He was awoken early by the noise of the old man in the next apartment, coughing himself to death by inches. Every day it sounded like there was a lungful less of life left in him.

Several days recently he had been woken by the cacophony of coughs, rattling through the thin wall. He didn't think the poor old sod had much time left.

Sitting on the side of the bed, he wiped the dreams from his eyes as he listened to the old man hacking his life away. He felt no malice towards the elderly invalid but he prayed for just one decent night's sleep.

Unusually, he could hear the old man moving around. A series of soft thuds accompanied the continued persistent noise. This went on for several minutes before the coughing stopped. He sat listening, holding his breath. Second after second ticked by but he still heard no sound coming through the wall.

After what felt like a long interval, he heard shuffling sounds from next door. Then a peculiar tapping began. He heard his neighbour fumbling with the lock.

The door clicked open. Then it shut with a clunk that was familiar to him from the nurse's daily visits. But it was far too early for her to visit.

Laboured breathing could be heard from the other side of the door as his infirm neighbour shuffled past. It sounded like he was dragging himself along the wall, tapping now and then with a stick of some sort.

He knew the man was too ill to be out and about on his own. In fact, the few words he'd exchanged with his daughter hinted that he would soon be getting a new neighbour.

Now the man sounded like he was staggering down the stairs on two broken legs. And wooden ones, at that.

He felt an unaccustomed pang of sympathy and concern for him. Normally so self-centred, he supposed his feeling sprang from the fact that his elderly neighbour reminded him of his own father at the end of his long struggle.

Though he rarely thought of his family, the memory remained deep inside, like a thorn pricking at the conscience that he always denied existed. He'd been unable to help his father. Maybe this was a small way to make amends.

Like so many, his father had died of living the wrong life. After the old-before-his-time man had died he was alone, except for his sister, locked away in a hospital somewhere (if it really was a hospital). They wouldn't tell him where - he felt that she might as well be dead, too.

He thought of her sometimes, hoping she was somewhere away from the blame-battered world. She'd been the only one he'd ever felt close to.

Their mother had left before he was 10 years old, unable to bear anything about her life, it seemed - not even her children.

In his wallet was a small, folded photograph. It was the only one he had with the four of them together. Fittingly, the fold separated him from the rest of the family. His solemn face also served to distance him from their happy expressions.

He could never share their smiles. Not even false ones, deformed by anguish. Mimicry was not his strong suit - he had always been forced to discard any masks before a performance.

And every day had been a mis-shapen pantomime with portions of his natural ability lopped off and thrown to the crowd. He was better off alone, he had no doubt.

He pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind and danced awkwardly into his clothes.

Once out of his door he hurried down the stairs, half expecting to intercept his neighbour before reaching the bottom. But the old man was nowhere to be seen, and it seemed that he had found a new energy from somewhere.

A walking cane lay abandoned in the doorway, broken in two. He couldn't imagine how his infirm neighbour could have found the strength to break the object. He began to suspect something sinister might be happening.

Letting the door close slowly behind him, he stepped out into the street. Startled by a movement in the corner of his eye, he jerked his head round to look at the pane of decorative glass set into the door. For less than the blink of an eye he was sure he saw a face reflected there. A hangover from his dreams, no doubt.

He made his way along the short cul-de-sac, passing the animated sign in the beauty salon window that promised happiness and health. Once on the main road, he looked in both directions. There was still no sign of his quarry.

Then he saw something that turned him to stone. All the cars were frozen in a solid stream of metal, empty of drivers or passengers. It looked like an enormous, elongated slug made of aluminium and glass. He was careful not to touch the object. If whatever it was could do that to metal, what might it do to mere flesh?

The chill of the early morning air assured him that he was awake, yet the sight had the fog of a nightmare clinging to it.

As if to accompany his fears, an ugly sound began to intrude into his world, disturbing the air. A dark, discordant and malevolent music bounced around the town. Occasionally it became sonorous - maybe by accident - but it mainly sounded like iron bars clattering together, or bells being hammered too loudly: the latest hit single in hell.

He pulled an old till receipt from his jacket pocket and tore it in two, stuffing one half in each ear. It dulled the sound slightly, though not as much as he'd have liked.

Craning his neck to see further down the street, he looked for his neighbour again. Still no sign.

Trying to keep his balance, his fingers brushed accidentally against the soot-ingrained wall. Despite the surface appearing rough and pitted it was smooth under his touch. His hand came away completely clean.

He stepped closer to the wall and stared at it for several seconds before realising it was a huge photograph.  Someone had gone to the trouble of capturing this shabby old town on film and making a life-size print of it.

He felt as though he was on a film set. The town was no longer the town. He thought that maybe it wasn't his town at all but just a poor facsimile put up overnight. If he'd had the strength, he'd have torn it all down like the cheap fraud it obviously was.

His concern for his elderly neighbour was more important than solving this minor mystery. After all, maybe some developers were upgrading the buildings on the street and this was merely a hoarding to hide the building work.

He passed several buildings and a closed park wedged between the grey buildings before he spotted something. There, where the street took a turn towards the train station, was a shape. He hurried on and saw that it was the figure of the old man.

The figure was slumped on the pavement, his fingers reaching up to touch a shop window just above him. His face was twisted into a horrific grimace. The texture of his skin looked almost mummified. The person was withered away completely - only the torment and despair was left.

He had no idea why the old man had been compelled to come out here this early in the day, but surely it wasn't just to die.

Removing his jacket, he placed it over the old man's face, for the sake of decency. He needed to get back home and contact the man's daughter.

Feeling dizzy for a moment, he leaned against the grubby doorway of a closed shoe shop. He breathed in deeply, allowing the swimming sensation to pass. Putting his hand out he pushed himself upright once more. His fingers were filthy with a skin of dirt that the shop had accumulated over the years and was now happy to share with him. At least this part of town was real and not some odd fake.

Despite the fact that this street was just off the civic square, its shopfronts looked uncared for. Paint was peeling from the woodwork, the glass was dusty and unwashed. It was difficult to see what some of the shops were selling. They were all closed this early in the morning; some of them permanently, it appeared.

The odd music seemed to be louder here, more insistent and with a faster tempo. It was as if an overture was coming to an end, in preparation for the performance proper. The thought made him feel uneasy and he turned in the direction of home. The music paused.

As he passed the large plate glass window of an old fashioned hardware store, something caught his eye. He turned to gaze at the reflection in the glass, and the music struck up once again with a dreadful air of enforced jollity.

His jaw became slack with disbelief as he let his eyes take in what the dirty reflection revealed.

The tower of the church on the corner of Broad Street had been transformed into a spire made from broken human spines, stripped of flesh and shining in the sun. It had become a gruesome antenna transmitting a signal of unending pain and misery.

Shuddering, he forced himself to peer more deeply into the darkened glass, wiping away years of grime with his sleeve.