Home is supposed to be the one place, among all in the world, where you know you are safe. Home is where you go when you wish to escape the rigors and stresses of the outside world, and be with yourself and those you love.

For Henry Townshend, home has become his prison.

The dreams came first. They were dreams of madness and confusion, dreams in which he was in his home but not in his body. They were the dreams of another man and another time. This man was in his home, but he could not leave. Heavy, thick-gauge chains had been strung across the front door. The construction was haphazard in appearance but effective in design. The door would not open. Neither would the windows.

Henry awakened, but to his horror, his nightmare followed him into the real world. His own door was shackled tight. His windows would not open. The telephone did not work. No one could hear his cries for help.

Five days have passed. A message has appeared on his door, warning him against leaving. As if he could. His home has become oppressive, and whatever hope he has of escape seems to be down to nothing.

Then, the noise. A terrific blast comes from the direction of the bathroom. A huge hole has been torn into the wall by means that defy explanation, but does it matter? Has Henry finally found a means of escape?

Or are the locks on his door just the beginning of his problems?