispered in horror, as Post Malone smirked and began to hover six inches off the floor.

My hand shot back into my purse and rooted around. But where was the amulet? I could have sworn it was just there—

His mouth opened and issued a string of relentless rap as he tilted forward and barrelled inexorably down on me: “I’ve been fuckin’ hoes and poppin’ pillies man I feel just like a rockstar—”

I woke up in a shiver.