My Dreams are still strange narratives

Sylvester Stallone walked into the empty house. It was in pretty bad shape -- no furniture, doors missing, bits of fallen plaster and other little scraps scattered across the floor. He checked over the downstairs, noting holes in the walls and other problems, all things that would have to be repaired before anybody could live there again. It was going to be a lot of work.

He found the stairs and went up them. The second floor wasn't in any better shape than the first. Empty hallway, empty rooms...

Something growled.

The bear was crouched, claws pressed against the floor, looking directly at him. He took a step back, hands raised, and said: "Easy, there."

The growling deepened, and he reached for his gun.

He shot it twice: once as it leaped, and again as he stumbled out the doorway. It turned and leaped again, and this time it connected with him. They tumbled down the hall, the bear growling and trying to bite, Stallone firing the pistol into its torso. He must have hit something vital; the bear shuddered and lay still.

With a sigh, he rolled it off him and stood up. He limped back down the stairs and out to his truck, just as another car pulled up.

It was his boss. "What are you doing up here?" asked the boss. "This is the wrong address." He held up a piece of paper. "See? We're supposed to be fixing up another house half a mile down the road!"

...And my dreams got weirder from there. No more Stallone, but an even bigger, weirder house being reoccupied by a deeply strange family, complete with an elevated hallway that led around to an observatory; climbing up a rough slope (and eventually a near-cliff) with Secondborn and some random other girl-child in order to escape a rising river; and sundry other strangeness.