There was fog inside the house. It looked like the dry ice we use when making a horror movie. I was wandering aimlessly through the house, from room to room. Only it was furnished. It looked like early 60's period decor. I heard singing, a female voice, coming from the kitchen. I moved through the fog toward the kitchen and saw a woman there, cooking. I could smell steam and heard sizzling. I kept walking toward her. I had a deep sense of dread. She turned, smiled and said, "The job isn't finished, my son."
Only she wasn't my mother.