Blake Crowe woke from a choppy night’s sleep of unquiet dreams mixed with frequent trips to the bathroom. It wasn’t a burgeoning prostate problem that had him peeing so much, rather, it was the unsettling contents of those same dreams. Every half hour or so, he had woken in fright and scurried to the loo just to calm himself down. The final vision, before the shrill 6a.m. alarm bell, was of a coffin lid closing—with a bleak and resounding thud—upon Blake’s entombed and terrified head. He had tried to scream but his soil-filled mouth rendered him mute, writhing helplessly in the desolate dreamscape. Hitting the floor and straightening up, part of him felt unable to face the day at all and he considered, for a moment, leaping back into his still warm bed. However, such a gambit wasn’t an option on this important morning, and besides, he’d recently read an articl...