Cain often dreamed.
He wasn't supposed to - it was considered a hindrance to his performance, a distraction, to lose himself whilst in the throes of illusions. Personally he didn't see the problem with it ( it want like he couldn't wake up and slash any intruders throat )
The dreams confused him. There was no clarity to them, no meaning and no link to the life he held and remembered.
It struck him as unusual, he expected to have nightmares: of the people he killed, of the lives he ruined, of the people he left alone and grieving and broken. He never did.
Instead he dreamed of fire and blood and golden eyes.
And a face.
In his reverie he sees a clown. A grotesque caricature of a gentleman with a perverse and fiendish grin that bears uncomfortably close to a leer.
Again and again Cain watches as the man laughs and laughs and laughs. His features never changing and the grin never sliding from the mouth of his ashen gray face.
Cain wants to feel afraid, wants to be terrified of this demon bearing a somewhat human visage.
Instead he is enraptured.
Captivated.
Enthralled.
The dreams don't stop.
Cain doesn't make a lot of effort to stop them though.
(Soon. Soon. Soon you will return to our midst young one.)