Sandman Oh, hell. This can't be happening. There's sand on the floor, and that may not sound like much but where there's sand, there's a sandman. And if there's a Sandman... We're all dead. I quickly check my hands for dripping. That's what we call it here. The first sign of becoming a sandman. Your hands, then your arms, then the rest of your body all turn to sand, then fall off. But the process is agonisingly slow, so the contagion has time to spread. What's scary about the sandman syndrome is that the victims chase you in order to give you the disease. The corridor suddenly makes me claustrophobic. There's only two ways out, and if there are two sandmen they could surround me. Then I'm dead. I look one way, then the other. I'm scared, and I flinch at the slightest sound. I turn to run, to escape from this evil place, and there it is. The sandman has been very recently infected. Only his dripping fingers and the trickle of grey sand, dribbling from his left eye socket, tell me that he is one of them. As I watch, the stream from his eye intensifies until half of his face is invisible. I turn to run and there's another sandman, a woman, creeping up behind me. As I scream she wraps me in a bear-hug, and it's too late. It only takes one touch...