In recent years, I have had the same strange dream every night:
Always in a dark room where I couldn't see my fingers, an old man's hoarse voice kept echoing in my ears: "Do you want grapes? Do you want grapes? Grapes made of human blood..."
Then a large group of all kinds of banshees will knock me down. The process is inconvenient to describe, but the ending is the same. I will wake up and sit up, and the sheets will be wet.