The Complete Works of Todd E. Doherty
Works Compiled by Todd E Doherty
Copyright © 1979 - 2025 by Todd E Doherty
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
The Closet
Fox Smith had never wanted to leave Hamden, New York. He loved its quiet streets, the forests that whispered in the wind, and the comfort of home. But in the summer of 1978, his parents packed up their seven children—him, the only boy, along with his three older sisters, Kayla, Lara, and Amelia, and his three younger sisters, Sara, Kiana, and Laila—and moved to Taylorville, Illinois.
The decision wasn’t theirs alone. His grandfather was dying, and his parents couldn’t bear the thought of being away in his final days. So, they left behind the foothills of the Catskill Mountains and settled into a modest three-bedroom house in central Illinois.
A three-bedroom house for nine people.
Fox’s new reality meant cramped living quarters, sharing a bedroom with his younger sisters, and adjusting to a town that felt strangely… off. The air here was heavy, charged, like it carried whispers just beneath the surface.
One evening, Fox’s new friend, Robert Spencer, came over carrying a stack of comic books. His house was just down the street, but he had grown up in Taylorville his whole life. And he knew things—things Fox could feel in his bones.
“You ever heard of Momo?” Robert asked, flipping through an issue of The Amazing Spider-Man.
Fox frowned. “Momo?”
Robert grinned. “Big, ape-like thing that haunts the creek bottoms just outside town. Sometimes people say they hear it breathing right outside their windows.”
Fox shuddered. But Robert wasn’t done.
“Then there’s the Gates of Dawn,” Robert continued, lowering his voice. “It’s supposed to be a doorway to another dimension. Some folks say if you stare too long at the sunrise from a certain hill outside town, you’ll slip away—vanish completely.”
Fox tried to laugh, but the air in his lungs felt trapped. He had never been afraid of ghost stories before, but here, in Taylorville, the folklore didn’t feel like fiction.
“And then there’s him,” Robert whispered.
Fox swallowed. “Who?”
“The Candyman.”
Robert leaned in closer, his expression dark. “Chuck Livingston. He was a real person—a monster disguised as a man. Back in the fifties, he took kids. Did terrible things to them before he killed them. And then? He was found dead inside his shack, his brain missing.”
Fox’s breath came shallow. He wanted to brush it off, to tell Robert his stories were just that—stories—but the room suddenly felt colder.
A knock startled them both.
Kayla’s head poked into the room. “It’s late, Fox. Robert needs to go home.”
Fox sighed, handing Robert his comics back. “See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” Robert said, but before he left, he hesitated at the door. “Be careful, Fox. Some things in this town aren’t just stories.”
Fox watched Robert go before turning back to his room, stretching his arms with exhaustion. He called out, “Cu29! Come here, girl.”
Silence.
His cat was nowhere to be found.
His brows furrowed. She never wandered far, never stayed out of reach when it was time for bed. He searched under his bunk bed, behind the dresser, even padded down the hallway to his sisters’ room.
“Have you guys seen Cu29?”
The older girls were helping the younger ones get ready for bed. “No,” Lara said, adjusting Kiana’s blanket.
Fox frowned. He checked with his parents—they hadn’t seen her either.
A strange unease curled in his stomach. Cu29 never hid. He returned to his room, dropping onto his hands and knees, peering under the massive bunk bed.
“Cu29?”
A faint meow.
Fox’s heart skipped.
The sound came from the closet.
The door stood slightly ajar.
The closet in his room wasn’t just a normal space—it connected his bedroom to his sisters’. A tunnel, almost.
Cautiously, he stepped forward. The meowing grew louder. His fingers trembled as he reached for the knob, pushing the door open further.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
He stepped forward, expecting to emerge into his sisters’ room.
Instead—
He gasped.
His bedroom was wrecked. Torn posters fluttered in the suffocating heat. Comic books lay in scattered, curling heaps.
The air was thick, oppressive, pressing down on his lungs like smoldering coals.
He staggered into the living room—and his scream froze in his throat.
His parents lay on the floor, naked, burnt beyond recognition.
Fox stumbled back, his breath shuddering. This wasn’t—this couldn’t be real.
The front door swung open.
He bolted outside.
The pavement scorched beneath his feet. The sun loomed impossibly large overhead, like a ravenous eye swallowing the sky.
“This isn’t real,” he whispered, dizzy with terror.
A girl stepped out from the alley.
“You need to leave,” she said.
Fox swallowed hard. “Why?”
“The Dark Master rules this world. If he finds you, he’ll kill you.”
Fox’s throat closed. “I—came looking for my cat. I’m not from here.”
The girl’s face darkened. “Then run. Now.”
The ground trembled. A deep, sickening growl filled the air.
Fox turned—and his soul nearly shattered.
A towering figure, black as the void, loomed at the edge of the scorching horizon.
The Dark Master.
The girl shoved him. “RUN!”
Fox ran.
He sprinted toward his house, legs burning, lungs screaming.
He crashed through the front door.
“Cu29!” he gasped, frantic.
A frantic meow.
He turned—there! His cat darted across the ruined room, eyes wide with terror.
Fox scooped her up.
Behind him, the Dark Master tore through the doorframe, his presence swallowing the air.
Fox barreled toward the closet.
A clawed hand reached—
Fox dove.
Darkness warped around him.
And then—
He hit the floor.
Silence.
His room.
His normal, untouched room.
Cu29 trembled in his arms.
Fox turned—behind him, the closet collapsed.
The portal sealed.
The Dark Master was trapped.
Fox let out a shaky breath.
Taylorville had secrets.
But tonight, he had survived them.
In the small town of Taylorville, four childhood friends—Fox Smith, Michael King, Nathan Brooks, and Andrew Brooks—sat around a table at their favorite diner, Lost in Thoughts.
"How are you guys doing today?" Fox asked as he took a sip from his coffee mug, trying to warm up from the chilly morning air outside. The other three exchanged glances before responding with mumbled acknowledgments.
Fox had always been known for his vivid imagination and storytelling abilities among his friends. However, this time, there was something different in his eyes—a distant look that hinted at an unsettling tale.
"Listen," he began, leaning forward and lowering his voice, "I had the most bizarre dream last night."
His friends immediately perked up, eager to hear what he had to say. Michael King leaned back in his chair, ready for another one of Fox's tall tales, while Nathan Brooks and Andrew exchanged curious looks.
"It was like no other dream I've ever had before," Fox continued, his voice barely above a whisper now. "I wasn't me anymore... I mean, it felt real—too real to be just some random dream."
The others listened intently as he described the surreal world where he found himself transported in his sleep.
"I was part of this royal family on an alien planet," Fox narrated with wide eyes. "We ruled a vast kingdom that spanned multiple star systems, and I held a title within it all."
"Whoa, sounds like you were some kind of king or something?" Michael interjected playfully, clearly amused by the direction of the story.
"Not quite," Fox responded, shaking his head slightly. "I was more like... an advisor to the rulers. Someone who helped make important decisions and guide our people through challenging times."
"Wow, so what happened next?" Nathan asked, genuinely intrigued now as he pushed away his plate of half-eaten pancakes.
"The dream went on," Fox explained slowly, carefully choosing his words. "I learned that we were at war with another civilization—one that sought to enslave us and take control of our resources."
"Sounds intense," Michael commented, nodding along.
"It was... terrifying actually," Fox admitted, his voice growing softer again as he continued recounting the dream's events. "As I explored this massive city where my family lived, I stumbled upon a colossal building that looked like an enormous metal box with a tower made entirely of glass at its center."
"Ooh, mysterious!" Andrew chimed in, leaning forward eagerly.
"I thought so too," Fox agreed, his gaze drifting off as if he were reliving the moment. "But then I discovered something even more shocking—this building was actually a weapon."
"A weapon?" The others questioned in unison, their eyes widening with disbelief and curiosity.
"Yes," Fox confirmed solemnly. "It could destroy entire galaxies with just one push of a button."
The room fell silent as his friends processed the gravity of what he had just revealed.
"And then what happened?" Nathan asked, breaking the silence that hung over them like a heavy blanket.
"Well..." Fox hesitated before continuing, "there was this terrible war. The enemy found out about our secret weapon and launched an all-out attack on us."
"Oh no," Michael whispered, his face pale with concern.
"It's okay though—we won," Fox reassured them quickly, seeing their worried expressions. "But it came at a great cost."
"The building... the weapon," Andrew guessed tentatively, his voice barely above a whisper.
Fox nodded grimly. "The entire universe was destroyed in the process. All that remained standing was the massive metal box and its glass tower—a monument to both our victory and our ultimate defeat."
As they sat there, each processing the implications of what Fox had shared with them, an eerie silence filled the air around their table at Lost in Thoughts.
"Sounds like quite the dream," Michael remarked after some time had passed, his tone light but laced with a hint of unease. "You must have been really stressed or something to come up with such a crazy story."
"I know it sounds insane," Fox said defensively, realizing how ridiculous he must sound recounting a dream like this. "But I swear, every detail felt so real... as if I were actually there."
His friends exchanged glances once more before shrugging it off, each attributing his vivid imagination and storytelling abilities to the strange story.
As the day turned into evening, they parted ways with promises of meeting again soon for another round at Lost in Thoughts. However, little did they know that Fox Smith's dream would become a reality sooner than anyone could have ever imagined.
Weeks turned into months, and as life moved on, so too did their memories of the peculiar tale shared by Fox that fateful morning at the diner. They never spoke of it again—until one night, when the sky above Taylorville glowed with an unnatural light, illuminating the clouds in a way they had never seen before.
It was then that Fox remembered his dream and its chilling prophecy: "The City of Dreams is coming."
In the northwest region of Dane County lies a mountain range known by the locals as the Koppaburg Mountain Range. These unexplored mountains are the source of local tales about giant wind gods that can destroy houses and sweep people into the air. These stories, handed down from generation to generation, are considered by the locals as traditional truth, while outsiders regard them as mere folklore.
It was this intrigue that led my friend, Professor William B. Taft of Pickford University, along with a team of scholars and students, to journey to this mountain range. After a month of preparation, the professor and his team traveled to the small village of Hythe. Situated at the base of the mountain range, Hythe was where the team arrived on a cold October night. As the strangers made their way to the local inn, the villagers whispered and stared, casting an ominous shadow over the town. Unbeknownst to them, the professor and his team were unaware of the horror that awaited them.
At the inn, the professor and his team prepared for their hike into the mountains the next day. They knew this would be their last night of luxury for the next few weeks, as they would be camping out on the cold, frozen slag of the mountain range. The next day, after breakfast, the professor and his team, with the help of a local guide, began their long hike into the foreboding mountains.
Weeks turned into months, and no word came from the professor or his team. A year later, county authorities ruled that the professor and his team had perished on the mountain, either from an avalanche or starvation. Rumors even suggested that the gypsy guide who helped the professor and his team up the mountain had murdered them. Despite the uncertainties, both the county authorities and the university declared the team dead and had no interest in sending anyone else up the mountain.
On a warm spring day, I decided to travel to the small village of Hythe to inquire about the whereabouts of the professor and his team. I believed he was not dead, and if he was, I wanted to know how he died so I could inform the people back home. Upon arriving in Hythe, I checked in at the same inn where the professor and his team had stayed. I wandered the old cobblestone streets, observing the colorful gazebos and thatched houses. I asked the locals about the professor and his team, but those who were initially eager to talk grew silent when they learned of my purpose.
After several days of silent treatment, I received a post from a local named Koji Úlfur Wetzel, who, according to the innkeeper, was a gypsy. The letter invited me to his encampment that evening around nine PM. As I made my way through the dark alleys, I arrived at a clearing near the edge of town, where a small gypsy camp was set up under two large Arwin trees. Sitting near a small fire, a group of elderly men passed around a bowl filled with a strange, smelly brown substance. Among them was the gypsy I had come to see, dressed in colorful clothing and a unique red hat.
Under the starry skies, we passed the drinking bowl containing the strange substance. Koji told me tales of his travels to many places, both in this world and others. He spoke of the temple of Nigoth in the deep desert sands of Gurth, the city of Ulthar where no man shall kill a cat, and the horror of Tek-Kath, domain of the giant spiders of Mirth. Koji revealed that he had helped the professor and his team up the mountain and knew what had happened to them.
He explained that the professor and his team had traveled for days, seeking the gods the locals spoke of. They reached the Peak of Everlasting Eternity, beyond which lay unexplored lands shrouded in deep white fog. They continued until they found a group of large caves. The professor and his team entered the caves and never emerged. Koji, having witnessed many horrific things, never entered the cave; he only heard the terrible screams that echoed from within. He fled the mountains, knowing some things are best left alone. The gods, known as Zephyr, were the vengeful deities of Koppaburg who smite those who dare enter their domain. Koji warned me not to venture into the mountains and to return to Pickford with the knowledge he had shared.
Despite his warning, I decided to proceed and see for myself what had happened to the missing party. After a week of preparation, I began my trek up the cold, black slag of the mountain. I would make camp each evening and continue my journey during the day. What started as days turned into weeks and then months. Finally, after three months of exploration, I arrived at the cave where the professor and his team were last seen. Among the green, moss-covered stones, I found only a large white pile of a strange, glue-like substance that emitted a horrendous odor. I retrieved gloves and a sample case to collect a portion of the white substance. As I reached to scoop a sample, I noticed what appeared to be a piece of wire sticking out of the substance. Horror gripped me as I realized it was not wire, but the professor's glasses.
It was then that I understood the white goo was all that remained of the professor and his team. The legend of the Zephyr was real. The winds of Mount Koppaburg were not gods, but giant, man-eating birds. As I slowly backed out of the cave, I saw red glowing lights approaching from the darkness. The massive birds, larger than anything I had ever seen, began to charge toward me. I fled the cave and made my way down the mountain, leaving my camping gear behind, fearing the giant winged beasts were following me. I returned to Pickford and reported what I had witnessed to the authorities. Haunted by what I saw, I went back to my work at the university, but the memories of those mountains never left me.
Have you ever had a dream so vivid it felt undeniably real? Where every detail—the faces of strangers, the clothes they wore, the atmosphere around you—was as sharp and tangible as waking life?
That's what happened to me on a cold January evening.
I drifted into sleep and found myself in a familiar place—my old waterbed, resting in the semi-darkness of a basement from my past. My record player sat perched on a bookshelf, beside a small desk with a single uncovered light bulb casting dim, uneven shadows.
Then, suddenly, I fell—rolling off the bed onto an orange-red carpet stretched over the cold concrete floor. As I looked up, the brown, 1970s-style paneling on the walls loomed over me, making the space feel darker than it truly was. I pulled myself back onto the waterbed, slipping under the sheets, hoping to sink further into sleep.
But then—a voice.
A young girl's voice, sharp and commanding—WAKE UP!
Before I could react, I fell again—tumbling off the bed and crashing onto the floor.
When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in the basement. I stood, barefoot in my pajamas, on a warm sidewalk in a town square. The air was perfect—neither too hot nor too cold. People walked past me in Sunday-best attire, their movements purposeful, their presence surreal.
A man in a trench coat bumped into me. I muttered an apology, still dazed, still trying to make sense of it all.
As I wandered through the streets, I studied the shop signs, scanning for something recognizable—but every word was written in Cyrillic. I was no longer in my world.
Children zipped by on bikes from the '70s, glancing back at the strange man wandering town in his pajamas. I continued forward, my confusion deepening, until I reached a flagpole.
At the top, waving in the breeze, was the Stars and Stripes—or rather, what should have been. Instead, the flag had blue and white stripes, and where the stars should have been, a hammer and sickle gleamed ominously in the corner.
The realization hit.
Oh great, I muttered. I'm in a parallel universe.
Then, everything shifted again.
I woke—or at least, I thought I woke—inside a massive room, half the size of a football field, filled with couches, chairs, and pools of artificial light. Wide hallways stretched outward, leading to bedrooms and other hidden spaces.
But more unsettling than the setting was my appearance—I was no longer in pajamas. Now, I wore a suit and tie.
And I wasn't alone.
Standing across the room, arms folded, was a young girl with yellow hair and yellow eyes—a piercing stare filled with unmistakable authority.
"You're not supposed to be here," she said, her voice as steady as before.
Then—I woke up again.
This time, I was in my own bed, in the same cold room I had first fallen asleep in. Snow drifted gently to the ground outside, the world familiar once more.
But I knew—I had seen her.
The Yellow Queen.
And somehow, I had stumbled into her domain.
I lay back down, hoping to return, to retrace my steps, to understand more—but no more dreams came that evening.
Under the crescent moon it stands,
an ancient monolith built long before man,
it's dark lord sits high in it tower,
overlook a waste of nothingness and despair.
Enter in all ye who seek to find within,
those who have cold empty hearts and trembled hands.
To find your pleasure of love, money and power
only to pay with the cost of one's soul.
The Yellow King sits on his throne, taking all those who giveth
behind his mask lays a sinister smile for he knows only he will be rewarded.
In the quiet of the night, under a veil of stars so bright,
Where whispers of the wind carry echoes of our past,
I ponder on our love, a tale of joy and strife,
Where once our hearts did dance, in perfect rhyme and life.
The bloom of youth, our hearts so pure and free,
Two souls entwined in love’s sweet mystery.
Our eyes did meet, a silent vow did we make,
To journey through life’s trials, come what may we'd take.
In fields of green, where daisies softly sway,
We’d lay and dream of forever, our hearts at play.
The warmth of the sun, the coolness of the shade,
Where whispers of our love were never made.
But time, the cruel master, had other plans to unfold,
It slipped through our fingers like grains of sand so cold.
Our hearts grew weary, our love did wane,
As shadows grew longer, our hearts did strain.
We fought the storms, our love a fiery blaze,
But even the mightiest flame will eventually gaze,
Upon the truth that time cannot be withstood,
And hearts that were one, felt suddenly so old.
The laughter turned to tears, the joy to despair,
As love once strong was now just a memory there.
Broken hearts, once whole, now shattered like glass,
Reflecting the love we had, and the moments we amassed.
The love lost lingers, a ghostly specter near,
It haunts the places we once held so dear.
The empty spaces, the silent cries,
Where once our hearts did beat, now just goodbye's sigh.
Each step I take, each breath I breathe,
Is a testament to the love we did receive.
But with every beat, a piece of me is torn,
A silent mourn for what we once adorned.
The moon, a witness to our parting tide,
It waxes and wanes, a love that did not abide.
The stars, they fall, just like the tears we shed,
A testament to the hearts now left for dead.
The rivers of regret, the oceans of pain,
Can never be crossed, never to be regained.
Our love, a ship, lost in the night,
Our hearts, two lighthouses, forever in vain.
The world spins on, unchanged by our plight,
Yet in the stillness, I hold you tight.
In whispers of the wind, in the break of dawn,
I feel your presence, though you are gone.
For love, though lost, is never truly gone,
It lingers on, in every heartbeat drawn.
The echoes of our hearts, forever entwined,
In a symphony of love, forever confined.
So here I stand, amidst the ruins of our past,
With hope in my heart, forever vast.
That love, though broken, still has a spark,
To light the way, through the darkest part.
For in the shards of a heart, so cold and gray,
Lies the power to love another day.
To rise from the ashes, to face the dawn,
And find in the hurt, the strength to carry on.
Though love is lost, and hearts are scarred,
Life goes on, forever bard.
We’ll find our way, though hearts are torn,
For love, though lost, is never truly gone.
~What you think is reality, is just an illusion. There are worlds tucked away, hidden in plain sight. You might happen to stumble into one, but if you try look for them, you will never find them.
Fox Smith ~ 1983
1.
One late October day, months after my adventure through the Gates of Dawn. I was walking down Franklin Street, which slightly turns and heads into the park. It was near that slight turn that I stopped and peered into the tree line, which was covered in bushes and thorns. As I looked down I noticed that where I was standing there was a little hole with a path that led underneath the thorns and bushes so I got down on my knees and began crawling through the small hole into the brush. AS I went farther and farther in I noticed a hole at the other end, which I crawled out of. I peered around and instead of being in an empty harvested cornfield I stood in a large valley, with large mountain cliffs on all sides. Waterfalls ran down the cliff sides down to the valley below, while rainbows made of strange colors filled the sky.
A footpath made of large cyclopean stone led down into the valley and I proceeded to make my way down the path, stopping every now and then to look at the strange plants and fauna. The stone path that I was traveling on stopped in front of a large marble style building with pillars and two long thin wooden doors. The building looked ancient, with bits and pieces of marble missing, and vines climbing down the long pillars. Opening the door, I slowly made my way into the building. The inside was large and in a circular pattern. Light and a small stream of water came in from the broken glass ceiling. Circling around the room was a ledge that was 24 inches wide, and 9 inches deep. One side of the ledge was held up by the circular wall, while the other was held by the inter pillars. Large holes could be seen in the walls behind the 24 inch self. I walked over toward it slowly to take a closer look, about that time a woman, around my mother's age came out the hole. She was beautiful, with long brown hair, with a little gray, big blues, mouse ears and a tail. She only stood 6 inches tall and she stood, as we looked at each other.
"Greeting stranger, I am Aikaterina Queen of Aytantina'
"Hello Queen, My name is Fox Smith, I am from a far away kingdom"
"Oh. so you are not with the Solena Kingdom?"
"No, My lady I am not. Who are they may I ask"
"They are our people's oldest enemies. They come here and attack us and eat those who do not escape."
"I take it that these creatures have fur, long tails and meow?"
"You know of these creatures?"
"All too well"
"Tell me young man, Will you help us defeat these horrible beasts?"
"Sure, I guess"
"Good If you succeed you will be handsomely rewarded"
"No, that's not necessary"
"Of course it is. Mia!'
About that time a young girl, my age came out. She wore a short white dress. She had brown and brown eyes.
"This is my daughter, Mia. She will show you where the horrible beast dwells."
The girl bowed to me and looked at me with a smile
"How do you do princess"
She let off a glow of a smile and walked over towards me
"Come stranger, I'll show you where those creatures come from."
"Fox, my name is Fox"
"OK Fox" she said, smiling as she took a strand of hair and put it behind her ear.
I placed my hand down with my palm up so she could climb on. With her sanding in my palm, she pointed toward the door to lead out and proceeded to show me the way. She continued to point the way, and I noticed the way we were going was the way that I had originally come from. We finally arrived at the opening in the wall, the same opening I had come from. About that time a Big grey cat came through the hole. The cat came through the hole I recognized the cat which went by the name Kitty, also known by others as Satan. The was a big gray alley cat, that was friend to a few humans, including myself
"There is one of the horrible beasts," said the princess as she lay in my hand.
"Him, I assure you he is quite harmless."
"You sure?"
"Yes, he was not a bad cat, just a little misjudged"
"Ok Fox, if you say so"
"So that's where they come from?"
"Yes, you know what is in there?"
"Yes, that's my world, these cats from my world. I can stop this but I have to close the gate from this world to mine."
"Oh, so I will be not able to see you ever again"
"Sorry princess, I won't" as I put down on the ground and grabbed Kitty
"Then I guess this is goodbye"
"Yeah, too bad I want to know what that handsome reward was. Well good bye princess Mia" I said as I began making my way through, back to the outside world.
As I reached near the end of the path that led out, I kicked the stone wall, causing an avalanche blocking the way. I climbed out of the bushes and thorn bushes, with Satan in hand, and he wasn't too happy and I released him and he took off running across the yard, and into some shrubs.
I continued my walk to the park, where my friends; Brad, Todd and Roger were waiting. I wonder what the next adventure will be.
End...
The sun had just set, casting an eerie glow over the quiet suburban neighborhood. The shadows from the trees seemed to stretch and writhe in the fading light as young Tommy hurried home, his small frame tense with fear.
As he reached the front door of his modest house, Tommy burst inside, slamming it shut behind him and locking it with trembling hands. His parents were in the living room, his father reading a newspaper while his mother knitted nearby.
"Tommy?" his mother asked gently, setting her needles aside. "Is everything okay, honey?"
The boy opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out at first. He took a shaky breath and tried again. "M-Mom...Dad..." he stammered, his eyes wide with terror. "T-The Creeker...he's back."
His parents exchanged concerned looks before his father spoke up in a soothing tone. "Now Tommy, we've talked about this before. There are no such things as monsters."
"But there is!" Tommy cried out desperately. "The Creeker! He came to my window again tonight!"
"Tommy," his mother said firmly but kindly, rising from her chair and approaching him. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You know we don't believe in monsters. It was probably just a bad dream."
"It wasn't a dream!" Tommy insisted, shaking his head vehemently. "The Creeker is real! He has yellow eyes that glow in the dark and long, sharp claws!"
His father set down the paper with an exasperated sigh. "Son, we've explained this before - monsters aren't real."
Tommy's lower lip began to quiver as tears welled up in his eyes. "But I saw him! He was right outside my window! He said if I don't give him what he wants, he'll come back and take me away!"
"What did he want?" his mother asked softly.
"The same thing," Tommy replied shakily. "My soul."
His parents shared another look of concern before his father knelt down to be at eye level with the boy. He spoke in a reassuring voice. "Tommy, honey, you know that souls aren't real either, right? We've gone over this."
"But what if they are?" Tommy whispered fearfully.
"Then I'm sure that your soul is perfectly safe," his father replied with a small smile and pat on the boy's shoulder.
As much as he wanted to believe them, Tommy couldn't shake the feeling of dread that had settled in the pit of his stomach. He glanced out the window into the darkness beyond, half-expecting to see those glowing yellow eyes staring back at him.
"Come on now, let's get you ready for bed," his mother said gently, guiding her son upstairs.
As Tommy climbed under the covers, he couldn't help but feel a chill run down his spine. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to push thoughts of The Creeker from his mind as he drifted off into a fitful sleep.
Outside, a shadow detached itself from the darkness, its form twisted and grotesque. The thing that called itself "The Creeker" smiled, revealing rows of jagged teeth in the moonlight before slinking away into the night. It would be back for Tommy's soul soon enough..., he was not afraid of the dark. He was the darkness itself.
The next evening, as dusk began to fall over the neighborhood once more, Tommy found himself walking home from a friend's house. The streets were quiet and still, with only an occasional car passing by in the distance.
As he turned onto his street, something caught his eye at the end of it - a dark shape moving between two houses. It was too big to be an animal and moved with an unsettling purposefulness.
Tommy quickened his pace, wanting nothing more than to get inside where it was safe. But as he neared the house, he saw that the front door was ajar...and there were no lights on inside.
"Dad?" he called out tentatively as he stepped into the entryway. "Mom?"
There was only silence in response. A cold dread settled over Tommy as he realized something was very wrong.
He made his way through the darkened house, his heart pounding in his chest. The furniture had all been overturned and there were deep claw marks gouged into the walls.
Tommy's breathing quickened as a wave of panic washed over him. "Mom? Dad?" he called out again, his voice trembling with fear.
Suddenly, he heard a low growl coming from the kitchen - an unearthly sound that sent shivers down his spine. He backed away slowly, his eyes wide with terror.
A shadowy figure emerged from the darkness of the doorway...and Tommy saw that it was The Creeker in all its horrific glory.
The creature towered over the boy, its skin a mottled gray and covered in writhing tendrils. Its yellow eyes glowed with an otherworldly light as it fixed Tommy with an icy gaze.
Tommy opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out. The Creeker loomed closer, those razor-sharp claws inches from the boy's face.
"I told you I'd be back," it rasped in a voice like rusted metal scraping against stone. "And now...I'm here for what I want."
Tommy shook his head frantically, backing away until he hit the wall. "P-Please don't hurt me," he whimpered.
The Creeker chuckled darkly and reached out with one clawed hand. "Your soul belongs to me now, little boy. And I'm going to take it...one piece at a time."
With that, The Creeker plunged its claws into Tommy's chest, the boy crying out in pain as he felt something being ripped from his body.
The creature began to feed on the essence of Tommy's soul, relishing each shuddering gasp and desperate whimper. It was an exquisite agony for the boy...and a delicious feast for The Creeker.
As the last shimmer of light faded from Tommy's eyes, The Creeker pulled away with a satisfied sigh. "Delicious," it rumbled.
The creature then turned and slunk out into the night to find its next victim. For there were many more souls to claim...and plenty of time for such delights.
And so Tommy lay dead on the floor, his young life ended all too soon by a monster that no one would ever believe existed. But The Creeker was real...as real as the darkness itself. And it had claimed another soul for its own dark purposes.
The sun was setting as young Fox Smith ventured deeper into the forest, his curiosity urging him forward despite the gathering darkness. He had always been fascinated by the untamed wilderness and today, he found himself drawn to a part of the woods he hadn't yet explored.
As Fox pushed past branches and undergrowth, he noticed something peculiar - the air was heavy with an almost invisible web-like substance that seemed to coat every surface around him. It wasn't until he reached a small clearing that he realized what it really was: thick ropes of spider silk woven together into intricate patterns covering the trees and ground.
Suddenly, out from behind one of the larger trunks stepped a creature unlike anything Fox had ever seen before. She appeared human at first glance, with long flowing black hair and alabaster skin accented by traditional Japanese clothing - but upon closer inspection, it became clear she was no ordinary woman. Her body was covered in a fine layer of fur and her limbs ended not in hands or feet but rather spindly legs more fitting for an arachnid than any human being.
Fox froze in place, his eyes wide with terror as he realized the true nature of this monstrosity before him - it was a Jorōgumo! A half spider / half woman wearing a kimono with large bouncy breast. The creature spoke in a melodious voice that belied her terrifying appearance:
"Welcome to my home, little boy," she purred, taking a step closer. "I am the Jorōgumo and I've been waiting for someone like you to stumble upon my lair."
Fox backed away slowly, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to come up with an escape plan. The Jorōgumo continued speaking, her voice dripping with false sweetness:
"Come now, don't be frightened," she cooed, gesturing for him to follow her deeper into the woods. "I won't hurt you... unless you refuse my invitation."
Realizing he had no choice but to comply, Fox reluctantly began walking behind her, every step feeling like it could be his last. As they made their way through the web-choked forest, the Jorōgumo would occasionally look back at him over her shoulder and smile - a sight that sent shivers down Fox's spine.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of trekking through the woods, they arrived at a small cottage nestled between two towering trees. The Jorōgumo ushered Fox inside before closing the door behind them with an ominous thud.
Inside, the room was dimly lit by flickering candlelight and covered wall-to-wall in more of her silken web. There were no windows or exits - only a single chair sitting opposite the Jorōgumo herself.
"Sit down," she instructed Fox firmly, gesturing to the lone seat. He obeyed without question, his mind racing as he tried to figure out how he could possibly escape from this nightmare situation.
Once seated, the Jorōgumo began to speak again, her voice low and menacing: "You see, little boy," she explained, circling around him like a predator stalking its prey. "I am not what I seem... I am something far more dangerous."
As if to prove her point, she suddenly lunged forward with alarming speed, her long spindly legs allowing her to cross the room in mere seconds. Fox barely had time to react before he found himself ensnared by thick ropes of webbing that held him firmly in place against his chair.
"I have waited so long for a companion," the Jorōgumo whispered as she leaned in close, her breath hot against his ear. "And now... I finally have one."
Tears streamed down Fox's face as he struggled futilely against his bonds, knowing that this would likely be the last moment of his life. But then, just when all seemed lost...
CRASH!
The door to the cottage burst open and in strode a group of forest rangers wielding axes and torches. They had been tracking the Jorōgumo for months now and finally managed to corner her here in this secluded hideaway.
"Release the boy immediately!" One of them shouted, taking aim with his axe. "Or we'll be forced to destroy you!"
The Jorōgumo let out an unearthly shriek before scurrying off into the darkness, leaving only a trail of discarded webbing in her wake. The rangers quickly freed Fox from his bonds and ushered him outside where they assured him that he was safe now.
As the sun began to rise over the horizon, casting long shadows across the forest floor, Fox couldn't help but marvel at how close he had come to meeting a terrible fate at the hands of the Jorōgumo. But thanks to these brave men who risked their lives to save him, he had escaped unharmed and could now return home to his family.
From that day forward, whenever anyone asked Fox about his adventures in the woods, he would always recount this tale with a mixture of fear and gratitude - forever thankful for the rangers who saved him from certain doom. And though he never spoke of it again after leaving the forest, deep down inside... he knew that somewhere out there, still lurking amongst the shadows was the Jorōgumo... waiting patiently for her next victim to stumble into her web-choked lair.
As I pulled into the quaint little town of Willowbrook, I couldn't help but notice the eerie silence that hung in the air. The streets were deserted, and an unsettling stillness seemed to permeate every corner of this once-bustling community.
I had come here on assignment from the Dane County Gazette, hoping to uncover the truth behind the recent spate of missing men. Rumors had been circulating for weeks about a group of women who supposedly devoured their male victims with their privates, leaving nothing but empty husks in their wake.
As I made my way through town, I came across an old woman watering her flower beds. She seemed startled when she saw me approaching, and her eyes darted nervously from side to side as if afraid someone might be watching us.
"Excuse me," I began, "I'm a reporter with the Dane County Gazette, and I was wondering if you could help me understand what's been happening in Willowbrook lately?"
The woman hesitated for a moment before responding, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know anything about that," she said quickly, averting her gaze.
"But surely you must have heard something?" I pressed. "Men are disappearing left and right, and people are saying it's the women who are responsible."
The old woman shook her head vehemently. "I haven't seen or heard a thing," she insisted, her hands trembling as she fumbled with the watering can.
As I walked away from her house, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this story than met the eye. Something sinister lurked beneath the surface of this picturesque town, and I was determined to uncover it.
Over the next few days, I interviewed as many residents as I could find, but they all seemed hesitant to speak openly about the disappearances. They would nod vaguely when asked if they'd heard anything, but none would provide any concrete information or point me in a specific direction.
Frustrated by my lack of progress, I decided to take matters into my own hands and conduct some covert surveillance on my own. Late one evening, as I sat hidden behind the bushes outside a local bar, I watched in horror as a group of women lured a young man away from the main road and into the woods.
Unable to resist the opportunity for a scoop, I followed them at a safe distance, careful not to let them see me. As we ventured deeper into the forest, I heard the sound of twigs snapping underfoot and leaves rustling in the breeze. Suddenly, an eerie silence descended upon us, broken only by the occasional bird call or distant howl.
The women led their unsuspecting victim to a secluded clearing where they gathered around him in a tight circle. To my shock and revulsion, I watched as one of them reached down between her legs and began to consume his body with her vagina - first his hands, then his arms, before moving up to his torso and finally his head.
I could only stand there, frozen in horror, as the other women joined their companion in feasting upon this unfortunate soul. They tore into him with a ferocity that was both terrifying and mesmerizing at once.
Once they had finished devouring every last morsel of flesh, the group turned to face me. Their eyes gleamed with malice, and their mouths were stained crimson with blood. I knew then that there would be no escape for me - these women had already tasted human meat, and now they craved more.
With a guttural cry, I turned and fled into the night, desperate to put as much distance between myself and this horrific scene as possible. But even as I ran, I could feel their hungry eyes boring into my back, eager for another meal.
Back at the newspaper office, I furiously pounded out an article detailing what I had witnessed in Willowbrook - a town where women preyed upon men like ravenous beasts. It was a story so shocking that it would surely make headlines across the country and finally bring this nightmare to an end.
But as I sat there, hunched over my typewriter, I couldn't help but wonder if there were more towns out there like Willowbrook - places where humanity had been twisted into something monstrous by some unseen force. And deep down, I feared that one day, those same forces might come for me as well.
As the sun began to set outside my window, casting long shadows across the room, I finished writing and submitted the story to my editor, hoping it would be enough to save what was left of this world from the darkness that had begun to consume it.
John Walker sat across from Dr. Felix Vinkmeir, a middle-aged man with a well-trimmed beard, as he recounted the harrowing experience that had led to his arrest.
"Doctor, it all started when me and my friends decided to explore Durkham House," John began, his voice trembling slightly. "It's an abandoned place, filled with stories of paranormal activity and ghost sightings."
Dr. Vinkmeir leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. "Go on," he urged.
"Well, we heard about this urban legend involving some sort of cosmic horror residing in the house. We thought it would be a fun adventure to test our courage." John paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. "My girlfriend, Lily, was pregnant at the time, and she insisted on joining us."
Dr. Vinkmeir raised an eyebrow. "That seems like a rather dangerous situation for her to be in," he remarked.
John nodded solemnly. "I know, Doctor. I didn't want her there, but she wouldn't take no for an answer. She was always the adventurous type."
As they ventured deeper into the house, John and his friends began to experience strange phenomena - whispering voices, eerie laughter echoing through empty rooms, and a pervasive sense of dread that clung to them like a second skin.
"And then we found him," John whispered, his eyes wide with fear. "A man in a green tweed suit with a yellow tie. He called himself the Yellow King."
Dr. Vinkmeir jotted down notes as he listened intently. "This Yellow King...what did he do to your friends?"
John's face contorted with grief and anger. "He drove them insane, Doctor. Each one of them in different ways. For my friend Mark, it was a crippling fear of the dark that consumed him. He'd hide away from all light sources, even during the day."
"And then there was Sarah," John continued, his voice cracking. "The King whispered something in her ear, and she began to see grotesque, terrifying visions wherever she went. She couldn't handle it and...and she took her own life."
Dr. Vinkmeir's expression hardened as he processed the information. He then asked, "And what about you? How did you escape?"
John leaned back in his chair, a haunted look in his eyes. "I ran, Doctor. I ran as fast as I could, and somehow managed to outrun the King's influence."
"And Lily?" Dr. Vinkmeir inquired softly.
"She was right beside me," John replied, his voice thick with emotion. "We barely made it out alive."
As Dr. Vinkmeir prepared to commit John to the asylum, he couldn't shake off a sense of unease. He glanced out the window and saw nothing but darkness...and then, for a fleeting moment, a face in a green tweed suit with a yellow tie.
The Yellow King had found him.
Grandpa Joe sat in his favorite armchair, gazing out of the window as the sun began to set. His 10-year-old grandson, Tommy, sat beside him, eager for another one of Grandpa's stories.
"Tell me about when you were my age," Tommy urged, leaning forward with curiosity sparking in his eyes.
Grandpa Joe smiled, remembering the days of his youth. "Well, let me see..." he began, lost in thought for a moment before continuing. "When I was 10 years old, there was this girl named Lily who lived next door to us."
Tommy's interest grew, and he listened intently as Grandpa Joe continued.
"Lily had long red hair that flowed like fire down her back," Grandpa Joe said, his eyes twinkling with the memory. "And she always wore a red kimono with white flowers embroidered on it. She was beautiful."
"But wait..." Tommy interrupted, confusion evident in his voice. "Wasn't Lily actually a nine-tailed fox?"
Grandpa Joe chuckled at the question. "Yes, my boy, that's right," he said, nodding slowly. "You see, even though she looked like an ordinary girl, Lily was no ordinary being."
Tommy's eyes widened in wonder as Grandpa Joe continued his tale.
"Lily could do things that seemed impossible to us mere humans," Grandpa Joe explained. "She had the ability to transform into a nine-tailed fox at will and could even use her tails for various purposes like making fire or summoning wind."
Tommy gasped, his mind racing with the possibilities of such extraordinary powers.
"And what was she like as a friend?" Tommy asked eagerly, wanting to hear more about their adventures together.
Grandpa Joe smiled warmly at the memory. "Lily and I were inseparable," he said fondly. "We spent our days exploring the forest near our houses and having grand adventures."
"Did you ever get into any trouble with her powers?" Tommy inquired, his curiosity getting the better of him.
"I did once or twice," Grandpa Joe admitted with a laugh. "But Lily always knew how to handle things with grace and skill."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the room, Grandpa Joe finished his story and turned to face Tommy.
"That was quite the tale!" Tommy exclaimed, his eyes shining with excitement.
Grandpa Joe patted him on the shoulder gently. "Life has a way of bringing us unexpected adventures," he said wisely. "Just remember that no matter what happens or who you meet along the way - always stay true to yourself."
Tommy nodded solemnly, determined to carry Grandpa Joe's words with him into his own future.
And so ended another day filled with stories and memories shared between a grandfather and his curious grandson - each one cherishing the moments spent together.
It was a chilly autumn evening when I first laid eyes on the exquisite diorama of a traditional Japanese mountain village at an antique shop downtown. The intricate details, from the thatched-roof houses to the meticulously crafted miniature figures, instantly captivated me.
"This is a masterpiece," I whispered in awe as I examined it closely.
"Indeed, it is quite rare," the elderly shopkeeper replied with a knowing smile. "But be warned, my boy, for this diorama has been said to possess a dark and mysterious curse."
I scoffed at his words, dismissing them as mere superstition. However, curiosity got the better of me, and I purchased the piece.
As time passed, strange occurrences began unfolding in my apartment. Soft whispers echoed through the night, causing me to stir restlessly in my sleep. One evening, I awoke with a start, hearing muffled voices emanating from within the diorama itself.
"Hush, you must be quiet now," a hushed voice cautioned another.
"What are we doing here?" A second voice inquired, sounding both scared and confused.
I peered into the darkness, trying to make out any signs of movement within the miniature village. But all was still, save for the rustling leaves in the autumn breeze that filtered through my window.
Days turned into weeks as these unsettling whispers persisted, growing louder each night. My once tranquil apartment now felt like a haunted house, filled with an eerie presence I could not shake off.
One particularly stormy evening, as lightning illuminated the room and thunder rumbled ominously in the background, I was jolted awake by the sound of music. Peering through half-open eyes, I noticed that the diorama was glowing with an otherworldly light. It seemed as though a festival was taking place within its confines.
Booths lined the winding path leading up to a mountain shrine bathed in golden light. The tiny figures of townspeople danced and celebrated, their joyous shouts barely audible above the sound of the raging storm outside my window.
I closed my eyes tightly, trying to calm myself down. When I opened them again, I found myself no longer in my apartment but within the diorama itself.
"Welcome," a young man greeted me as he stepped forward from among the revelers. "Allow me to guide you up the mountain."
As we ascended, the music grew louder and more enticing. The air was filled with the sweet aroma of incense, and the sight of the glowing shrine at the summit beckoned me like a beacon.
"Who are you?" I asked my guide, still half-convinced that this was all just some bizarre dream.
"I am but one of many," he replied cryptically. "We have been waiting for someone to join us here."
As we reached the top, I noticed an altar adorned with offerings and a statue of a grotesque deity with multiple arms and eyes - a being known as Ierōkingu.
"Please step forward," the young man urged me gently but firmly.
I found myself standing before the altar, feeling an overwhelming sense of dread wash over me. Before I could react, I was pushed onto the stone slab by unseen hands.
"What are you doing?" I cried out in fear and confusion as they began to chant in a language I did not understand.
Suddenly, everything went black.
Days passed, and my landlord grew concerned when he received no response after knocking on my door several times. Deciding that something must be wrong, he entered the apartment with trepidation.
"Mr. Tanaka?" He called out as he stepped inside, only to be met by an eerie silence and a thick layer of dust covering everything in sight.
As his gaze fell upon the diorama sitting in the middle of the living room, he noticed that it was no longer just a beautiful piece of art but a symbol of something far more sinister.
"I will take this as payment," he muttered to himself, gathering up the diorama and leaving the apartment, unaware of the dark secrets hidden within.
Dr. Eliza Moran adjusted her goggles, her hands trembling with anticipation. Years of work, thousands of calculations, and countless sleepless nights had led to this moment. Around her, the massive subterranean lab buzzed with activity. The Gateway Project, a multinational effort to peer into other dimensions, was finally operational.
“It’s time,” Eliza said, her voice echoing across the chamber. The massive archway before her shimmered with swirling blue energy. A dozen superconducting coils hummed, generating enough power to light a city. The air grew thick with an electric charge, and the gateway crackled like a storm trapped in a bottle.
“Coordinates set,” her assistant, Dr. Raj Patel, said, his voice tinged with equal parts excitement and fear. “Dimension Theta-7 locked in.”
Eliza stepped forward. “This is the future of exploration. A new frontier for humanity.”
Raj hesitated. “And what if we’re not ready for what’s on the other side?”
Eliza didn’t respond. She simply nodded at the control team. The lead technician flipped a switch, and the archway erupted with blinding light. The gateway stabilized, revealing a swirling void of dark blues, purples, and blacks. Patterns of alien geometry and faint, otherworldly whispers emanated from the portal.
At first, there was silence, broken only by the hum of machinery. Then, something moved.
A shadow emerged from the void. At first, it seemed like smoke, swirling and shifting, but then it grew denser, taking form. A massive, serpentine figure with too many limbs and eyes that shimmered like dying stars. Its presence filled the room with an overwhelming sense of dread, as if the very concept of existence bent under its gaze.
“Shut it down!” Raj yelled, slamming his hand on the emergency shutdown panel. Nothing happened.
The creature stepped through the gateway, its form twisting and stretching as though reality itself struggled to contain it. Its voice wasn’t a sound but a pressure, a whisper that clawed at the edges of the mind.
"You opened the door. Now, you will know us."
The lab descended into chaos. Technicians screamed as the creature’s presence warped the air around them, twisting their bodies into grotesque shapes. Lights flickered and shattered, plunging the lab into darkness illuminated only by the eerie glow of the portal.
Eliza stumbled back, her mind reeling. She had seen glimpses of its form, but what unsettled her most were the feelings it evoked—a sense of infinite insignificance and the undeniable realization that humanity was never meant to meddle with such forces.
“Raj, the manual override!” she shouted, her voice hoarse.
Raj, trembling, crawled toward the backup controls. But the creature turned its countless eyes on him. He froze mid-motion, his body contorting as an inhuman scream tore from his lips. Then, silence. Raj was gone—absorbed, dissolved, or worse.
Eliza felt her sanity slipping as she scrambled for a solution. Her fingers brushed against a nearby console. Through sheer willpower, she entered the sequence to overload the gateway's power grid. The only way to stop it was to destroy the machine—and possibly herself along with it.
The creature’s attention shifted to her. Its voice pressed against her skull.
"You cannot unsee. You cannot unhear. You are marked."
Eliza hit the final button. The room erupted in light and heat as the gateway’s containment field collapsed. The creature let out a soundless scream, its form unraveling like smoke caught in a gale. The explosion threw Eliza across the room, slamming her into a wall.
When she awoke, the lab was in ruins. The gateway was gone, reduced to molten slag. The creature was nowhere to be seen, but its presence lingered—an oppressive weight that settled over her chest.
Eliza staggered to her feet, her mind racing. The Rift had closed, but not before it had left its mark on her. The whispers still echoed in her head, faint but persistent. And as she looked down at her hands, she saw faint, glowing symbols etched into her skin—symbols that hadn’t been there before.
Humanity had crossed a line, and the door wasn’t just open. It was unlocked.
Once, your name was a hymn in my chest,
a melody carved from the softest rest.
Each word you spoke, a spark, a glow,
a promise whispered, a world to know.
But love is fragile, like winter’s breath,
a fleeting warmth in the arms of death.
It unraveled slowly, thread by thread,
a tapestry torn, its colors bled.
Your touch once lit stars in my weary skies,
now it lingers only as empty sighs.
The echoes of laughter haunt the air,
ghosts of a bond we thought was rare.
Time, the thief, crept into our days,
erasing the gold, dimming the rays.
We stood on the brink, hearts in decay,
fingers reaching, but pulling away.
Yet even in loss, a love can remain,
etched in the soul like a tender stain.
For what was once ours, though it is no more,
still dances like waves upon the shore.
Fox Smith’s hands trembled as he flipped through the phone book, his heart hammering in his chest. He’d spent the better part of his Saturday building up the courage to call Amy. Amy Thompson. The girl he’d liked since the second grade when she helped him pick up his spilled crayons in art class.
Now, four years later, she still lived in his head rent-free, but he’d never managed to tell her how he felt. And even though they were in the same sixth-grade class, they rarely spoke. She was always surrounded by her friends, laughing and moving through the school hallways as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
Today, though, Fox was going to take a chance.
He dialed the first Thompson in the phone book. A gruff man answered, and after an awkward exchange, it turned out to be the wrong family. Fox moved to the next listing. Then the next. His heart sank a little more with each wrong number until finally, on the eighth try, an older woman answered.
“Hello, this is Mrs. Thompson.”
Fox cleared his throat. “Uh, hi. My name is Fox Smith. I—I’m looking for Amy Thompson. She goes to my school.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Oh, you must mean my granddaughter! She doesn’t live here, dear, but I can give you her number.”
Fox scribbled it down quickly, muttering a thank-you before hanging up. He stared at the number for what felt like an eternity, his heart doing somersaults. What if she didn’t want to talk to him? What if she thought he was weird?
But the thought of not knowing was worse.
With shaky fingers, he dialed the number.
It rang once. Twice. Three times.
“Hello?” came a soft, familiar voice.
Fox nearly dropped the phone. “Uh, hi, Amy. It’s—it’s Fox. From school.”
There was a long silence on the other end.
“I, uh…” His mouth went dry. “I was wondering if you’d want to go roller-skating with me. Like, at the rink on Main Street. Maybe this weekend?”
For a moment, he thought the line had gone dead. Then he heard a soft click.
Amy had hung up.
Fox sat there, the receiver still pressed to his ear, staring at the wall. He set the phone down slowly, the rejection hitting him like a punch to the gut.
The next Monday at school, Fox sat at his usual spot in the cafeteria, picking at his lunch. Across the room, Amy laughed with her friends, as if nothing had happened.
Fox couldn’t bring himself to meet her gaze. Every time she passed by in the hallway or sat a few rows ahead in class, he felt an ache in his chest. He’d spent years imagining what it might be like to talk to her, to make her smile. But now, he realized, she didn’t feel the same way.
From that day on, Fox decided to let her go. It wasn’t easy—how do you forget someone you’ve liked for so long? But seeing her so carefree, so uninterested, made it clear that it was time to move on.
Maybe, someday, someone else would pick up his spilled crayons. And maybe they’d like him back.
The cold wind blows outside as I write on these few pieces of paper, documenting all that I have seen over the past ten years. I don't know if this place is my home, or if perhaps in some lost, forgotten dream, my true home lies with two dogs and two cats lying on the front porch on a warm summer day, while my wife cooks in the kitchen. My two children, Annie and Michael, play under the big oak tree in the backyard.
Ah, my home, which smells of fine food, sits on a high hill overlooking a green pasture, mystic forest, ancient hollows, and forgotten groves. From the back porch of our little white farmhouse, you can see a little stream that twists and turns across the green pasture under a light blue sky with its gentle breeze slowly moving white pillows of clouds across the sky. Bumblebees fly from flower to flower, drinking the sweet nectar, while the aroma from the flowers makes it feel like a never-ending dream. As you peer off into the green valleys, a mystical melody slowly starts playing in your mind.
Now I sit here in this two-room cabin in a bleak world where everything seems dead. The cold wind pounds against the windows while an unknown horror howls my name. The candle I use to write this tale also protects me from those cosmic horrors that hunger for me and live in the dark void. When the candle dies out, so too does my life.
Yet, even in this desolate place, I find solace in the memories of what once was. The laughter of my children, the warmth of my wife's embrace, and the serenity of our home. These memories are my lifeline, a fragile thread connecting me to a world that seems so distant …
Sylvester Berry, a lanky thirteen-year-old boy with thick-rimmed glasses and an unruly mop of curly hair, trudged his way home from another disheartening day at school. His backpack was heavy with textbooks and the weight of the relentless bullying he endured daily. As he walked down the quiet suburban street, he couldn't help but feel invisible to the world around him.
Lost in thought, Sylvester nearly missed the small, tattered poster tacked onto a lamppost. The weather-beaten paper bore an image of a mysterious figure, silhouetted against a starry sky. Above it was written "The Great Giggle in the Sky," and below that, in faded black marker, were directions to a towering skyscraper made entirely of marble.
Sylvester's heart raced with curiosity and hope. He had heard whispers about this legendary being who could grant wishes and bring happiness to those who sought it out. Could The Great Giggle in the Sky truly be real? With a newfound sense of purpose, he resolved to find the skyscraper and seek an audience with this mythical entity.
The next morning, Sylvester set off on his journey. He packed a small bag with supplies and set out for the edge of town where the marble tower was said to reside. As he walked, he couldn't help but feel excited about the prospect of meeting The Great Giggle in the Sky and having all his problems solved.
However, as he ventured further from the familiar streets, Sylvester began to encounter more and more challenges. He soon found himself lost and disoriented in a dark alleyway when suddenly, two burly members of the school's football team emerged from the shadows. They recognized him immediately and began taunting and pushing him around.
"Well, well, if it isn't little Sylvi! What are you doing out here all by yourself?" one of them jeered as they started to close in on him.
Sylvester tried to stand his ground, but he was no match for their strength. They quickly overpowered him and began taking turns punching and kicking him. As he lay curled up on the cold concrete, tears streaming down his face, one of them reached into Sylvester's bag and pulled out a small pocket knife.
"Oh ho! Look what we have here!" the other one sneered as he grabbed it from his friend. "Maybe this little tool can teach you how to defend yourself."
They took turns cutting holes in Sylvester's clothes and then they began to taunt him with cruel laughter, mocking his pain and humiliation. As they did so, another member of the football team approached them.
"Hey, guys! I heard there was a nerdy kid wandering around by himself," he said as he walked up to join them. "Is that you, Berry?"
Sylvester tried to look away in shame, but he couldn't hide his tears or the blood from his nose and mouth.
The new boy laughed cruelly at him before turning back to his friends. "What do you say we have a little fun with this loser? Maybe give him something to remember us by?"
They all agreed eagerly, and soon Sylvester was being dragged into an abandoned warehouse nearby. As he struggled against their hold, the boys began stripping off his clothes, leaving him exposed and vulnerable.
"Look at those scrawny legs!" one of them laughed as they kicked him in the shins. "You'd think a wimp like this would have learned how to run by now!"
Sylvester tried to cover himself with his hands, but it was no use. They were too strong for him. As he lay there crying helplessly, one of the boys began to grope at him roughly.
"Hey, stop!" Sylvester cried out in panic as he tried to push them away.
But they only laughed harder and continued their assault on his body. It felt like an eternity before they finally let him go, leaving him bruised, bleeding, and utterly humiliated.
As the boys left the warehouse laughing at his expense, Sylvester slowly pulled himself up off the cold concrete floor. He knew he should just go home and forget about this nightmare, but something inside him wouldn't allow it. He couldn't give up on The Great Giggle in the Sky now.
With renewed determination, Sylvester made his way out of the abandoned building and continued following the directions to the marble skyscraper. As he walked further from town, the landscape began to change drastically. Tall trees with gnarled branches loomed over him like skeletal fingers reaching for the sky.
Finally, after what seemed like hours of walking through this eerie forest, Sylvester saw it: a towering skyscraper made entirely of gleaming white marble rising above the treetops in the distance. He could hardly believe his eyes as he approached the massive structure. The sunlight glinted off its polished surface, making it look almost magical.
As Sylvester stepped through the ornate doors and into the vast lobby beyond, he was immediately struck by how quiet everything was inside. There were no other people around, and the building looked as if it had been abandoned for years.
He noticed an elevator with its doors wide open. He slowly made his way to the elevator, walked in, and pressed a button. The elevator slowly made its way up to the top level, and the doors opened. The hallway was dark and sinister, as horrible, unspeakable creatures dotted the hallway, watching Sylvester make his way to the throne room.
Sylvester's heart pounded as he made his way to the final chamber, the throne room, where sitting on a throne sat The Great Giggle in the Sky.
"Hello, young one," The Great Giggle in the Sky said in an eerie yet firm voice. The Great Giggle in the Sky sat there on his throne, wearing a yellow, tattered cloak, and a white mask that completely covered his face. "I've been waiting for you."
Sylvester couldn't find his voice at first; he was too overwhelmed by this surreal moment. But then he found himself speaking, pouring out all of his pain and frustration about being bullied at school.
The Great Giggle in the Sky listened patiently as Sylvester shared every detail of his suffering, never once interrupting or judging him harshly. When he finished talking, The Great Giggle in the Sky simply said:
"I know it's difficult to believe now, but there is so much more beauty and joy in this world than pain and cruelty. You just have to open your heart to see it."
Sylvester felt tears begin to well up in his eyes again at those words, but he blinked them away quickly.
"Thank you," he whispered hoarsely as The Great Giggle in the Sky smiled warmly at him once more.
"I'm glad I could help, even if only a little bit," it replied gently before turning back towards its throne. "Now go out there and show those who would hurt others what true strength really looks like."
Sylvester nodded solemnly as he took one last look around the chamber before heading back down the long corridor to the lobby below. As he stepped outside into the bright sunlight once more, Sylvester felt a strange sense of peace wash over him. He knew that his troubles weren't over yet—far from it—but at least now he had hope again.
Hope that someday soon, things would get better for him. Hope that maybe even The Great Giggle in the Sky was right and there truly were more wonderful experiences waiting for him just around the corner, if only he kept moving forward with courage and determination.
And so Sylvester Berry continued walking along his path, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead—this time, armed with newfound confidence and a heart full of dreams.
The next day at school, Sylvester saw the members of the football team in the cafeteria. Sylvester stood up, walked over, and beat the crap out of the head of the football team. The head of the football team, Jake Wilson, lay on the floor in a pool of his blood, and the other boys watched Sylvester peering up at them with a sinister smile on his face as he let out a little giggle. After that day no one messed with Sylvester, knowing that he was a lot stronger than he looked. Within the following weeks, Sylvester went back into the woods to the White Castle, which was the home of the Great Giggle in the Sky, to thank him, but the massively tall skyscraper made of marble was gone.
In the city of Carcosa, where time stands still,
Lies the story of a king whose tale is told as myth.
His visage haunts our dreams and his name fills us with dread,
The King in Yellow, a figure both dreaded and dread.
His play, a sinister work that twists the mind's eye,
Leaves its readers in a trance, their sanity to fly.
For within those pages lies a truth too dark to see,
A revelation of a realm where all is not as it seems.
The King himself is but a shadow, a phantom of our fears,
Whose presence lingers in the air, causing chills and tears.
He rules over realms unseen, where time has no hold,
And his subjects are those who have been ensnared by his spell's cold.
His crown is made of gold, yet tarnished with despair,
His robes a sea of sorrow, forever stained by care.
And though he sits upon his throne, he knows not joy or glee,
For in the city of Carcosa, all is misery and woe to be.
So let us heed the warnings from those who dared to tread,
Upon this path of madness where the King in Yellow's head.
For once you've seen him, there's no turning back,
You'll find yourself trapped in his web, your fate now black.
And so we pray that we may never hear the chimes play,
Nor witness the dancers dance, for fear our souls to lay,
In the realm of Carcosa, where the King in Yellow reigns,
A king whose rule is one of pain and suffering, ever cursed by unseen chains.
For he who wears the mask of the King in Yellow's play,
Is doomed to live forever in a world that has no way.
To escape the madness or find solace from his grip,
For the King in Yellow's reign will never end nor slip.
Bad little children, be fearful of the night,
Bugbear will come and take you out of sight,
Into the darkness to devour your soul,
Behave yourselves and do as you are told.
Shadows stretch and whisper your name,
A claw in the doorway, a figure untamed.
Eyes like embers, glowing bright,
It feasts on fear beneath the moon’s light.
One stray foot beyond the bed, And soon you’ll wish that you were dead.
For Bugbear lurks where cowards tread, A voice that calls inside your head.
No one knew it would happen. Many dismissed it as a mere myth, a tale to scare children. But it began long ago, when the world was still young and the races that inhabited it were in their infancy. In those ancient times, Earth had a sister planet that orbited the sun in an elliptical path every two thousand years. This sister planet mirrored Earth in every way, from its towering mountain peaks that kissed the blue sky to its deep oceans teeming with life. For a thousand years, this planet would be a cold, barren wasteland, forcing its inhabitants to retreat to the planet's core for warmth. But for another thousand years, when the planet drew close to Earth, it transformed into a warm wonderland of plants, flowers, and animals. The people of this sister world resembled their Earthly relatives in every way, and during those thousand years of sun and warmth, the two planets could communicate.
No one knows exactly when it happened, but one millennium, Earth's sister planet was knocked off its orbit and drifted into the vast, cold emptiness of space. Rumors spread: some believed the planet's inhabitants had perished, while others speculated they had adapted to their new environment by converting themselves into machines. As machines, they could withstand the cold and no longer needed food, but in doing so, they became heartless creatures, losing all their emotions to the void of space. Their only mission: to convert others to be like them.
On a warm June day, the sun was eclipsed by a new dark moon. People stopped and stared at the sky, unaware of the horror that was about to unfold. Those who knew the truth ran to their homes, barricading themselves inside. Mothers and children gazed up at the darkened sky, weeping, for they knew the age of man was over and the age of machines was about to begin.
Dark objects filled the sky like a swarm of insects, descending toward the ground. It was then that people realized the true danger they were in and began to run in terror. The swarms, which appeared to be bugs, were actually giant machines that grabbed hold of people, scooping them up and filling their bellies. Once full, they returned to the dark moon in the sky. Inside the belly of the machines, people huddled together, wondering what macabre fate awaited them. Upon arrival at the dark moon, they were forcibly processed. Strapped down, their brains were removed. Expectant mothers had their babies ripped from their bellies, and they too were processed. Screams of pain echoed as people were marched into the room of their doom. Those who were converted were sent to the front lines to harvest more and weed out those in hiding.
The military fought back but soon realized they were no match for the robot invaders. After a seven-hour battle, the army was defeated, and all humanity was doomed.
The clouds drifted sluggishly across the moon, casting haunting shadows over the desolate landscape. Before us, the elementary school loomed like a decaying corpse, its door ajar and its windows mere gaping holes. The cold October wind whispered through the tall grass that encircled this surreal, forsaken place.
We approached the entrance and stepped into the void of darkness that filled the empty hallways of this once lively school. The only illumination in these hollow halls came from our flashlights, casting eerie beams of light that danced across the decaying walls.
We ascended to the third floor, passing the ruins of classrooms that had long been abandoned. We arrived at the girls' bathroom, where the room was cloaked in darkness. Water dripped from the ceiling, a remnant of the previous night's rain. Mold and dust blanketed the walls and glass mirrors, adding to the sense of decay.
We cautiously approached the third stall door, which stood shut. With a trembling hand, I knocked three times. "Are you there, Hanako?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Suddenly, a young, soft voice echoed through the silence. "I am here," it said.
We slowly opened the stall door, our hearts pounding in our chests. There, sitting inside, was a young Japanese girl wearing a red skirt. Her eyes were wide with terror, and her expression was one of sheer fright.
I moved my foot slightly, and in an instant, she vanished into thin air, leaving only the memory of her haunting presence. We fled down the hallways, our footsteps echoing through the emptiness, knowing that we had just encountered a ghost.
The storm rattled the windows of the old Victorian mansion. Charles hesitated at the attic door, the faint smell of mildew and dust seeping through the cracks. Rumors of the infamous “Book of Chaos” had swirled around Taylorville for decades. He didn’t believe them—until he found the attic key among his grandfather’s belongings.
The creak of the door echoed through the hollow hall. Charles stepped inside, his flashlight casting long shadows across piles of forgotten trinkets. The book lay in the center, resting atop an ornate pedestal covered in cobwebs. Its cover was blackened leather, etched with symbols that seemed to twist and writhe when gazed upon too long.
“Is this really it?” he whispered to himself, a mix of thrill and trepidation knotting in his stomach.
A voice answered—not from his own lips, but from the book itself. “Open me, Charles. Your curiosity brought you here. Let me show you the truth.”
Charles’s hands trembled as he reached out. The symbols grew brighter, pulsing like a heartbeat. As his fingers grazed the edges, his surroundings melted away. Gone were the attic walls; in their place, an endless void of swirling darkness consumed him.
He stumbled back, trying to make sense of his surroundings. A cloaked figure emerged from the shadows, its face obscured but its intentions clear through the eerie smile that stretched too far.
“You called,” it hissed, its voice resonating with uncanny calm. “The Book of Chaos binds you now. Every choice, every word—it feeds.”
“What are you talking about?” Charles stammered, his voice cracking. “I didn’t mean—"
"You did mean to," the figure interrupted, its grin widening impossibly. “The book only answers those who seek it. Do you wish to command or destroy?”
Charles shook his head. “I don’t want this! Let me go!”
The creature laughed—a sound like nails scraping glass. “There is no release, only consequence. Your fate lies ahead; you need only choose.”
In the book's presence, Charles saw visions—his hometown twisted into ruins, neighbors morphed into grotesque monsters, their souls crying out for salvation. The power the book offered was intoxicating, but the cost was unbearable.
Charles slammed the book shut, but it burned his hands as he tried to cast it away. “Please, I don’t want this!”
The void shifted violently, and the cloaked figure vanished with a sinister hiss. He was back in the attic, the book lying dormant at his feet. Yet Charles felt the weight of its presence still gripping his mind.
“Your refusal is temporary,” the book whispered softly, its voice now crawling up his spine. “The Chaos has chosen you, Charles. You will return.”
As Charles fled the attic, the house seemed to breathe behind him, shadows stretching and coiling like vipers. He knew the book wasn’t finished with him. Every corner of his thoughts whispered its name, promising a return he could never escape.
Spiral Gods and Bloodied Sands
This poem was rejected by Nightmare and Dreamland Magazine
High above the October sky,
Where all mankind weeps and cries,
A horror that is not known to man
Is about to deal a heavy hand.
Even those who are slightly mad knew,
As they stood there laughing at the impending doom,
The sky turns to fire and black as smoke,
As once told by the old folk.
The horror emerges from the fire that was once the sky,
While mothers and children sat there and cried.
A terror that spawned long ago
To make the earth their everlasting home.
Those who fought this horror from the stars
Lost their lives for a worthless cause.
The horror used their bones and ate their flesh,
While others watched in horror and digressed.
Mankind had come to an end,
For those who survived, the horror begins.
They worship their new masters and lords,
Sacrificing the ones they adored.
They bow and worship their new god’s day and night,
Their bodies their food and their delight.
The madness lives forevermore,
The world became blood and sores.
Whispers of days long past,
The ones who remember try to make the memory last.
The youth only know of the horror that lives,
Not knowing how the thing began.
Their spiral castles reach the darken sky,
While those weak and hungry pray to die.
In the shadow of spiral towers,
Beneath the masters’ watchful glower,
A quiet rebellion begins to spark,
Faint glimmers of hope in a world so dark.
A woman recalls an ancient rhyme,
A fragment lost to the river of time,
It speaks of stars and forgotten lore,
A weapon buried in tales of yore.
The children whisper when night descends,
Of a future where this torment ends.
They dream of skies no longer red,
And fields where the living outnumber the dead.
But the gods grow restless, their hunger vast,
Their voices echo in the withered past.
“Bow,” they command, “your will is mine,”
As the clock strikes the end of mankind’s time.
Yet in the hearts of the beaten and weak,
Burns a fire no horror can re-seek.
For though the bloodied earth may quake,
A spark can ignite and foundations break.
Their form defied all earthly laws,
Shifting shapes with neither pause nor cause.
Eyes where no eyes should ever be,
Watching from the void of infinity.
They spoke in tongues that shattered minds,
Their whispers unraveling space and time.
Truths too vast for mortals to know,
Filling hearts with dread that would only grow.
The stars themselves seemed to bow in fear,
Their radiance dimmed when the gods drew near.
The spiral towers, built to touch the sky,
Served as monuments to a lie.
For no prayers could sway their endless gaze,
No pleas would halt their maddening ways.
Humanity was but dust adrift,
A fleeting dream, a cosmic rift.
And as the children played in crimson sand,
The elders wept for their broken land.
For the masters had no mercy, no soul,
Only hunger as vast as the blackened shoal.
The Hollow Beyond
Willowbend was the kind of town where nothing ever changed. The fields stretched wide, the streets stayed quiet, and people lived the way they always had—slowly, simply, unaware. But something arrived, pressing against the edges of reality, unseen yet undeniable.
No one saw it—not truly. It was a glimpse, a distortion in the air, a wrongness felt deep in the marrow rather than witnessed by the eyes. It seeped into Willowbend like ink in water, staining everything, twisting what should be into what should never have been.
The cattle were the first to notice. Jonas Harper’s herd stopped eating, huddling together, trembling—as if they knew what the humans did not. Then the sky changed. Not in color. Not in shape. But in feeling. People looked up and felt a weight, a presence, as though the heavens weren’t stretching above them but watching.
Then came the whispers.
The Hollow Beyond did not speak—it existed. Yet its presence curled through the air, vibrating through words, distorting voices. Father Donovan, who had preached in Willowbend for forty years, stepped to the pulpit one Sunday with shaking hands, sweat beading at his brow. His congregation sat waiting, hymnals resting in their laps, expecting the sermon as they always had.
He did not begin with prayer.
"We—We are small," he whispered.
A murmur passed through the crowd. Someone coughed. Someone shifted uncomfortably.
"Do you understand?" Donovan’s voice rose, shaking. "We are smaller than dust. Smaller than thought. We—" He stopped. His hands trembled, gripping the wooden pulpit like a man bracing against a storm.
"It spoke to me."
Silence.
"No—not words. Not language. It just... It was. And I knew. Oh, God, I knew!"
His voice cracked, frantic now. "I saw the spaces between the stars, and they are not empty! They are not empty! Do not pray! Do not ask for answers! There is nothing that can save us, because there is nothing that even notices us!"
Gasps. A woman clutched her child.
"They are watching! Do you feel it? DO YOU FEEL IT?" Donovan collapsed, sobbing, hands clutching his head as though trying to rid himself of the thoughts that had burrowed inside.
No one moved. The air shifted, thick with something unspoken.
That was the last sermon Father Donovan ever gave.
People vanished soon after. At first, just whispers—stories of shadows moving wrong, of voices slipping into frequencies beyond human ears. Then, the disappearances.
A child playing in her backyard was simply gone, her toys left untouched, waiting for hands that would never return. A woman’s reflection lingered in the mirror long after she stepped away—until, one morning, she did not step away at all.
The town withered.
Doors stood ajar. Windows gaped open, as if waiting for something to crawl inside. The scent of absence filled the streets—a stale, hollow smell, like dust settling in a space that should never have existed.
And then, Willowbend was gone.
Not abandoned. Not destroyed. Just… missing. No records remained. No memories. The world moved on, unaware that an entire town had slipped into the void, swallowed by the Hollow Beyond.
But sometimes, late at night, when the wind is unnaturally still and the stars burn just a little too bright, you might hear something.
A whisper.
A voice from nowhere.
Soft at first, curling through the air like the breath of something forgotten. But beneath it, just at the edge of perception, comes another sound.
Faint. Fractured.
Screams.
Not loud, not desperate—just endless, stretched thin across silence. Voices that should not exist, belonging to people who should not be remembered, calling from a place that never was.
Calling for something else to take its place.
Unbound: A Tale of Love and Worlds Beyond
Michael barely registered the soft patter of rain against his basement window. It had been there forever—a ceaseless, suffocating drizzle beneath a sky that had long abandoned the idea of change. Gray. Always gray.
The world outside was rotting. Gutters clogged with garbage, sidewalks worn thin by grime. The economy had collapsed years ago, leaving half the city abandoned—crumbling ruins filled with ghosts who staggered through the streets, chasing survival one weary step at a time.
As far back as he could remember, the sky had been void of color, devoid of hope. Had the sun ever truly existed? Some days, he wasn’t sure. The threat of war lingered everywhere, whispered in hurried conversations, scrawled in the headlines. Desperation had set in, deep and permanent.
But inside his home, things were worse.
"I don’t know why we even keep you around," his mother muttered as she passed his door, a statement—not a question.
"You’re a deadbeat loser," his younger brother sneered, standing in the hallway with their sister, both reveling in their shared cruelty.
"Stop wasting space and get a job," his father snapped. "Do something with your life."
"When we’re gone, what the hell are you going to do?" His mother’s voice dripped with disdain, each word sharpened like a dagger.
"We get the house when Mom and Dad die," his sister added. "And you? You’re gone."
"Yeah," his brother laughed. "Out on the street with the rest of the gutter trash."
Their voices clawed at his mind, rattling against the walls of his thoughts. He had learned to tune them out, mostly. They never saw him as anything more than a burden—a shadow cast too long.
But today was different.
The package had arrived without warning, a large, unmarked box stamped only with his name and address. He hadn't ordered anything. No bill, no charge, no explanation.
"You stole my credit card, didn’t you?" His mother’s footsteps slammed against the floor as she stormed toward the basement door. "Spent my money on more useless garbage?"
Michael exhaled, slow and measured, his fists clenched at his sides.
"How much did you steal this time?" she barked. "You blew our hard-earned money on some piece of junk, didn’t you?"
He hadn’t stolen anything. The package had simply appeared. But explaining was pointless—she had already decided.
She let out a hard sigh, throwing her arms down in exasperation. "Doesn’t matter," she spat. "I would’ve said no anyway."
Of course she would have. She never let him have anything—not unless forced, not unless it was necessary, not unless she had no choice but to remember he existed.
His siblings never had that problem. His mother adored them, his father praised them. Their wants became needs. Their needs were met without question.
Michael’s needs, however, were tolerated at best. He was reminded, again and again, how lucky he was to receive food and shelter—to be saved from the endless rain outside.
"You were a mistake," his mother had said once—not in anger, but in cold resignation. A truth she had accepted long ago.
He swallowed hard, shoving the pain aside before it could settle. His gaze fell upon the box sitting on his desk. No branding, no return address.
He grabbed a knife, slicing through the packing tape. Inside, nestled in foam, lay a sleek black VR headset.
Unbound Corporation: Prototype VR Headset.
No manual, no paperwork—just the headset and a single charging cable.
He plugged it in. Minutes later, it was ready.
"Alright," he muttered, settling into his chair and fastening the device onto his head. "Let’s see what you’ve got."
The world shifted.
White.
Then, color.
Paris—but not the Paris he knew.
He stood at the edge of Trocadéro, staring at the Eiffel Tower, its steel adorned in neon brilliance. Massive airships glided above, their golden lights bleeding into the night sky. Glass railways suspended monorails high above the streets, threading the city together like veins.
Traditional architecture remained untouched, but the future had woven itself into every crevice.
"Damn, these graphics are insane," he breathed, awe thick in his voice.
The streets were spotless, the air crisp, the sky blue. People filled bustling cafés, their laughter soft beneath the hum of LED screens displaying news, sports, and menu specials.
Michael took a step forward, weaving through the bustling sidewalk as strangers passed by in effortless motion. The city hummed with life—neon signs flickering, voices blending into a steady rhythm of conversation and laughter.
He stopped in front of a massive LED screen embedded into the side of a sleek building. An advertisement flashed across its surface in dazzling gold script:
Tranquil Quest Resort—Four days, three nights aboard the floating paradise.
Above him, one of the enormous airships drifted lazily through the sky, its exterior adorned with soft glowing lights.
The commercial shifted, revealing breathtaking snow-capped peaks and crystal-blue waters.
Explore Phiuq 1—a seven-day retreat filled with skiing, swimming, and adventure.
"For bookings, register at the Louis Valois Space Port today!"
Michael frowned slightly, the question settling in his mind. How did people earn money here?
Continuing on, he passed a lively café, its patio filled with cheerful patrons sipping their drinks beneath twinkling lanterns. But something was off—no one paid. No money exchanged hands, no servers took orders. Instead, steaming plates and chilled glasses materialized before customers as if summoned by mere thought.
"Well," he muttered, half-smirking, "it is a virtual game, after all."
A neon clock on the side of a towering structure caught his attention, its numbers pulsing steadily. It was time to leave.
His stomach churned at the thought. At least his so-called family allowed him dinner.
Michael opened the menu screen and logged out. The breathtaking cityscape of Paris flickered and faded, dissolving into a black void. Then—nothing.
He pulled the headset off, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of his basement. The room, cluttered and dull, felt drained of life—a hollow contrast to the beauty he had just witnessed.
With a quiet sigh, he set the headset onto the table and trudged upstairs to the kitchen. His family allowed him dinner, at least, but he wasn’t welcome at the table. He was expected to eat alone.
Grabbing his plate, he turned back toward the basement—only to find his brother and sister inside his room, shoving and snapping at each other, both vying for control of his VR headset.
Michael’s stomach tightened. They had everything. And yet, the moment he had something—something his own—they wanted to take it.
He set his plate down, stepped forward, and yanked the headset from their grasp.
"Get out," he said firmly.
His siblings scowled, stomping toward the stairs, mumbling curses under their breath.
The basement door slammed shut.
Michael exhaled, gripping the headset tightly in his hands.
It was his.
And it was the only world that ever felt like it could be.
As Michael ate his dinner, a nagging thought refused to fade. Who had made this headset?
He grabbed his laptop, navigating to the search engine and typing "Unbound Corporation Prototype VR" into the bar.
No results.
Frowning, he tried again, this time searching for just "Unbound Corporation."
Nothing.
It was as if the company didn’t exist.
"That can’t be right," he murmured, scanning through different search engines, widening his parameters—still, nothing. No website, no company history, no mention in tech forums or product lists.
For a device this advanced, there should have been something. A press release, a beta test announcement—anything.
"Who made this?" he muttered, setting his plate down, staring at the headset sitting on his desk.
His thoughts swirled in quiet unease, but answers would have to wait.
He booted up a game, willing his mind elsewhere.
Hours passed, the weight of the mystery pressing against the back of his mind. Eventually, exhaustion won.
Tomorrow, he'd start digging in the forums. Someone had to know something.
The next day, Michael sat at his computer, sifting through forums, asking about Unbound Corporation and its elusive VR headset. Each query returned the same frustrating silence—no mentions, no discussions, no answers.
It was as if the company had been erased from existence.
While he waited for responses, a restless urge tugged at him. There were no answers here—only questions.
So he strapped the headset back on.
Blackness.
Then white.
Then—boom.
Paris materialized around him, vibrant, humming with life, exactly where he had left off.
He wandered down the cobblestone streets, the neon glow of shop signs spilling onto polished walkways. The air smelled of fresh bread and blooming flowers, a warmth curling through the crisp evening breeze.
Michael stopped.
Near the entrance of a café stood a girl, adjusting a bouquet of roses at a sleek, mechanized flower cart. Delicate metal-threaded gloves traced over each petal, tiny gears beneath the blooms whirring softly, shifting them into perfect balance.
She glanced up, catching his stare. Her eyes were sharp—curious, amused.
"You are not from here, are you?"
Her French accent curled delicately around the words, soft yet precise.
Michael swallowed. "Uh… no. Visiting."
She laughed, shaking her head. "You look more lost than visiting."
Her name was Élodie.
Élodie was the kind of beauty that wasn’t meant for ordinary places. She belonged to Paris, but not the Paris Michael knew—the real Paris had faded beneath decay, beneath history, beneath the weight of a world that had long given up.
But this Paris, the one woven from light and illusion, felt made for her.
Her dark brown hair fell effortlessly, framing high cheekbones and sharp, knowing eyes that carried the depth of someone far older than her years. There was something in her expression—a quiet amusement, a soft curiosity, as though she had been watching Michael long before their paths had crossed.
The way she moved was delicate yet precise, her fingers dancing over the petals of her roses, adjusting them with care that seemed second nature. Even in stillness, she had a presence—something calm, unwavering, yet touched with an energy that refused to be ignored.
She was warm, but guarded. Friendly, yet somehow just out of reach—as if she knew something Michael didn’t.
And when she smiled—effortless, bright, just a little too knowing—Michael felt the city shift around him, as though Paris itself had been waiting for her to speak.
And in that moment, Michael knew—he was never going to forget her.
When Michael wasn’t wandering beneath the neon-lit Eiffel Tower or weaving through the vibrant, unfamiliar streets of virtual Paris, he was searching. Searching for a name that shouldn’t have been forgotten. Searching for a company that—by all rights—should exist.
Unbound Corporation.
Every morning, he refreshed the forums, scanning replies with a sharp gaze, hoping—waiting—for someone to recognize the name. Each time, the answer was the same.
Nothing.
No tech enthusiasts. No VR developers. No underground hackers boasting secret knowledge.
Just the occasional troll—mocking him with meaningless words, derailing his thread with insults, laughter, and pointless taunts.
"You got scammed, moron."
"Fake headset, fake company. Learn to research before posting nonsense."
Michael ignored them. He was used to being dismissed.
But this was different.
Unbound Corporation wasn’t just missing—it had been erased. Wiped clean. No archived articles, no leaked prototypes, no disgruntled employees complaining on obscure corners of the web.
It was as if the company had never existed.
And yet—the headset did.
It sat on his desk, sleek and silent, waiting.
The air in his basement felt heavier now, charged with something unspoken, something unseen. He had long grown accustomed to isolation—shut away from his family’s cold disdain, drowning in the dull hum of a world suffocating beneath a dying sky.
But this was the first time he truly felt alone.
Not in the way he had before—not in the way that came from neglect, or rejection, or years of being unwanted.
No.
This was different.
This was the silence of something watching.
Something waiting.
And for the first time, Michael wondered—had he made a mistake?
Days passed, and Michael wandered alone through Paris—its neon-lit beauty unfolding before him in ways that felt impossibly real. He had begun to memorize the rhythm of the city, the hum of conversation, the scent of fresh bread weaving through the air. Yet, no matter how breathtaking it was, something always felt slightly off—too perfect, too seamless.
Then, just as the thought took hold, he saw her again.
Élodie.
She stood at the entrance of a café, adjusting a bouquet of roses at a sleek, mechanized flower cart. The petals whirred softly, their delicate form shifting under invisible controls, arranging themselves into an immaculate display.
Michael’s heart lurched—the sensation caught him off guard.
“We meet again, Monsieur,” she said, her voice curling with quiet amusement, her smile effortless and warm.
Michael hesitated, then mirrored her smile. “Hello again.”
Élodie tilted her head slightly. “Are you enjoying your stay in Paris?”
She reached toward the roses again, her fingers tracing gently over the delicate petals as if adjusting a masterpiece.
Michael glanced at the vibrant streets, at the towering glass railways threading through the sky. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I’ve been exploring a little. But… I was wondering—where do I go to get money exchanged?”
Élodie blinked, her expression turning puzzled.
“Money?” she echoed. “What is that?”
Michael frowned. “You know—money. How do you pay for things here? Is there a store where I can buy credits or something?”
Élodie let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “We have no such thing.”
Her eyes gleamed with curiosity, as if his question had unlocked some strange puzzle in her mind.
“We have the ability to create things from matter,” she explained, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “You are definitely not from around here.”
Michael stared at her, his pulse quickening.
This world—this city—was running on something beyond his understanding. No money. No trade. No visible economy.
“How do you—” Michael started, but the words tangled in his throat.
Élodie’s smile widened, her amusement undeniable.
“Say,” Michael said, exhaling, forcing his thoughts to settle. “After you finish what you’re doing, maybe you could show me around?”
Élodie paused, considering.
Then, with an even brighter smile, she nodded.
“I would like that.”
Michael shifted his weight, glancing toward the bustling street beyond Élodie’s flower cart. “Okay, so when should we meet up?”
Élodie smiled, tilting her head slightly. “How about in an hour?”
Michael nodded. “That works. I have to take care of something first. Where should we meet?”
Her fingers danced lightly over a rose petal, adjusting it into perfect symmetry. “How about Trocadéro? Do you know where that is?”
Michael smirked. “Of course. That’s where I login.”
Élodie’s movement paused. Her fingers hovered over the bouquet, her gaze flickering toward him with the slightest trace of hesitation.
“Login?” she murmured, her voice quieter, almost as if tasting the word for the first time.
For a moment, the air between them felt different, charged with something he couldn’t quite name.
But then, just as quickly, she brushed it off. “Fine,” she said, offering him another bright smile—effortless, natural, yet maybe just a little too smooth. “We’ll meet at Trocadéro in an hour.”
Michael returned the smile, stepping away. “See you there.”
As he walked, the lingering feeling remained.
For the first time since arriving in this world, he wondered—was she real?
Michael logged out.
Paris—vibrant, limitless, alive—vanished.
And when he pulled off the headset, the weight of reality crashed down on him.
The basement felt smaller, colder—like it had shrunk in his absence, pressing in around him with a quiet, suffocating grip.
But the worst part wasn’t the walls.
It was the emptiness.
Out there, in that world, he had space—a city stretching endlessly before him, humming with energy, filled with people moving, talking, laughing. And among them, there was her.
Élodie.
Michael ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.
She was just an NPC. A programmed response, a sequence of ones and zeroes given form.
And yet—he felt something when she looked at him.
When she smiled, when she laughed.
It wasn’t supposed to matter. He knew this.
And yet, every time he left that world, something stayed with him—a lingering ache, like he was missing something he had no right to miss.
He stared at the headset, sitting quietly on his desk, waiting.
His mother ignored him unless she needed someone to blame. His siblings mocked him, tore him down—a useless failure, taking up space.
But Élodie saw him.
Even if she wasn’t real.
Michael clenched his fists. He couldn’t keep thinking like this.
And yet—he still didn’t know what Unbound Corporation was.
And now, that question felt less like curiosity and more like an impending storm.
An hour passed.
Michael sat at the kitchen table, picking at a snack, barely tasting it.
His mother and father’s voices rang through the walls, sharp with frustration.
“Wasting your life with that damn VR helmet,” his father scoffed. “And video games—always video games.”
His mother folded her arms, glaring down at him. “If you don’t start doing something useful, I’ll throw it out myself.”
Michael said nothing. He’d learned long ago that arguing was pointless.
Instead, he returned to the basement, shutting the door behind him.
The helmet sat waiting.
And as he pulled it over his head, the walls—the cold, suffocating basement, the miserable world beyond—vanished.
Paris unfolded around him, bright, humming, alive.
Michael blinked against the sudden vibrance.
He was standing exactly where he had logged out before, the neon-lit cobblestone beneath his feet shimmering faintly beneath the overhead glow.
Then, without hesitation, he ran—his pulse quickening, his breath short, weaving through the streets toward Trocadéro.
And then—there she was.
Élodie stood waiting, waving the moment she spotted him.
Michael skidded to a stop, catching his breath. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Élodie’s eyes glowed with warmth. “Oh no, I just arrived myself.”
Michael let out a breath, his heart still racing—but not just from the run.
“So, where should we go first?” he asked.
Élodie’s lips curled into a wide smile. “How about,” she said, wrapping her arm through his, “I take you to Aquarium de Paris?”
Michael barely had time to reply before she started leading him forward.
“Well… okay then,” he murmured, following her lead as they stepped onto the sleek crosswalk.
“Paris has a lot to offer, Michael,” Élodie said, glancing at him with an amused glimmer in her eyes.
As they walked, sleek electromagnetic cars hovered soundlessly above the street, their golden lights reflecting off the smooth pavement below.
Michael exhaled, feeling the weight of his real-world frustrations drift away.
Here, in this moment—he could be someone different.
And as Élodie’s arm rested lightly against his, a quiet thought whispered in the back of his mind—one he tried to ignore.
She felt real.
After spending an hour at the Aquarium de Paris, Michael and Élodie boarded the monorail—a sleek, futuristic vessel gliding effortlessly through the sky, its glass rail shimmering beneath the city’s neon glow.
The streets below stretched out like veins, pulsing with life and movement, while above them, massive airships drifted lazily, their golden lights flickering against the deep-blue sky.
Michael pointed. “Tell me, Élodie—what are those airships?”
She followed his gaze, her expression softening. “Hotels. Floating luxury suites where people can stay.”
She turned back to him, smiling. “If you want, we can go to the airport and get you a room.”
Michael shook his head. “No, I think I’m good.”
Instead, he leaned back, staring up through the monorail’s glass ceiling, watching the glowing vessels sail silently across the sky.
At the next stop, they disembarked, stepping onto the steps of the Louvre Museum.
“Come on,” Élodie said, grabbing his hand, pulling him forward, her laughter bubbling with excitement. “Let’s explore.”
Michael let himself be dragged along, her warmth spreading through him, a quiet pulse of something he refused to name.
They wandered through the grand halls, passing priceless works of art, the paintings bathed in soft golden light.
Michael exhaled, shaking his head. “I still can’t believe how real this world is.”
Élodie slowed, turning to him—brows furrowed, confusion flickering across her face.
“But… it is real,” she said.
Michael laughed lightly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No, this is VR. And you—you’re an NPC.”
Élodie’s lips parted slightly, her breath catching.
Michael forced a smile. “And I can accept that—because I’ve fallen for you.”
Her eyes widened.
“What?” she whispered. “You… you love me?”
Michael swallowed hard. “Yes,” he admitted, his chest tightening. “With all my heart. But you’re just an NPC—and I can’t accept that.” His voice dropped lower. “I want this world. I want to be here, with you. Not out there in a place that feels… empty.”
Élodie stared at him, her expression breaking, trembling.
And then—a single tear slipped down her cheek.
“But I am real, Michael.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “And I… I love you too.”
Michael’s breath hitched.
The Louvre felt strangely silent, the world around them too still, as if it were waiting—for him to believe her.
Michael exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “What are we going to do?”
Élodie tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing in confusion.
Michael sighed, his voice strained, as he tried again. “Like I said—you’re an NPC in a VR game.”
Élodie blinked. “What… are you talking about?”
Michael hesitated. He had kept this to himself for too long, letting the weight of everything build in silence. But here, sitting with her, facing the truth—he couldn’t hold it back anymore.
So he told her.
He told her everything—about the headset appearing at his door, about the name Unbound Corporation, about his desperate search for any trace of the company, only to find nothing. Not on the web, not in tech forums, not in whispered conversations online.
“To everyone else, Unbound doesn’t exist,” he muttered, staring down at his hands. “And the people on forums? They think I’m making it up. They think I’m—” he let out a hollow laugh—“full of it.”
Élodie listened in silence, absorbing every word.
Then, after a moment, she spoke.
“Unbound Corporation is just outside Paris.”
Michael’s breath caught in his throat.
He turned sharply. “Wait—what?”
Élodie nodded. “If you want, I can take you there. But it’s just a building with no windows or doors.”
Michael’s stomach twisted. “That’s… weird.”
A building without an entrance. Without a way in, without a way out.
Yet it existed.
And in that moment, Michael knew—he had to see it for himself.
“Okay,” he said, standing abruptly. “Take me there. Maybe I can find some answers.”
Élodie didn’t hesitate.
Together, they left the Louvre, stepping onto the next monorail—one that carried them toward the outskirts of Paris.
But Michael couldn’t shake the feeling that, once he saw that building—
there would be no going back.
The monorail glided to a stop, its sleek frame humming as it settled onto the station.
Michael and Élodie stepped off, moving down the narrow cobblestone streets, their footsteps echoing faintly against the quiet stretch of white marble buildings.
Then—they reached it.
A towering skyscraper, pristine and cold, its exterior gleaming beneath the city’s neon glow. And, as Élodie had said—it had no windows.
Michael stared up at the smooth, featureless surface.
“This is it?”
Élodie nodded, her expression unreadable.
Michael exhaled, stepping forward. They rounded the corner—
—and then, there it was.
A glass door.
Élodie froze.
“That was never there before,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
Michael narrowed his eyes. “Apparently someone’s inviting us in.”
The moment felt heavy, charged with something neither of them could name.
Michael pulled open the door, stepping into the unknown.
But instead of a grand foyer or some corporate entrance hall, they stood in a dimly lit study, its walls lined with towering wooden shelves, each one crammed with ancient books stacked haphazardly.
The air smelled of dust and faintly sweet tea, the aroma lingering from the scattered cups littering the room—each one half-drunk, as if abandoned mid-conversation.
Michael and Élodie stepped carefully, weaving through the stacks, their movements slow, cautious.
Then—he saw her.
She sat in a small circular nook, framed by the towering shelves—a child, no older than eight, yellow dress pooling around her, eyes a shade of golden so intense they almost burned.
She did not smile.
She did not frown.
She only watched.
As if she had seen him long before he arrived.
The silence thickened, pressing into the space between them.
Then—
"Michael."
Her voice was quiet, unnervingly calm.
Michael stiffened. Every muscle in his body tensed.
"How do you know my name?"
The girl tilted her head—just slightly.
“I know everything,” she said, her tone smooth, cryptic, absolute.
Michael’s stomach tightened.
He forced his voice steady. “Well… who are you?”
The girl blinked, slow.
“I go by many names,” she said simply.
Then, in that same eerie, unwavering calm—
"But you will call me the Yellow Queen."
Michael squared his shoulders. “Okay, are you the one behind this?”
The Yellow Queen smiled—a grin that didn’t quite reach her glowing eyes.
“Yes and no.”
Michael clenched his jaw. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
She leaned forward slightly, her voice smooth, unwavering.
“Well, Michael… I sent you the VR headset.” Her expression darkened. “But you made the choice to put it on.”
Michael swallowed, his pulse hammering.
“So answer me this—is this a game?”
The Yellow Queen’s smile widened, sharp.
“No. This is a parallel world.”
She folded her hands together, gaze locking onto him with frightening certainty.
“I’m giving you a choice,” she said. “You can return to that miserable life, sitting in your basement, surrounded by people who don’t love you. Or—” her eyes flickered toward Élodie—“you can stay. Here, in the world where you are loved. With her.”
Michael felt his breath hitch, his mind spinning.
“Why me?” he whispered.
The Yellow Queen laughed—a sharp, amused burst of sound that sent a chill down his spine.
“HAHAHA, you’re starting to act like Fox Smith.”
Michael stiffened. “Fox who?”
The grin faded, her expression flattening. “He’s not your concern. He is someone… Anyway—make your choice.”
Michael hesitated. His heart pounded.
“Can I think about it?”
The Yellow Queen’s golden eyes burned brighter. “You must decide now.”
Michael looked at Élodie. Her wide, tear-filled eyes, the softness of her touch, the warmth he felt only in this world.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he took her hand.
“Fine. I’ll stay here. With Élodie.”
The Yellow Queen watched, expression unreadable, then nodded.
“It’s done.”
Michael frowned. Nothing felt different. Nothing had changed.
“Nothing happened,” he muttered.
The Yellow Queen tilted her head slightly, bemused.
“Really?” she said. “Then try to log out.”
Michael hesitated, then spoke the command aloud.
Nothing.
His stomach tightened.
“See?” The Yellow Queen’s voice curled with amusement. “This is your new home, Michael.”
Relief flooded through him. He looked at Élodie—her tear-filled gaze, her lips quivering with emotion—and knew he had made the right choice.
Hand in hand, they exited the building.
As they walked, Michael glanced back—
—and the towering white skyscraper was gone.
He didn’t stop.
Didn’t question it.
He and Élodie walked toward the monorail station, heading back into the city to start their new life together.
And in the basement, far away from Paris—
His body lay motionless on the floor.
The VR headset pulsed softly, clinging to his skull, its quiet hum fading into the silence.
Hours passed before his mother found him.
She stared, unmoving, her lips pursed.
"Figures," she muttered under her breath, looking at his lifeless form.
"Guess he was just another waste."
The headset had sent a microwave pulse to the back of his brain, severing him from his world forever.
Élodie smiled, fingers entwined with his as they stepped into the streets.
The sky shimmered above them—bright, golden, full of movement, full of life.
And for the first time in his life, Michael felt alive.
The sun hung low in the hazy sky as I strolled down the empty streets of Millfield. It was the kind of quiet town where everyone knew each other's business. The kind of place where nothing much ever happened. Which was fine by me.
I had my latest copy of The King in Yellow under my arm. The same yellowed, brittle pages I'd read countless times before. Yet the words never failed to draw me in anew.
I first encountered the forbidden tome in my university days. A professor mentioned a "cursed manuscript" in passing. My curiosity was piqued. I scoured used bookstores and libraries, determined to track it down. When I finally laid hands on a tattered copy of The King in Yellow, I knew I had to have it.
The book was otherworldly, speaking of strange happenings and beings. Some said it was a portal to madness. I dismissed the dire warnings. What did I care for crazy old wives' tales? I was young and full of myself.
So I read the book. Late into the night, with only a flickering lamp for company. Each page peeled back to reveal more unsettling truths. It was like glimpsing the darkest depths of the human soul. I read until the words swam before my eyes.
When dawn broke, the world felt different. The shadows seemed to writhe in the corners of my vision. Colors were too bright, sounds too sharp. I tried to shake off the feeling of unease. It would pass, I told myself. It had to.
But it didn't. The more I read from the cursed book, the more unhinged I became. I started to question what was real and what was a fever dream. Terrible things began to happen in Millfield. Livestock mutilated in the dead of night. Children gone missing. Whispers of a shambling figure glimpsed in the woods.
I knew it was the King's doing. The damned book was breaking my mind, sowing chaos in its wake. But I couldn't stop reading. I was addicted to the forbidden secrets it revealed.
I snuck into the town square, shielding my sallow face from the sun with a wide-brimmed hat. The King in Yellow peeked out from under my arm, the faded gold lettering seeming to wink.
"There you are, Mr. Jacobs," called a reedy voice.
I whirled to see Edna Pritchard tottering up, a basket slung over one arm. The town busybody was always poking her nose in where it didn't belong.
"Afternoon, Edna," I replied through gritted teeth. "Enjoying the fine weather?"
"Hmph! Fine weather indeed, with children vanishing left and right. Mark my words, it's got something to do with that book you're always reading."
I tightened my grip on the volume. "You don't know what you're talking about. The King in Yellow is just a story."
"Won't be just a story when the King Himself shows up in Millfield," Edna said darkly, giving the book a wide berth. "I've seen the way you change, Ephraim. That thing is eating away at you. Best get rid of it before it's too late."
"It's none of your concern," I growled. "Now run along home, Edna. I'm sure you have better things to do than bother me."
"Catch you later then." She gave me a look full of pity and suspicion as she scurried off.
I watched her go, my heart hammering against my ribs. What was I doing? I had to bury the accursed book. Burn it. Anything to make the madness stop.
But as I turned towards home, I felt an icy presence prickling the back of my neck. Slowly, I swiveled to face the town square.
And nearly dropped the book in shock.
There, in the center of the square, stood the King in Yellow. He was just as the book described - a tall, cadaverous figure cloaked in tattered yellow, face hidden behind an unsettling mask that seemed to stare into my very soul.
My breath caught in my throat. This couldn't be happening. It was a hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation and too much time spent reading the damned book.
But as the King began to move towards me, his shambling gait eating up the distance between us, I knew I wasn't hallucinating.
He was real. The King in Yellow was real, and he'd come to claim me.
I turned and ran, The King in Yellow clutched to my chest like a shield. But I could hear the King's footsteps shuffling behind me. He was gaining on me.
I thought of Edna's warning and cursed my stubborn pride. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was already too late.
But I had to try. For my sake, and Millfield's. I couldn't let the King loose upon the world.
I skidded to a stop in front of the old windmill on the edge of town. Once it had ground grain for the town's bread. Now it loomed derelict, a rotting sentinel.
I had to return the book to where it belonged. In oblivion.
Heart pounding, I ducked into the musty darkness of the mill. Rats skittered away from my feet as I made my way to the center of the main room.
There, a rusted furnace yawned open, waiting to be fed.
I didn't hesitate. I placed The King in Yellow into the furnace's maw and slammed the heavy door shut. The book's cover felt unnaturally warm as I released it.
Outside, the King's shuffling footsteps grew louder. He was nearly upon me.
With shaking hands, I struck a match and tossed it into the furnace. For a moment nothing happened. Then a tiny flame flickered to life, licking at the book's yellowed pages.
The King in Yellow let out a shriek of rage as the flames consumed it. The sound was inhuman, scraping against my eardrums like nails on a chalkboard.
I clapped my hands over my ears, but it did no good. The scream drilled into my brain, shredding my sanity.
I could feel the King's icy presence seeping into the room, washing over me in a frigid tide. My heart stuttered, struggling to beat. The world dwindled to a small, fading pinprick.
Then everything went black.
I awoke in my bed, my wife Sarah's tear-stained face hovering over me. "Ephraim, thank God," she gasped, pulling me into her arms. "You've been unconscious for days. We thought we'd lost you."
I blinked, disoriented. The room spun around me. "What...what happened? The last thing I remember is reading that damned book..."
Sarah held me tighter. "The book? You mean The King in Yellow? I thought I'd thrown that thing away years ago. But you just vanished with it one day..."
My memory came rushing back. The King. The windmill. The furnace.
I'd done it. I'd destroyed the accursed book, exorcising the malevolent force it contained.
But at what cost? Even now, I could feel the King's presence lurking at the edges of my mind, waiting for its chance to return.
I might have saved Millfield. But I could never escape The King in Yellow. He would haunt me forever, a dark shadow on my soul.
I shuddered and clung to my wife as fresh horror crashed over me. I was damned, cursed to carry the King's madness in my mind for the rest of my days.
For in reading The King in Yellow, I had stared too long into the abyss. And now the abyss stared back at me.
The parchment arrived wrapped in thick yellowed wax bearing an embossed seal - no crest known to man nor heraldry ever recorded. Within, on paper as aged as forgotten dust lay tales penned by long dead hands – “Carcosa” they were called and whispers clung heavy with unseen dread to each turning of the leaf.
Lord Alderon was a collector of curiosities: arcane tomes bound in lizard skin, bottled constellations shimmering beneath mercury seals, tapestries woven from spider silk spun across dying stars - but even his extensive collection paled at the mere presence of “Carcosa.” Their gilded yellow hues seemed to leech light itself from their surroundings, and an unnatural chill permeated not just the script room where he'd deposited them, but echoed faintly through the stone walls of Eldoria Castle.
He called in Professor Lumley that night - a learned man known more for his eccentric pronouncements than any specific discipline. Over pipe tobacco reeking of cloves and strange exotic wood, Alderon recounted what drew him to the tome: "An insatiable hunger," he confessed, tracing lines along one particular passage with an aged fingertip “as if… as if this city Carcosa itself is trying to reach out.”
Lumley leaned back in his velvet armchair – worn thin by countless late-night musings - and steepled fingers. His gaze seemed to penetrate Alderon’s very soul, not unkindly but penetratingly.
“This isn’t a simple book," he stated, "and its city...it exists beyond our realm of senses.” He gestured at the King in Yellow that sprawled across pages - an impossibly yellow monarch atop his throne within whose gaze seemed to flicker with countless flickering candle flames – "The mere contemplation…" His voice trailed off into a sigh as if exhausted by unseen weight. "This…this king...he waits patiently, but when he sees us…”
That night Alderon lay awake in the great chamber above Lumley’s library - sound of ticking clocks somehow amplified to an insistent chorus beneath the oppressive silence. The King on his book's cover was now etched deep upon the ceiling tiles overhead: a phantom yellow presence staring down at him like a hungry moon through perpetual twilight.
Dawn saw Lord Alderon restless and pallid, but driven by some invisible force he couldn’t articulate; to dismiss Professor Lumley's theories as mere "academic whimsy" would prove insufficient once the fever of his mind caught fire - not with heat so much as an unending yearning for something just beyond reach, a chill at the edges of awareness.
Weeks blurred into months: Alderon spent all daylight in pursuit of more tales, seeking out ancient monasteries and forgotten scholars to learn any lore that mentioned Carcosa or its spectral ruler; evenings saw him hunched over maps - no compass held true anymore but always returned north toward the book's yellow-tinted cover.
His castle filled with a perpetual twilight, mirrors showing only faded reflections as if someone constantly smeared candle wax across their surfaces: this was his domain now ruled by King in Yellow whose chill had seeped through stone walls into marrow and mind itself. Even those most devoted servants grew unnerved, muttering of Lord Alderon seeing things… "things out at the edges" – not with eyes but somehow beyond sight - until even Lumley's stoic calm finally snapped upon returning to a castle echoing less with conversation than whispers barely audible over an almost imperceptible scratching sound.
They found him kneeling by his writing desk: he wore only silken robe, long hair unbound and plastered against sweat- slicked face; on the worn page before him scribbled in feverish scrawl was a single phrase repeated again and again across the parchment as if etched into bone - “He beckons…” And Lord Alderon himself sat with head bowed forward. In that stillness lay both his maddening obsession captured, yet somehow also surpassed: He’d found something deeper within Carcosa's embrace – he sought no escape but merely acceptance of what awaited beyond the veil... and in time…he would join His kingdom forevermore
Lumley placed a trembling hand on Alderon's shoulder - not with sorrow so much as profound resignation.
“There are kingdoms we reach by land,” Professor said softly, “and others one only ever truly knows once they have reached through the mirror…" and his eyes followed Lord Eldon’s gaze – which no longer beheld earthly matters but saw instead an empty space where a spectral monarch's throne should be - beckoning him towards Carcosa.
The last anyone in Eldoria heard were faint whispers of yellow on chill wind: voices like rustling parchment pages carried aloft upon wings unseen and the distant, echoing chime...like tiny bells strung within a bell tower forever cloaked in perpetual twilight…
The Yellow Queen’s Wake
The stars had long since vanished.
They had not dimmed, nor had they faded behind clouds. They had been consumed, devoured by a force unseen, a presence that whispered in the depths of blackened space.
Nathaniel knew this before anyone else.
He had spent years studying the patterns of the cosmos, tracing the celestial bodies with obsessive precision. He knew their movements, their shifts, their quiet murmurs in the silence of infinity.
So when the stars ceased to be, when their absence became a gaping wound in the night sky, he was the only one who saw it for what it truly was.
A summons.
A wake in honor of something that had begun to stir.
Something ancient.
Something watching.
Something waiting.
The first signs were subtle.
In the town of Blackmere, strange golden fungi sprouted in perfect circles across the fields—patterns too precise, too deliberate to be natural. The cattle refused to graze. The farmers refused to speak of it.
Then the children began to change.
At first, it was their eyes—a trick of the light, parents whispered, nothing more than reflections catching the golden hues of the dying summer.
But soon, those whispers stopped.
Soon, the children spoke in tongues that did not exist, murmuring hymns for her, the one who had always been watching.
Their voices did not sound human.
They did not sound like voices at all.
And by then, it was too late.
Nathaniel stood at the edge of the great field, where the remnants of the town had gathered, huddled in trembling silence. The golden spirals stretched outward, pulsing, shifting in ways that defied understanding.
And then—she arrived.
The Yellow Queen did not step forward. She did not descend from the sky. She did not rise from the earth.
She simply was.
A figure with glowing yellow hair, eyes that gleamed like fractured suns, a presence that warped reality itself.
She smiled.
And Blackmere ceased to exist.
Nathaniel barely understood what had happened—only that time had shattered, and he stood now somewhere else. A golden city, vast and pulsing, towers stretching beyond comprehension, their impossible angles twisting in ways the mind rejected.
The children were here.
All of them.
They stood in perfect unison, watching him with their bright yellow eyes, waiting, waiting, waiting—
For her.
The Queen stepped forward.
"You should not have come," she said.
Her voice was not sound. It was understanding, threading through his thoughts, coiling within his soul.
"I—I didn’t mean to," Nathaniel rasped. His words felt broken, fragmented, something outside of himself.
"None of you ever do," the Queen whispered.
She reached out, fingers elongating, stretching beyond reason, curling toward him like strands of living light.
And as she touched his forehead, as he felt the warmth of something far older than time itself, Nathaniel realized—
He would not wake from this.
Because there were no more dreams.
Only her.
Only the Yellow Queen.
Only the wake of everything that had once been.
In the year 2142, the city of Carcosa Prime stood as humanity’s greatest achievement—a towering labyrinth of chrome and light, where gravity itself bent to the will of architects who wove physics like tapestry. The streets pulsed with electric mist, holographic phantoms advertising products that had never existed. The sky was forever trapped in a twilight of gold, as though the sun had been wounded and left bleeding across the firmament.
No one knew when the transmissions started. They came in whispers over the city’s fiber-optic veins, in corrupted data streams and radio frequencies that no longer belonged to any known bandwidth. The symbol—the Yellow Sign—was embedded in code, hidden in the circuits of automated assistants, burning like afterimages in retinal implants.
Then came the visions. The citizens of Carcosa Prime began to dream of a masquerade—of masked figures drifting through an endless palace where the walls wept honey and the air hummed with the sound of a forgotten play. They saw Him, the one who wore tattered robes like a fading sunset—the King in Yellow.
The city’s rulers, the Algorithm Lords, tried to delete him from the system. They rewrote code, purged databases, disconnected servers. But Carcosa Prime was no longer theirs. It had become a stage, a theatre set for something ancient, something patient.
On the last night before the city's collapse, the inhabitants gathered in the central plaza as a single entity, their faces obscured by masks they had not consciously chosen to wear. Above them, the skyline unraveled into golden ribbons, and reality buckled. The King stood at the heart of it all, his presence both a promise and a warning. He lifted his hand, and the play began.
No one remembers what happened after.
They say Carcosa Prime is still there, beyond the edge of known space, unreachable except in dreams. And sometimes, when a signal flickers from the depths of the void, scholars and engineers find traces of the city—fragments of neon and shattered glass, and always, always...the Yellow Sign.
No one spoke of the Yellow Queen. Even in whispers, her name tasted of ruin.
She ruled not by decree, but by presence. A shape carved from twilight, her robes flowing like molten gold, her crown fractured at its edges, as if reality itself refused to contain her. Her arrival was never foretold, only felt—a hush in the streets, the stuttering of candle flames, the scent of something rotten beneath the perfume of dying flowers.
The city of Halcyon had been a sanctuary of glass spires and mirrored streets, where scholars penned poetry that bled into the air and dreamsmiths sculpted thoughts into solid form. But then the Yellow Queen came, and the city fractured.
It started with the masks.
One by one, people woke to find them affixed to their faces—porcelain visages contorted into expressions they did not choose. Some smiled eternally, others wept, but all were silent. Their voices stolen, replaced by the slow hum of distant music, the echoes of a play that had no script, no end.
The scholars wrote only one phrase now, over and over: She is watching.
The dreamsmiths no longer sculpted; they merely stood, their hands trembling as golden dust spilled from beneath their fingernails.
In the palace at the heart of Halcyon, the Queen sat upon her throne. She did not command. She did not speak. She simply was, and that was enough.
The city bowed. The city obeyed. The city decayed.
And when the last piece of Halcyon crumbled, when the final mask cracked and its wearer’s body dissolved into mist, the Yellow Queen stood, her robes rippling in the windless void. Her presence shifted—her throne abandoned, her gaze cast elsewhere.
Another city awaited.
Another stage was set.
The play would begin again.
And somewhere, beyond time’s reach, voices that had been lost still whispered:
She is watching.
The House at the Edge of Time
The wind carried whispers through the skeletal trees as Mira stepped forward, her boots crunching against brittle leaves. The house loomed ahead, its silhouette stretching unnaturally against the bruised sky, as if it had been there longer than the land itself.
Ronan shivered beside her, adjusting his jacket against the unnatural chill. “This place is wrong.”
Liv trailed her fingers along the warped wooden frame of the door, tracing its scars—the faint etchings of old carvings, symbols worn away by time, scratches that had no obvious cause.
“No one knows when it was built,” she murmured. “There are no records, only rumors. The Holloways, the Congregation, Elias Thorn—all of them vanished.”
She let the words hang in the air, but the weight of the house’s past pressed in, refusing to stay buried.
Elias Thorn, the obsessive scholar, had lived here in the late 1700s, retreating into isolation after his writings turned toward things beyond time. When they finally checked his home in 1812, he was gone. His belongings remained untouched, but his journals—his most prized possessions—had vanished.
The Congregation arrived decades later, sometime in the early 1900s. Nobody knew their real names. Townsfolk whispered about their gatherings—rituals held at impossible hours, strange figures moving behind flickering candlelight. Symbols appeared on the door, carved deep, shifting overnight as though alive. Then, without a trace, they disappeared, leaving behind only a rhythmic thumping beneath the floorboards—a pulse felt, but never explained.
And then, in 1957, the Holloway family moved in. Against warnings, they settled into the house with their two children. They lasted less than a year. One morning, neighbors noticed the door standing ajar. The house was empty, yet untouched. Clothing folded. Food still stocked. Journals left unfinished mid-sentence.
No sign of struggle. No records of them leaving town.
They had been erased.
The house consumed all who entered—not immediately, but inevitably.
Tobias glanced at his camera, its weight grounding him. “At least I’ll get a good shot before we leave.”
Mira inhaled sharply, staring at the house.
It had waited long enough.
The door opened without resistance.
At first, the house simply felt abandoned—dust-heavy air, furniture draped in sheets, the scent of damp wood thick in the stale atmosphere. But beneath the decay, beneath the silence, something lingered.
They stepped into the grand hall, the floorboards groaning beneath their weight. Portraits lined the walls, their eyes following as they moved, though none of the faces looked familiar. The Holloways never left portraits. Elias Thorn was said to have burned his own image.
So why were these people here?
Liv moved toward one of the paintings, tilting her head as her fingers hovered over the frame. The canvas rippled, subtly at first—like the face inside was pressing against the surface from the other side.
She snapped her hand back.
Tobias wandered toward a side room, peering into a study untouched by time. Books lined the shelves—titles that shouldn’t exist, bound in cracked leather, their spines covered in faded names that didn’t belong to any known author.
He ran a finger along the desk. The dust was disturbed—but not by them. As if someone had been here moments before, only to disappear into the walls.
Mira walked ahead, into the dining room, where a long oak table stretched beneath an antique chandelier, its crystals dull with age. The chairs sat perfectly aligned, but the plates atop the table bore half-eaten meals, dried remnants clinging to porcelain.
“This isn’t right,” Ronan muttered, his eyes scanning the room.
Mira took a step forward. The chandelier trembled, though no wind blew.
Then—the hallway shifted.
Tobias turned back toward the entrance, frowning. “Wasn’t that doorway closer?”
Their footsteps echoed back out of sync, bouncing against the walls, yet not matching their movements.
And the walls… breathed.
Liv paused before a hallway mirror, frowning. “Do I look different?”
Ronan glanced at her reflection—and his own face warped, mouth stretching too wide before snapping back to normal.
He jerked back, breath shallow.
No one else saw it.
Liv was the one who found it—wooden, ancient, wrong. It didn’t belong here.
She hesitated, running her fingers over the handle. It was warm.
“The house doesn’t have a basement,” she whispered. “There’s no record of one. No blueprints, no mentions in any of the archives. This—this shouldn’t be here.”
Ronan took a step back, shaking his head. “Then let’s just leave it alone.”
But Mira was already reaching for it.
Tobias adjusted his grip on his camera, heart pounding. “Wait—don’t just—”
The moment Mira’s fingers curled around the handle, the floor groaned—not like wood settling, but like something deep below had responded.
The house exhaled.
Tobias took a cautious step closer, angling his camera downward. The trapdoor looked impossibly old, the wood splintered from centuries of secrets. The edges were uneven—as though someone had pried it open before.
Liv pulled her hand back, rubbing her thumb against her palm as if she could still feel the warmth of the handle. “This isn’t just a basement. It’s something… deeper.”
Mira met her gaze briefly, then pulled the door open.
The hinges didn’t creak. They should have.
Instead, the wood folded back silently, revealing a yawning black void beneath—a staircase that descended into absolute darkness.
A scent rushed upward—something damp, ancient, thick with rot but layered with something sharper, something almost sweet beneath the decay.
Tobias swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around his camera, but he didn’t lift it. For once, he didn’t want to capture this.
Ronan let out a quiet curse under his breath. “You can’t just go down there, Mira. We don’t—”
But she already was.
One foot pressed against the first step, then the next. Her breath was steady, unshaken.
The shadows swallowed her before anyone could stop her.
Liv whispered, “Oh god.”
Tobias exhaled sharply. “We’re following her, right?”
No one answered.
Then—the walls pulsed.
Something moved below.
And they knew.
They had to follow her.
The staircase groaned beneath their weight, brittle wood trembling with each step. The scent thickened as they descended—not just rot, but something richer, layered with a metallic sharpness, like blood exposed to open air for too long.
Tobias’ camera strap dug into his shoulder, grounding him as he aimed the lens into the abyss. But even through the viewfinder, the darkness didn’t end—it stretched, a void swallowing the light before it could truly reach the depths.
Then, the stairs ended, and the space beneath the house yawned open.
It stretched impossibly vast, the walls moving, expanding with the rhythm of breath—alive, reacting to their presence.
Liv exhaled sharply. “This isn’t just a basement. This is—”
“A chamber,” Mira whispered, stepping forward.
The air was electric, dense with something that pressed against their skin, crawling beneath it as if it were attempting to settle inside them.
And at the center—it beat.
A heart, colossal, ancient, its veins winding through the walls like roots anchoring a monstrous organism, stretching in ways that defied biology. It pulsed, slow and steady, its rhythm syncing with their own.
Tobias’ breath hitched as he snapped a photo—but the moment he pressed the button, his hand twitched unnaturally, skin rippling beneath the surface like something was shifting inside.
He gasped, stumbling back. “Did—did anyone else see that?”
Liv reached for her throat as if something had snagged her vocal cords. When she spoke, her voice fractured—mismatched tones, layered as if two voices were speaking at once.
Ronan pressed a hand to his chest. His heartbeat was wrong—slower, deeper, merging with the pulse reverberating through the cavern walls. “What the hell is happening to us?”
And Mira…
Mira smiled.
She stepped closer to the heart, her fingers twitching at her sides as if drawn forward against her will—but not resisting.
Tobias grabbed her wrist, pulling her back. Her skin felt too soft, pliant in a way human flesh shouldn’t be.
“Mira—don’t—”
She turned to him, her head tilting slightly, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. But something was wrong.
Her pupils weren’t just dilated. They were deep, stretching into something endless, something that wasn’t supposed to fit in a human body.
She heard something.
Something the others couldn’t.
And her smile widened.
Tobias clutched his camera tightly, the strap digging into his shoulder as he stared at the latest image. His breath hitched, his chest tightening as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.
The photo was wrong.
It should have been his face—his familiar features, his steady gaze—but instead, the image showed something twisted.
The face in the photo was elongated, the jaw stretched unnaturally wide, the eyes dark and hollow, the skin rippling like water disturbed by an unseen force.
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “That’s not—”
His fingers twitched, the camera slipping slightly in his grip. He looked down at his hand, and his stomach dropped.
His fingers were changing.
The joints multiplied, bending in ways that defied anatomy. His nails sharpened, curling into jagged points, the skin beneath them rippling as though something was moving inside.
“I—I don’t—” His words slurred, his voice cracking as his mouth began to stretch wider, the corners pulling unnaturally toward his ears.
Liv gasped, stumbling back. “Tobias! What’s happening to you?”
Ronan grabbed his arm, trying to steady him, but Tobias jerked away, his movements erratic, his body trembling.
“I can’t—” Tobias dropped the camera, the strap snapping as it hit the ground. The lens cracked, but no one noticed.
When he looked up, his face had already shifted.
His eyes were too wide, the whites overtaken by a deep, unnatural black. His jaw hung loose, his teeth gleaming like polished stone. His skin rippled, the veins beneath it pulsing in rhythm with the house’s heartbeat.
Mira stepped closer, her expression calm, almost curious.
“Tobias,” Ronan shouted, his voice breaking. “Stay with us! Fight it!”
But Tobias didn’t respond.
Instead, he tilted his head, his movements slow, deliberate, as though testing his new form. His lips parted, but the sound that escaped wasn’t human—it was a low, guttural hum, vibrating through the air like the house itself was speaking through him.
Liv pressed a hand to her mouth, tears streaming down her face. “He’s gone.”
“No,” Ronan growled, stepping forward. “He’s still in there. Tobias, listen to me!”
But Tobias didn’t listen.
He turned toward the heart at the center of the cavern, his elongated fingers twitching as he reached for it.
And Mira… Mira smiled.
Liv tried to rationalize.
She had spent her entire life believing that knowledge could save her. That understanding something—defining it—meant she could control it.
But the house didn’t follow logic.
It rewrote her.
Her skin twitched, veins shifting beneath the surface, moving as if they no longer belonged to her body. She pressed a trembling hand against her chest, gasping as something inside her pulsed, syncing with the rhythm of the house.
“No—no, this isn’t real.”
She turned to Ronan, her breath ragged.
“We—we can still fight this. We just need to—”
Her voice cracked. The words fractured, splitting into two distinct tones.
Ronan staggered back, his expression twisting in horror.
“Liv?”
She blinked. Once. Twice.
The first blink was too slow. The second was too fast, her left eye moving before the right.
Liv gasped, pressing her hands against her face, trying to force her body to obey—but it was too late.
“I—I understand now,” she whispered, her voice echoing from every corner of the cavern.
Not just from her mouth.
From the walls.
From the floorboards above.
From inside the house itself.
Ronan took another step back, shaking his head. “No. No, you don’t—you’re still you. We can—”
But Liv’s body was already changing.
The veins beneath her skin pulsed outward, stretching into the air, merging with the walls like roots seeking soil.
Her arms softened, pressing against the wood, sinking into it as though her flesh had become liquid, absorbed effortlessly into the structure.
“I can see it now,” Liv whispered, her voice vibrating through the room, no longer bound to a single form.
She smiled—not a smile of relief, but of acceptance.
Her body was no longer hers.
And as the house pulled her fully into its embrace, she didn’t scream.
She exhaled—a sigh of pure understanding—before fading into the walls.
The last thing Ronan saw was her lips moving from within the wood.
“You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
Ronan ran.
His boots pounded against the warped floorboards, the sound echoing unnaturally, as though the house was mocking his every step. The walls shifted, stretching and contracting, the hallways twisting into impossible angles.
He didn’t care. He had to keep moving.
“Liv!” he shouted, his voice cracking. “Tobias!”
But their names felt hollow, swallowed by the house. The air was thick, pressing against his lungs, making every breath a struggle.
He stumbled into a room—a parlor, maybe, though the furniture was unrecognizable. The chairs were too tall, their legs bending at unnatural angles. The wallpaper moved, patterns swirling like oil on water.
“Let me out!” he screamed, slamming his fists against the nearest wall.
The house didn’t respond. It didn’t need to.
His breath hitched, his chest tightening as a sharp pain shot through his ribs. He doubled over, clutching his sides, gasping as he felt something shift beneath his skin.
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “No, no, no—”
His ribcage expanded, the bones stretching outward, pressing against his skin as though trying to escape. He clawed at his chest, desperate to stop the transformation, but his fingers felt weak, useless.
The house wasn’t forcing him. It was waiting.
“Ronan.”
The voice was soft, familiar.
He turned, his vision blurring, and saw Mira standing in the doorway.
Her silhouette was wrong—her limbs too long, her posture too still. Her eyes gleamed in the dim light, dark and endless, like the void beneath the trapdoor.
“Mira,” he gasped, stumbling toward her. “You—you’re still here. You can help me. We can—”
She stepped forward, her movements slow, deliberate. Her fingers twitched at her sides, the nails sharpened into delicate points.
“Why are you fighting?” she murmured, her voice layered, echoing from the walls, the floor, the very air around him.
Ronan froze.
Her hand reached out, brushing against his cheek. Her touch was cold, her fingers too long, her nails grazing his skin.
“You don’t have to fight anymore,” she whispered, tilting her head. Her smile was soft, almost tender.
He wanted to pull away, to scream, to run—but his body wouldn’t obey.
The pain in his chest intensified, his ribcage stretching further, his breathing shallow. He felt his heartbeat syncing with the house, slow and steady, no longer his own.
“Mira,” he choked out, tears streaming down his face. “Please—don’t let it take me.”
Her smile widened, her eyes gleaming with something he couldn’t understand.
“It already has,” she said.
And in that moment, Ronan understood.
The house wasn’t taking him. It had already claimed him.
His body trembled, his limbs elongating, his skin rippling as the transformation consumed him. He didn’t scream. He didn’t fight.
Because there was no point.
The house had won.
The night was silent outside, the trees standing motionless beneath the moonlight. The air was heavy, charged with something unseen, as three new visitors stepped hesitantly onto the porch.
They had heard stories—whispers carried through the town like an unsolved riddle.
No one lived here.
But no one ever left, either.
The first to enter was Daniel, his fingers brushing against the aged doorframe, his skin tingling at the unexpected warmth beneath his touch.
The second, Grace, swallowed hard as she glanced at the windows. The glass should have reflected their image back at them—but something else lingered behind the surface.
The last, Elliot, hesitated. The house felt too still, as if it had been waiting.
Then—the door opened by itself.
The floorboards creaked in greeting, the hallway stretching beyond the reach of their flashlight beams. The air inside was thick, humming softly in the silence.
And then, they heard it.
The voice—soft, melodic, woven into the walls themselves.
Mira.
“Come inside.”
Daniel stopped cold, his breath catching. “Did—did you hear that?”
Grace clutched his arm, nodding stiffly.
Elliot turned toward the shadows, squinting at the empty corridors. “Who said that?”
The voice did not answer.
But the house did.
The door behind them slammed shut.
The walls breathed.
And as footsteps echoed from somewhere deep within, slow and deliberate—too many feet, too many rhythms—they knew.
They were not alone.
And they would never leave.
The Bell
Sitting high within the steeple of the First Baptist Church of Pickford, the Bell has watched over the town for generations. A cast iron sentinel, forged in 1845 under the commission of Reverend John James, it was crafted by the Charleston Brother Iron Works of Triol—a company known for its precision, its craftsmanship, and its unwavering dedication to the old ways.
The bell’s journey to Pickford was plagued with delays, a troubling series of misfortunes that seemed unrelated yet refused to be ignored. Floods delayed the shipment. A warehouse fire destroyed its initial holding. The man tasked with transporting it to the church suffered a fatal accident—crushed, they said, beneath the very weight of the iron meant to sing God’s praises.
By the time it was finally hoisted into place, the whispers had already begun.
It rang the day Reverend James died.
A heart attack, they said—though some claimed his last breath came the moment the bell tolled, as if something inside it had been waiting.
From then on, the accidents followed. A worker repairing the ropes fell to his death. A child went missing in the churchyard the day the bell rang for the Harvest Festival—never found, only remembered.
Over the years, the bell remained, settled high within its perch—its once-proud engraving faded, rust creeping across its surface. But it never stopped ringing. It never failed to mark a passing, a birth, a moment of change.
Some say the bell calls to those who are already meant to be taken. Others say it doesn’t call at all—it only watches, waits, and tolls when the time is right.
One thing remains certain.
It will continue to ring, long after those who hear its toll have faded into whispers.
The House with Four Doors
Pana, Illinois, had its share of peculiar stories, but nothing quite like the legend of the Blackthorn House. It wasn’t the abandoned estate or its decaying walls that unsettled those who spoke of it—it was what lay inside.
The house had four doors.
At first glance, they seemed normal, but they weren’t supposed to be there. They lined the interior like sentinels, each waiting. Each wrong.
The front door—the only true exit—stood solemn, worn by time but otherwise ordinary. The left door remained forever sealed, its rusted handle locked in defiance, though on certain nights, whispers seeped through the cracks. The back door bore deep gouges, as if something had once tried—and failed—to escape. And the right door… the right door pulsed under touch, faintly warm, unsettlingly alive.
Ava had read everything she could find about the house before standing at its entrance. Historical records. Witness testimonies. Newspaper articles spanning decades.
The deeper she dug, the more she found.
1931 – "Local Inventor’s Death Sends Shockwaves"
Ezekiel Blackthorn, reclusive genius and alleged occultist, was found dead in his own home—his body twisted, his mouth frozen in silent terror. His final experiment, the four doors, left behind unanswered questions.
1957 – "Teenage Dare Leads to Missing Person Case"
Two boys entered Blackthorn House on Halloween. Only one returned. Thomas Grayson vanished without a trace, while his friend James Holloway was found days later, wandering in a daze. "The doors moved," he had whispered, before retreating into silence.
1989 – "Paranormal Investigation Ends in Mystery"
A team of five researchers arrived at the house, their vehicle parked outside in perfect condition. None were seen again. No signs of departure. No struggle. Just the house, waiting.
Ava didn’t believe in curses. She believed in facts.
The door opened too easily, and the house swallowed her whole.
Before she could take another breath, the exit slammed shut behind her. The echo rattled through the walls, and suddenly—she didn't know which door led back.
Her flashlight flickered as she turned in frantic circles. Four doors. Each identical. Each wrong.
She stepped toward the left door, the forever-sealed one. But now, it was ajar.
Beyond its threshold swirled a living void, thick with darkness that moved. Inside, figures lurked—shadows stretching unnaturally long, their hollow eyes locked onto her. Ezekiel was among them.
His voice crawled through the air: "No one escapes."
Ava ripped herself away before the shadows could reach her.
She turned to the back door, the one covered in claw marks. The wood pulsed, as though breathing. Something thumped from the other side—slow, rhythmic, mimicking her heartbeat. The glowing gouges widened, a sickly green light seeping through. Something knew she was here.
Ava stumbled backward, her breath quick and ragged.
Then came the sound, rising from the fourth door—the one she had not yet touched.
A slow, rasping exhale.
And something moved behind her.
Her vision blurred as the house closed in, the walls tightening, space folding inward. She lunged for the right door, her fingers closing around the handle just as the darkness rushed forward—reaching, grasping.
The door swallowed her whole.
And she was outside.
The house was gone.
Only the doors remained.
Standing alone.
Waiting.
“Tell them, Fox,” the girl with short, chestnut-brown hair said, her lips curling into a wicked little smile. “Tell them how you came to my house with those beautiful flowers you plucked from some secret garden and gave them to me.”
“I did no such thing,” I said, shaking my head vehemently. “There is no secret garden.” The words felt hollow, a lie that echoed louder in my own ears than in anyone else’s.
The truth was, the garden did exist—a place hidden in a pocket dimension, known only to a select few. My friends and I guarded its secret fiercely. To speak of pocket dimensions, parallel universes, and the horrors that lurked in higher dimensions would be unthinkable in the halls of Taylorville High. The other students were too preoccupied with the Cold War, the latest MTV music videos, and the mundane dramas of teenage life. The knowledge my friends and I carried would shatter their fragile sense of reality.
Even the outhouse behind my house, which served as an interdimensional hub, was a secret we kept locked away. It allowed us to traverse time—past, present, and future—and slip into parallel universes. But these adventures, like the garden hidden behind the Gates of Dawn or the one concealed in the alleyway near my house, were spoken of only within the walls of our clubhouse.
I didn’t know why I had done it—why I had given her flowers from the garden. Maybe I had feelings for her, feelings I couldn’t quite admit to myself. But deep down, I knew those feelings weren’t mutual. Even the strange girl in the garden, with her golden-blonde hair and piercing yellow eyes, had warned me. “You will fail in your venture of love,” she had said, her voice as haunting as the wind that rustled through the otherworldly blooms.
After I handed Anna the flowers at her house, I returned to the garden, desperate to find the golden-haired girl and demand an explanation. But she was gone, as though she had never existed.
“Knew it!” Richard Clark, the school’s resident rich jock, sneered. “Fox and his little band of losers probably stole those flowers from someone’s yard. Just so Foxy boy here could try to get in your pants, Anna.”
His words stung, but I kept my face impassive. The truth was far stranger—and far more dangerous—than anything Richard could imagine. And as Anna’s gaze flickered between me and the flowers, I couldn’t help but wonder if I had made a terrible mistake.
Deep in the heart of rural England lay a small, isolated farmhouse with a reputation for being one of the most haunted places in the country. The locals avoided it due to its eerie atmosphere and stories of unexplained occurrences. Yet, this was no ordinary house. It sat atop a hill, surrounded by dense woods that seemed to swallow everything within a few miles.
The villagers whispered tales of strange lights flickering at night, disembodied screams echoing through the trees, and apparitions seen in the dead of night. They spoke of an ancient curse that had been laid upon the land over centuries. Legend said it was when a young boy named Thomas fell off a tree while trying to escape from the clutches of his wicked stepmother.
For years, people avoided the area around the hill where the house stood. Yet, locals and tourists alike would sometimes wander into its shadowy domain in search of a glimpse of the unexplained.
It started with minor incidents: finding an old photograph with a cryptic message; encountering an eerie feeling that was hard to explain; witnessing strange marks on trees. In time, it became clear that something beyond the realm of human understanding had taken up residence within these crumbling walls.
The locals claimed they could see Thomas' ghost wandering around the house at dusk and dawn, his eyes glowing with a malevolent light. Others would report hearing whispers in their sleep; seeing fleeting images in their dreams like figures passing by or watching themselves from above.
One stormy night, two friends stumbled upon an abandoned farmhouse hidden behind thick woods near the hill. As they sat around a small fire to warm up and tell stories of the village folk's experiences with the house, one friend accidentally knocked over a nearby lantern. A blinding light enveloped them as they huddled closer together for comfort.
The next thing they knew, there was nothing but darkness.
Their search led them deep into the woods when suddenly, Thomas' ghost appeared beside him – his eyes blazing with an unholy energy. Panic-stricken and paralyzed by fear, one friend was unable to escape from the house on its own terms. The other found himself drawn into the depths of that malevolent presence forever lost in hell.
Now, it's said that if you ever find yourself standing at that hill where a dark history resides, you're doomed – never leaving until your soul is consumed by the horrors within these walls. And sometimes, when no one else is around and the moon casts its pale light on the abandoned house – they see their own ghosts watching from beyond.
The legend grew as time passed, with tales of people trapped inside those crumbling walls for an eternity. The locals claimed that if you ever ventured into those woods at night, a shadowy figure would appear to your face – and it wouldn't be Thomas anymore, but one of the countless souls who lost themselves within its dark confines.
In fact, today, if you dare, venture into that hill where the house stands on the windswept moors. Some say you'll see Thomas' ghost, staring back at you from those windows he never made himself for...
The storm had ravaged the small town of Ashwood, leaving behind only ruin and despair. It was on one such day that I stumbled upon the cryptic letter, with my name scribbled across it in red ink. The words "Your Majesty" were a testament to its true nature – an invitation from the King in Yellow.
At first, I dismissed it as mere fantasy, a desperate attempt by the mad king to break through the barriers of reality. But something about the letter drew me in, like a moth to a flame. As I read on, the words began to take shape in my mind's eye – the twisted crown of the yellow king, his eyes glowing with an otherworldly light.
I knew then that I was not alone. The King had taken notice of me, and it would stop at nothing to claim me as its own. The storm raging around us grew stronger by the minute, until it seemed like a physical manifestation of our shared despair. And when it finally passed, the sun breaking through the clouds like a beacon in the dark – I knew that I was doomed.
As I stood there, frozen with fear, the king's words echoed in my mind: "The yellow ink flows from your heart, into the void. The king awaits."
I tried to run, but it was too late. The storm consumed me, and when the winds died down, only one thing remained – a book bound in black leather, adorned with strange symbols that glowed like embers in the dark.
It was then that I discovered my true name: King of Black Things. And though I've tried to escape the darkness that you unleashed, I know now that I'm forever trapped within its depths. The king may have been a mere letter at first, but it's become a part of me – a manifestation of the madness that drove him to create this monster.
So if you ever find yourself in Ashwood during one of the storms, don't be surprised when your own sanity starts to unravel. For once I'm consumed by its darkness, there's no escape from the King in Yellow.
In the heart of the small town, there stood one of its most ominous homes - The House of Four Doors. Rumors whispered that this place was cursed and anyone who dared to enter never returned. The once-peaceful community had been torn apart by fear as those brave enough to try would eventually succumb to an unrelenting terror.
The house itself was old, with ivy vines climbing up its stone facade. It stood like a sentinel against the darkness that lurked just beyond the treeline of the nearby woods. The four doors were said to be aligned in a peculiar pattern - each one bearing the same symbol: an ancient snake coiled around a crescent moon.
On stormy nights, people would whisper stories about how the house seemed to shift and contort its entrance according to the positions of the stars. They claimed that if you entered on a certain day or at specific times during the month, you'd be drawn into the very depths of darkness.
As night fell, and the townsfolk fled their homes to seek refuge in other buildings - they never forgot The House of Four Doors. In every account written about it were dark illustrations of twisted, screaming faces that seemed to peer from the windows. Every single survivor was forever changed by what happened inside those doors.
Years went by without incident but when a local journalist decided to investigate further, he found himself facing an unspeakable horror. The house loomed over him like a specter as he stumbled into one of its four darkened halls. His heart pounding with fear and his mind reeling in terror - the journalist discovered that each door led only one path forward.
As he stood there, transfixed by the twisted forms of the other three doors, the journalist realized he would never be able to escape The House of Four Doors. Every time a new day dawned, every night brought darkness, and as the storm clouds gathered around him - it became clear: The Dark Door was not a portal but a prison.
The house seemed to whisper a final truth that shook his very soul: "You'll never leave."
And so, in the dead of night, when the last light faded from the windows - their doors were left open once more, waiting for another soul like the journalist's. For those who dare to enter The House of Four Doors are forever doomed to roam its halls.
The house remained standing as a constant reminder that some secrets are better left unspoken and others will haunt you until the end of eternity.
West Bear Elementary School Incident
As the sun began to set, casting an eerie orange glow over the playground at West Bear Elementary School, I found myself standing in front of the familiar brick walls that had been my home for the past year. It was a day like any other, or so it seemed.
I made my way inside, ready to start another ordinary day filled with math problems and science experiments. But as soon as I stepped through the doors, something felt off. The usual buzz of chatter from students filling the hallways had been replaced by an unsettling silence.
As I walked further in, I noticed a group of boys from my class huddled together near their lockers, their faces twisted with fear and confusion. One of them caught sight of me and called out, "Have you seen what's going on? It's like something out of a horror movie!"
I shook my head in disbelief, wondering if this could really be happening at our school.
Suddenly, a scream pierced the air, causing us all to freeze in place. We turned to see Mrs. Svengali, our fifth-grade teacher who was pregnant, being dragged away by several young boys from her class. They were pushing and shoving her towards an empty classroom, their eyes filled with anger and lust.
"Stop this at once!" I yelled out, but my words fell on deaf ears as the group disappeared into the room, slamming the door shut behind them.
The silence that followed was broken by the sound of laughter coming from down the hall. As we approached, we saw a large man dressed in a green tweed suit with a yellow tie sitting at a desk, surrounded by two fourth-grade girls who were giggling uncontrollably as he fondled them while smoking a big cigar.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice shaking with fear and anger.
The man looked up at me, his eyes cold and lifeless. "Why don't you join us for some fun," he said, patting the seat next to him.
I backed away quickly, unable to process what was happening. As I turned to run, I saw a group of older students from the high school dragging Mr. Johnson, our science teacher, out into the middle of the playground. They began hitting him with their fists and feet until he fell to the ground, bloodied and beaten.
"Stop it!" I cried out, but they paid no attention as they continued their assault on the helpless man.
I ran towards the school office, desperate to find help, but when I burst through the door, I saw Mrs. Hawkins, our principal, being held down by several students while others took turns forcing her mouth open and shoving their small penises inside her throat.
"Help!" I screamed, but it was too late as they finished with her and turned towards me with hungry eyes.
I fled from the office, my heart pounding in my chest as I tried to find a way out of this nightmare. As I ran past the classrooms, I could hear more screams and cries for help coming from inside. The school had become a living hell, filled with violence and depravity.
Finally, I made it outside where I saw a police officer standing by his car. "Please," I begged, "the school is under attack! Students are attacking teachers and forcing them to have sex!"
The officer looked at me suspiciously before pulling out his walkie-talkie. "I'll check this out," he said as he headed towards the building.
As we walked back inside, I could still hear the sounds of chaos echoing through the hallways. The sight that greeted us was even more horrific than before - bodies lying on the ground covered in blood, some moving weakly while others lay motionless.
"What the hell is going on here?" the officer asked, his hand reaching for his gun.
I shook my head, unable to speak as I watched another group of students drag a teacher into a nearby classroom. The officer followed behind them and burst through the door just in time to see one of the boys forcing himself inside Mrs. Svengali's mouth while she cried out in pain.
"Stop right there!" he shouted, but it was too late as they quickly pulled away from her and turned their attention towards us.
We backed out of the room slowly, trying not to provoke them further. As we made our way back to the main entrance, I couldn't help but think that this school would never be the same again. The place where I once felt safe now seemed like a prison filled with monsters wearing human faces.
As soon as we stepped outside, sirens could be heard in the distance. More officers arrived on the scene and began questioning everyone about what happened inside.
I told them everything I saw - the group of boys attacking Mrs. Svengali, the man in the green suit fondling those young girls, even the high school students beating Mr. Johnson to death.
The police listened intently as they took notes, their faces showing a mixture of shock and disgust at my story. They assured me that they would investigate everything thoroughly and bring whoever was responsible for this madness to justice.
In the end, I left West Bear Elementary School behind, never to return again. The once familiar building now haunted me with memories of that fateful day when it went mad.
I still have nightmares about what happened there, but at least I know that those monsters who caused so much pain will pay for their actions. And as for the big man in the green suit and yellow tie, he never returned after that day either - perhaps he knew that his reign of terror was over.
In the village of Tenebrous, where the moon dipped into the earth like a bloody scabbard, there lived a girl named Lyra. Her hair was a wild tangle of yellow locks that seemed to writhe and twist like living snakes. And her eyes...oh, her eyes were a deep, burning gold that seemed to burn with an otherworldly fire.
But not just any ordinary transformation, for Lyra had been born as a trans-dimensional being, one who could traverse the very fabric of reality itself. Her existence was boundless and ephemeral, existing in multiple realms at once like a ghostly apparition.
As children grew up, they would often see Lyra wandering the woods, her yellow eyes glowing with an ethereal light as she chased after creatures that defied explanation. Some said she was a shapeshifter, able to take on forms beyond mortal comprehension. Others claimed that Lyra possessed ancient powers that could bend reality itself.
The truth, however, was far more sinister than anyone had dared to imagine.
One stormy night in late autumn, the villagers of Tenebrous saw Lyra's yellow hair flailing about in the wind like a banner bearing an image that defied understanding. They watched with bated breath as her eyes began to burn with an incandescent fury, and they knew at once that something was terribly wrong.
In the end, it was not the storm that consumed Lyra, but the very fabric of reality itself. The villagers had grown too complacent in their ignorance of Lyra's true nature. They had been waiting for her to reveal herself to them, to let the world behold her terrifying power.
But as they watched with a mixture of awe and trepidation, Lyra vanished into thin air. Her yellow hair was gone, replaced by an aura that seemed to suffocate the very soul of those around her.
And when the villagers returned the next morning, Lyra's eyes were no longer burning – not because she had lost them, but because they were now blazing with a fierce, otherworldly light that would haunt their dreams forevermore. For in that moment, Lyra realized that she was no longer bound to the village, and her trans-dimensional powers were now hers to wield – at least for those who dared to cross paths with the girl in yellow.
As the years went by, tales of Lyra spread across the land, whispers of a monster so terrifying it had driven entire villages from their homes. Some said that on certain nights, when the moon dipped into its scabbard and the wind was just right, you could still see Lyra's glowing eyes, her yellow hair flailing in the darkness like some dark blessing. Others claimed that if you were brave enough to venture into those woods, where Tenebrous' ancient trees leaned out over the forest floor as if to say goodbye, then you could hear Lyra's voice whispering secrets to those who dared listen.
But most of all, there was the haunting truth: for in that moment, when her eyes were burning bright, Lyra knew she had become something more than humanity – and that when night came, that she would be free to walk among the shadows.
The Hollow
The Hollow is not a place.
Not a forest. Not a world.
It is an event. A rupture. A shift in reality so profound that the laws governing flesh and thought do not survive its presence.
Tyler, Jen, Marcus, and Eve were the last of humanity’s explorers—seeking remnants of a civilization that predated the stars themselves. Their scans revealed nothing. Their instruments reported silence.
But the Hollow was awake.
And it was waiting.
The moment they stepped through the anomaly, time itself hiccupped—stretched thin, unraveling into meaningless threads, dragging their minds apart before snapping them back into place, leaving them fractured, wrong.
The air was thick, bloated with something alive, pressing into their lungs like oil, filling every crevice of their bodies.
There was no sound.
No voices.
Then—the clicking.
First outside. Then inside them—beneath their skin, beneath their thoughts, as if something else was beating through their veins.
Tyler reached for his comm device, but his hand wasn’t his anymore. His fingers had begun to divide, splitting at the tips, opening like petals, revealing twitching filaments that pulsed with an unseen rhythm.
"This—" His voice cracked, something slipping into his throat, lodging deep. Something learning him.
Jen screamed—or tried to. But her voice never left her lungs.
Instead, it crawled out of her mouth, a sound that did not belong to humans, a reverberation that shook the ground, sending waves through the Hollow’s shifting surface.
The monolith rose from the fog—a tower of writhing flesh, its form unknowable, changing so fast their eyes refused to understand it.
And then—it opened.
Not a door. Not a mouth.
Eyes. Endless. Incalculable.
Not watching.
Recording. Judging. Rewriting.
The clicking stopped.
The voice came.
Not heard. Felt. Injected. Inflicted.
"You are larvae. You will become."
Marcus turned to run.
But there was no escape.
The roots rose—not roots, limbs, tendrils of flesh wet with something living, wrapping around his legs, burrowing into his bones.
His scream choked as his jaw unhinged, his ribs peeled open, his organs reformed into something else. His arms elongated, splitting into delicate, spindling limbs—hundreds of them, twitching, reaching, searching.
Jen collapsed, trembling.
"It’s... beautiful," she whispered, and her mouth split—not into a grin, but into rows, rows upon rows of teeth that were not hers, stretching outward, clicking in delight.
Tyler grabbed her, his grip unnatural, his fingers multiplying, branching like veins exposed to air.
"Jen, stop! Stop!"
She only smiled, her face peeling, her skull stretching as unseen bones grew through her flesh, pushing outward.
Marcus moved, but his limbs were wrong, bending at impossible angles, his torso no longer a torso, but an array of appendages that rippled in waves.
Eve staggered back.
"We have to go—"
Tyler reached for her—but his fingers had no end.
They stretched, growing thinner, longer, their surfaces transparent, revealing pulsating fluid—his blood repurposed, his nerves rewired, his body no longer responding to what he thought of as himself.
"I... don’t understand..."
Jen turned toward Eve, her skull splitting, unfolding, revealing something too complex for human recognition.
"You resist. But you will become."
Eve sobbed, clawing at herself, feeling her skin turn to void, to shadow, absorbing everything, reflecting nothing.
Her thoughts shattered, rebuilding under new laws, laws so ancient, so absolute, her humanity dissolved like a parasite rejecting its host.
The pain was irrelevant.
The hunger was infinite.
And she smiled.
They were no longer human.
Because humanity had never mattered.
The Hollow had always existed, feeding on civilizations, rewriting species, consuming gods and their creations.
And it would continue.
Long after humanity was a forgotten whisper.
Long after the stars had died.
Because the Hollow was not a place.
It was the future.
And they would become.
Dimensions Unbound
Dimensions Unbound: The Chase
By
Todd Daugherty
Dimensions Unbound
Copyright; 2025
Todd Daugherty
All Rights Reserved
The Old Shack
It was a hot summer day when four boys named Michael King, Nathan Brooks, his brother Andrew Brooks, and Fox Smith walked down that lonely stretch of country road heading back to the small farming community called Taylorville, where nothing ever seemed to happen. Taylorville was, and had always been, a small community, sitting in the vast open plains of corn and soybean fields in central Illinois. The population never went up nor down; in fact, Taylorville had pretty much stayed at around eleven thousand four hundred since the nineteen sixties. The only exciting thing to ever happen in that community was when Wal-Mart put a store in town or when the local football team won against their rivals. Whatever the case, life was pretty boring in that quiet little town. The kids would go to school during the day, after which they would head to the arcade to play that new video game called Ms. Pac-Man or Pole Position. In the evening, the local kids would head to the town square, where they would socialize until around ten to eleven o’clock at night. The kids with licenses would cruise the square in their cars while talking to each other on their CB radios. Michael, Nathan, Andrew, and Fox didn’t attend the activities on the square for various reasons, including the fact that the local school bully Chester Parkinson had a beef with Fox Smith and tried to run Fox and the other boys down with his car. So, instead, the four boys found other ways to entertain themselves.
Nathan Brooks is 14 years old and was the leader of the four boys. He was tall and lanky with short brown hair and brown eyes. He was often known for wearing camouflage pants and a black sleeveless shirt, under a faded green army jacket. He would often fight with his younger brother and his leadership would often see the boys get into various escapades, including looking for ghost and various cryptids from local legends and myths, only to get caught up into something else. Andrew Brooks is 13 years old, he is the younger brother of Nathan. He is tall and stout with brown eyes and brown hair that would sometimes cover his eyes. When he’s not too busy fighting with Nathan, he is often trying to get Fox to get into shape, by making Fox do push up’s or lift weights, however Fox was not interested in bodybuilding or weightlifting. Michael King is 13 years old and is tall and thin with long blond hair that covers his eyes. He is considered the musician of the group. When he’s not busy trying to break up Nathan and Andrew’s fights, he would often be in the boy’s club house strumming his guitar. Michael wants to be a rock star like the musician’s he would often see on the televisions set that sit in the club house. The TV would often be tuned to that new TV channel MTV. Fox Smith was 15 years old, and although he is the oldest of the group, he lets Nathan be the leader. Fox wasn’t originally from Taylorville, he was born in the small community of Hamden, nestled in the foothills of the Catskill Mountains of New York. When Fox was ten his parents moved to Taylorville because his grandfather, a wealthy land owner was dying and Fox’s parents inherit the massive mansion and land known as Durkham Estate. Fox was considered the brains of the group, and on occasion would often get the boy’s in a lot of trouble. Fox was tall and lanky with a weight of only 100 pounds. He had blondish - brown hair and blue - green eyes that sat under a pair large brown wire framed glasses. Fox often wore a white tee shirt and a pair of blue jeans, along with a brown trench coat.
It was on that hot summer day in July of 1983 that the four boys found themselves at Fox Smith’s house playing video games on his Atari 2600, unaware that their lives were about to change. They went to Fox’s house around eleven thirty, had lunch, and began playing video games until around two in the afternoon. All four boys then decided to head back to Nathan and Andrew’s house because they were supposed to eat dinner around four thirty, and both boys weren’t supposed to leave their property.
Now walking down that long road, with the July sun beating down on them, they were heading over to Nathan and Andrew Brooks' house, which was located in the center of town. Fox’s family estate was located in the countryside, just outside of town so the walk was pretty long.
Walking slowly down the side of Vandeveer Street, which headed back into town, they knew they had to be at Nathan and Andrew’s before four thirty because that was when they were supposed to eat dinner. At the same time, they were taking their time to get there as they dilly-dallied down the roadway, talking about what they did at Fox’s house and discussing their plans for tomorrow.
Not far from the outskirts of town, the boys stopped in front of a small patch of land covered in tall, lightly brown dead weeds, thorn bushes, two pine trees, and a couple of small oak trees. Within the mishmash of the property’s nine-foot tall weeds and small thorn bushes sat a small, one-story house made of cinder blocks that had seen better days.
The land and cinder block house once belonged to a man named Chuck Livingston, who, according to local legend, was found dead in that cinder block house that use to be his home back in 1955. It was shortly after he was accused of being a serial killer that the police arrived at his home and found him dead. No one knew exactly what happened to him; only that one night in March of 1955, he was found lying face down on his floor in his living room with his brain removed.
Most people left the property alone, while occasionally a local student or some thrill seeker would go into the house only to never come out. Those who did come out claim they saw an unspeakable horror they couldn’t explain. Others that had entered the house have claimed that they saw a eight year old girl with alabaster skin, yellow hair and yellow eyes. There is even a story of a group of five students in the early seventies who went into the house to do some pot, and only two came out; those two who survived went crazy and were sent to a mental institution.
"Hey, let's go explore that old shack!" said Andrew as he pointed toward the weed-filled plot of land beside them.
"Why not? We could waste a little time," said Michael.
"Well, what time do Nathan and Andrew have to be home?" asked Fox.
"Four-thirty. Right?” said Michael.
“Yeah, we have to be back a little before four-thirty.” said Andrew.
"Well, what time is it now?” asked Fox.
Nathan looked at his watch and said, "It's only two-thirty, so we have plenty of time.”
"Still, I don't know, guys," said Fox, who seemed a little nervous.
"What's the matter, Fox? Scared?" said Andrew.
"NO!" exclaimed Fox. “But aren’t there stories about this property?”
“Yeah, that makes it even more interesting to go investigate.” said Nathan.
“Who knows maybe we run into the ghost of Chuck Livingston.” said Andrew as he wiggled his fingers in front of Fox.
“I still don’t know, what if we get caught?” asked Fox.
“Who’s going to catch us? the vast majority of people in this town stay away from this place and beside if someone does see us, they have to go all the way home to call the police and by that time we will be long gone.” said Michael.
“I guess, I’ll go.” said Fox as he still felt a little uneasy about the whole thing.
"OK then, it's settled; let's go explore it," said Andrew as he lightly punched Fox in the arm.
Looking to see that no cars were coming, the boys began to make their way through the large thicket of weeds toward the one-story structure.
After clearing a small path through the weeds, they arrived at the open doorway of the house. The house looked as if it hadn't been lived in for quite some time. In fact, it looked as if it was about ready to fall in.
Standing in front of the open doorway, a horrible odor permeated from the opening.
"God! This place smells," said Fox, holding his nose.
"Well, let's go and look around," said Nathan.
"OK, you first, Nathan!" said Michael.
Stepping through the door, Nathan entered the shack, followed by Michael, then Andrew, and lastly Fox. The odor they smelled outside didn’t seem as strong inside the house as they walked into the first room, which was a very small kitchen.
The kitchen had a stove, a refrigerator, and a sink that sat underneath a small window, partly covered by massive vines that had dug their way through the cinder blocks and into the ceiling.
In the center of the room was a metal table that was slightly rusted due to water leaking from the hole in the roof; and a pool of water covered the red-painted floor underneath the table from the rain that occurred the previous night.
"Spread out and look around," said Nathan.
The boys began to spread out in the room, opening cabinet doors to see if there was anything in them.
"Fox, you better keep watch; make sure no one shows up," said Michael as he dug through a small pile of boxes.
"Yeah, let us know if anyone shows up," said Nathan as he opened cabinets.
“If someone comes we will all run out into the nearby cornfield.” Said Andrew.
"OK?" said Fox as he made his way to the nearest broken window.
Fox felt a little better knowing that the boys had an escape plan as he began his job of peering out the small broken window.
The four boys went room to room, looking through the various boxes of junk, while Fox kept watch out what little windows the small house had.
After a quick walk through, they arrived at a door with a glass window in it. Nathan opened the door to reveal a large room filled with car parts and other things.
The room was the garage, and it was the last room the boys had to go through before leaving the dangerous structure.
Fox climbed onto a wooden workbench and began peering out a broken window, while Nathan, Andrew, and Michael began looking through the boxes and stuff.
“Holy crap, look at this!” said Michael.
Michael pulled a large Coca-Cola sign out from behind a large pile of boxes.
“Cool, we could put that at our clubhouse,” said Andrew as he went back to looking through his box.
“I could touch it up a little bit with some paint,” said Nathan.
Fox looked into the garage to see what the boys had found and listened to their discussion, unaware that a blue truck was slowly moving up toward the house through the thicket of weeds.
While Nathan and Andrew began to fight over the sign that Michael had found, Fox returned to looking out the window and noticed the blue truck stopping in front of the house.
"Um, hey guys, a truck just pulled up in front of the house, next to the door,” said Fox as he began to get really nervous.
“What!” exclaimed Andrew.
"Fox, let me see,” said Nathan calmly.
Nathan walked over to the workbench that Fox was sitting on, pulling Fox off of the bench, Nathan jumped up onto the bench and began to peer out the window. Looking out the window he saw the truck slowly coming to a stop at the front door. The truck engine turned off and the truck doors slowly opened and three men climbed out of the truck. They each were carrying large black bags along with several types of guns.
“They've got guns!!!” said Nathan as he pulled back into the room to avoid being seen by the guys outside.
"Well, get down; we don't want them to see you,” said Michael.
“We need to get out of here!” said Fox.
“When they come into the house, we will climb out the window,” said Nathan.
"No, Nathan, if we climb out the window, there is a good chance that they will see or hear us,” said Michael.
“Then what do you suggest?” asked Nathan.
“I know, how about we hide behind that pile of tires?” said Andrew.
“Good idea, and we will wait and see what they do and then make our move,” said Michael.
The four boys made their way to a large pile of tires that sat in the corner on the opposite side of the room from the window Fox was looking out of. They all sat there huddled together as Michael tells the boys to be quiet.
In the kitchen, the three men dropped their gear onto the rusty table, causing a loud bang. The men’s names were Frank, Winston, and Bob; they were notorious criminals. This wasn't the first time Nathan, Andrew, Michael, and Fox had met these three guys. It was five years ago, in 1978, when the boys first met them. The boys were attending a birthday party for their friend and classmate Robert Spencer when a group, that called themselves The Defiance Alliance, led by their leader Knite-mare, tried to rob the famous Star of the Amazon Diamond from the Spencer family estate. The boys, along with Robert Spencer, stopped the bad guys, but these three idiots, who were with that group, somehow got away.
Frank was the brain’s and leader of the group, he was smart, dangerous, and was a little hot headed. He would often keep the other two from killing each other. He was tall and muscular with jet black hair and gray eyes. Also known as the “Mad Dog” He was originally Knite-Mare’s third in command. Winston was the gun guy of the group. He was tall and lanky with short brown hair and brown eyes. He often tend to speak in a very bad Australian accent and although he wasn’t from Australia; somewhere in that pea brain he believed he was from there. Winston was mentally unstable and had the IQ of a seventh grader, but his knowledge of guns was well known throughout the world. Bob was short with blond curly hair that tend to cover his eyes. Bob was the get away driver of the group and sometimes tended to have a mouth on him. He was often seen by Winston as being the arrogant one of the group, and this cause the two to get into fights. Even when they were in the Defiance Alliance they would both be at each others throat’s only for both of them to be beat up by Knite-Mare.
“This place sure smells,” said Bob.
"Well, we better look around and make sure no one is in here,” said Frank.
"Who the hell would be in a place like this, mate?” said Winston.
“He's right, quit stalling, and tell us the plan,” demanded Bob.
“OK, as you know, after Knite-mare's attempt to steal the Star of the Amazon from the Spencer estate, they moved that piece of ice to a large vault at the local bank here in town,” said Frank.
“So?” said Bob.
“So moron, we are going to steal it!” yelled Frank.
“So let me get this straight, mate, you want to rob the bank?” asked Winston.
“Right!” exclaimed Frank.
“Are you freaking crazy?” asked Bob.
“What, it’s a perfect plan,” said Frank.
“Oh sure, what about the security?” asked Bob.
“They have two old guys in their eighties watching the vault, while it will take the police at least five minutes or more to get there,” said Frank.
“Mate, I think it would be a lot quicker than that,” said Winston.
“Not when the alarm has been going off all week for the last few weeks due to an electrical issue,” said Frank.
"Oh, I see,” said Bob.
Bob and Winston began to laugh as Frank started to get annoyed by their idiotic laughter.
“Quit laughing and lets go over the plan.” Said Frank.
In the garage area, Nathan, Andrew, Michael, and Fox sat behind the tires, waiting for the three men to leave.
All of the boys seemed relaxed, except Fox, who was getting nervous that they were going to get caught.
“That's it, guys; I'm leaving,” said Fox.
Fox began to wiggle his way around the other boys so he could book it to the window.
“No, Fox, Don’t” said Nathan.
“No, if you move, they will see you,” said Andrew.
“Fox!” said Michael.
Fox quickly sneaked across the room keeping his eye on the door to see if it remains shut, unaware of some cans that were laying on the floor. The cans had been dumped there when the boys were searching through the boxes of junk. Fox tripped on one of the cans and fell backwards onto an rusty old trashcan which made a loud thump.
“He tripped; that's great!” exclaimed Andrew.
"Fox, get over here,” said Nathan.
“OWW!” screamed Fox as he laid on the floor.
“Guys, I think it's time for us to book it,” said Michael frantically.
Nathan, Andrew, and Michael jumped from their hiding spot and ran across the room. Each boy took turns jumping onto the table and climbing out the window. Fox picked himself up off the floor, and as he climbed onto the table, he felt himself being pulled back. Turning his head, he noticed two of the three men pulling him off the table.
“What are you doing here, you little punk?” said Bob as he grabbed a hold of Fox.
“What are we going to do with him, boss?” asked Winston.
“Yeah, the little punk may have heard our plans,” said Bob.
“We'll tie him up; we don't want him going to the police about our plans. Winston, go get the rope and a chair,” said Frank.
Winston went back to the kitchen and grabbed a chair and some rope, while Bob and Frank both held Fox.
“You better answer us, kid, what are you doing in here and who else was in here?” said Frank.
“Screw you!” yelled Fox.
“Hey boss, doesn't this kid look familiar?” asked Bob.
"Kinda,” said Frank.
"Nope, I've never seen you guys before in my life,” said Fox, knowing that he was lying.
Winston came back into the room with the rope and chair. Bob pushed Fox down onto the chair and held him while Winston tied him up.
“There, that should hold you,” said Bob.
"Good, now let's get back to what we're doing,” said Frank.
“So, are we going to leave him in this room?” asked Bob.
“Why not?” replied Frank.
“What if there was someone else in here, mate? They might come for him,” said Winston.
“I don't think there was anyone else in here, and even if there was, we will hear them,” said Frank.
“Good point,” said Bob.
The three men walked out of the room, chatting along the way, while Fox stayed behind, tied to the chair, wondering what was going to happen to him or if his friends were going to come back and save him.
Hidden in a drainage ditch that ran the length of the tree line that separated the cornfield from one of the local parks, Nathan, Andrew, and Michael sat there thinking of what they were going to do next.
“Great, they've got Fox,” said Michael.
"Well, let's go!” exclaimed Andrew.
"What, Andrew, go back and rescue him?” asked Michael.
“Heck no, let's go before they give him back!” Andrew replied.
"No, Andrew, we need to rescue him,” said Michael.
“Yeah, after all, it was your idea to go explore the shack,” said Nathan.
“Alright!” replied Andrew.
So, the boys sat down on the dry dirt bed of the drainage ditch, trying to figure out a way to rescue Fox.
The Chase
After about an hour of discussion, they decided to return to the shack and go through the window to try to rescue Fox.
They had no real idea where Fox was, so Michael came up with the idea of having Andrew keep watch, while Nathan and he sneaked into the shack and looked around for Fox. If anything were to happen, Michael knew he and Nathan could escape pretty easily.
“After we save Fox, we will meet back here and figure out what we will do next,” said Michael.
“That sounds like a plan,” said Nathan as he got up off the ground.
“Let's do it then; I still think we should leave him,” said Andrew.
Nathan, Andrew, and Michael slowly crept through the cornfield so as not to make too much noise or movement of the corn. When they arrived at the broken window, which they had jumped out of an hour earlier, Nathan peered into the window and noticed Fox sitting in the chair and realized it was going to be easy to find him. Nathan, Andrew, and Michael also knew that this was also a trap, so Andrew went to his position as Michael boosted Nathan up into the window, and he quietly sneaked off the workbench. Crouched down, Nathan went over to the chair and untied Fox.
Andrew kept watch in one of the small windows that was covered in vines so the men inside couldn't see him, yet he could see them. Frank, Winston, and Bob were all sitting at the table arguing over their plans as Winston pointed at the bank blueprints, and Frank smacked him over the head with his hand.
Fox, now finally untied, got up off the chair and began to follow Nathan back across the room towards the window, which Nathan had just came in.
Nathan went out first and stood next to Michael and Andrew, who had returned from his monitoring of the men. As Fox was climbing out the window, he bumped some cans, which made a little noise. Fox jumped out the window, and the boys began taking off into the cornfield. Frank, Winston, and Bob entered the room as the boys were leaving and noticed that the boy they had captured was now free; not only was he free, but he and his friends were escaping into the cornfield toward the park.
“We need to get those boys before they get hold of the police,” said Frank.
“You and Winston go through the cornfield, and I'll take the truck and cut them off at the park,” said Bob.
"Right,” said Winston.
“We don't want those little punks telling law enforcement about our plan,” said Frank.
The three men ran out the front door following the boys into the cornfield, while Bob took the blue truck and sped out of the weeds and down the street toward the park to cut them off.
Frank and Winston ran through the cornfield until they came to the drainage ditch.
"Well, mate, where do you think they went?” said Winston.
“I believe on the other side of this tree line is the park; that's where those punks are heading to get to the pay phones and call the pigs,” said Frank.
“Well, let's get going!” said Winston.
Both men went into the tree line and noticed the large drainage ditch covered in tall dead weeds. Climbing down the slope on the cornfield side they both reached the bottoms of the drainage ditch. They then both quickly ran across to the other side and with some help from some vines that were hanging off some trees on the park side they slowly climb back up the other side. They entered into the park unaware that not far from where they had climbed up, hiding in a rill, were the four boys hidden behind a large piece of farm machinery.
“What are we going to do? They will probably come looking in here for us if they don't find us in the park,” said Andrew.
“We could head back to the road and cross over into that cornfield and wait,” said Nathan.
“If we could make it to the Gates of Dawn, we could hide in there,” said Michael.
“We would never make it; those guys have a car and guns, remember,” said Andrew.
"Yeah, you're right, but we should at least try,” said Michael.
“Hey guys, how about we hide in that outhouse?” said Fox.
Fox pointed toward an outhouse that was just about hidden inside a large bush.
“Yeah, that’s a good idea; let’s go hide in that outhouse down the way,” said Nathan.
The four boys began sneaking toward the outhouse, just in case one of the men made their way back to the gully.
The outhouse was like a normal outhouse; it had painted white wooden siding and a slanted metal roof. The only thing that stood out to the boys was that instead of a normal outhouse door, it had an old wooden house door with a brass doorknob on it. Nathan grabbed the doorknob and slowly opened it. Inside, instead of a small, dark wooden room with a toilet seat, they all stared down at what looked to be a small white hallway. At the other end of the hallway on the left side, they could see what appeared to be another door.
“What is this place?” asked Michael as all four boys entered the hallway and closed the door behind them.
“Let’s see what's behind that other door,” said Fox, pointing at the white door at the other end of the hallway.
The boys began moving slowly down the small hallway to the other door.
“It’s probably a back door or something,” said Andrew.
Nathan reached for the door handle and slowly opened the door. Instead of it being a back door to the outhouse, the door opened up into a large room. On each side of the door that Nathan opened up were two massive computer banks, which ran the length of the wall. At the front of the room was a small area with a white-lit floor. On the other side of the room, an open doorway seemed to be a hallway that went toward the front. In the back of the room was another white door. In the middle of the room was a large L-shaped control center, which looked like it was made of stainless steel. On top of the control center, near the door that Nathan had opened, was a small wooden box.
“What is this place?” asked Nathan as he began to walk around the room.
Fox walked over to the control center and found a large book and began reading it.
“Oh look, we are being chased by four guys and found this weird place, and what does Fox do? Read a book,” said Andrew as he threw his arms up in the air.
Nathan walked over and grabbed the small box that sat on top of the control center and opened it up. Inside were four bracelets.
"Here, take one,” said Nathan as he started handing out the bracelets.
Andrew grabbed a bracelet, followed by Michael, then Fox; they put the silver bracelets around their arms, not knowing what they were.
"Hey, I wonder what this button does,” said Andrew as he pressed a blue button on the bracelet.
Andrew suddenly vanished and then reappeared in the small lit area in the front of the room where the other boys were standing.
“Oh wow, it’s some kind of teleportation device,” said Fox as he rolled the bracelet around his arm.
“So again, what is this place?” asked Michael as he and the other boys began walking around the room.
“I don’t really know off hand; maybe this book can tell me,” said Fox.
“More to the point, what are we going to do about those guys outside?” said Andrew.
“I’m sure they are gone by now, Andrew," said Michael.
"Yeah, right, what if they doubled back?” asked Fox.
“I’m sure they would never look in here; after all, on the outside, it looks like an outhouse,” said Michael.
“I wonder what's behind that door?” said Nathan as he pointed toward the white door in the back of the room.
“That probably leads back outside,” said Michael. “Let’s take a peek and see if anyone is coming.”
Nathan, Andrew, and Michael walked over to the white door, while Fox sat in a white chair with his elbows on the control center as he began to read the book. Nathan slowly cracked the door open; all three boys attempted to take a look at the same time, when Nathan pushed the boys back and flung the door open to reveal a long white hallway with doors on either side.
“I wonder how big this place is?” asked Andrew.
"Well, let’s find out,” said Michael.
“Coming, Fox?” asked Nathan.
"Yeah,” said Fox as he shut the book.
Jumping up out of the chair, Fox began to head toward the door, when suddenly the other door opened and the three men walked into the room.
“THERE THEY ARE!!” said Winston.
The boys let out a little scream and began to run down the hallway while the three men bumbled over themselves as they tried to go through the door at the same time; this gave the boys more time to escape down the hall. They arrived at a T-section with a hallway going straight and another going right; on the left side of the T-junction were two potted plants that sat on either side of two doors that looked like elevator doors.
“Turn here,” said Michael as the boys turned to the right.
“Quick, let's hide in this room,” said Nathan as he opened the door.
The boys quickly went into the room, only to notice that they were outside on a cliff overlooking a massive sandpit. The pit was huge, about the side of a large football field.
“Where are we at?” asked Andrew.
“Don’t know, but look,” said Michael as he pointed to two large, massive moons that hovered in the sky.
“We better hide; just in case those guys saw us come in here,” said Andrew.
“Let’s hide down there in that patch of trees and weeds,” said Nathan, pointing to a small circular patch of trees with weeds and thorn bushes.
The boys slid down the side of the sandy ridge, taking care to hide any marks they made in the sand. Arriving at the bottom of the pit, they hid in the weeds next to the trees they had seen from the cliff.
“We hide here for a while and then try to make our way back to that place that looked like a control room,” said Nathan.
As the boys lay there under the thick brush of the small grove of trees, they had a clear view of the door they had previously come out of. Watching the door, they noticed it opened up, and the three men entered.
“Now where did those little brats go?” asked Bob.
“Don’t know, mate, but more to the point, how the hell did those little kids make this place?” said Winston.
“Perhaps when we catch them, they can tell us how they did it,” said Frank.
“Let’s climb to the top and have a look around,” said Bob.
“Maybe they headed back to town,” said Winston.
The boys in their hiding place watched the four men climb up to the rim of the sandpit.
The three men standing at the top of the sandpit began looking around to see if they could spot the boys.
“Over there, mate!” said Winston as he pointed toward the boys' right.
The four men began running as fast as they could into the distance, until they were no longer visible to the four boys.
“Now’s our chance, guys,” said Michael, as all four boys ran out of their hiding place and back up the side of the cliff toward the door they had come from.
Back inside the white hallway, they closed the door and began walking down the hallway.
“Are we going to head back to that control room?” said Andrew.
“No, our best bet is to find some place to hide; after all, those guys might come back. The first place they would probably look is there. So let’s head this way and find some place to hide,” said Nathan.
So the boys began quickly walking down the hallway, going up a flight of stairs and down another hall to the point they had gotten themselves lost.
"Guys, I’ve been reading this book, and it’s quite fascinating,” said Fox as they continued to walk down the hall.
“Not now Fox,” said Andrew.
"No, Andrew; perhaps Fox learned something about this place that could help us,” said Michael.
“So, what did you find out?” asked Nathan.
“Well, this place is huge,” said Fox.
"No duh,” said Andrew.
"No, I mean big like infinite!” said Fox. “It has four types of rooms: regular rooms, outside rooms, time rooms, and parallel universe rooms.”
“What are those?” asked Nathan.
“Time rooms are probably filled with clocks,” said Andrew.
“HA but No, regular rooms are like normal rooms. Like a living room, bedroom, and so on. Outside rooms, according to the book, are micro-planets with some life on them. They are about the size of Earth and are contained in their own pocket dimension. The room we were just in was an outside room. Time rooms are rooms that, according to this book, are attached to some point in time—past, present, and future. You walk through the door, and you are in that time frame. According to the book, you need these bracelets to exit these rooms, except for regular rooms and outside rooms; if you don’t have a bracelet or it’s broken, then you are trapped in that time. Parallel universe rooms are rooms that are attached to a parallel universe; like the time room, you need the bracelets to exit from those rooms,” said Fox.
“You learned all that from that book?” said Michael.
"Yeah,” said Fox. “Guys, we found something truly amazing, so it’s probably wise to keep this place to ourselves.”
"Yeah, once we get rid of these guys, we could try taking this place back to our clubhouse or over to Fox’s house,” said Michael.
The boys continued to talk as they quickly went down the hallway.
1868
After traveling for what seemed to be hours, the boys stopped in front of another door that had a brass sign on it that read 1868.
“Hey, let's see what’s behind this door. This might be a good place to hide,” said Nathan as he opened the door.
Walking into the room, the four boys stood inside a medium-sized room that had a wooden floor and plastered walls painted red. In the room, next to a small window that was open, was a large brass bed. The warm breeze coming from the open window gently blew some small white curtains high into the air. Next to the brass bed was a lantern with an unlit candle that sat on a table; on the other side of the room was a brown wooden door. The boys could hear mumbling coming from behind the door, like there was someone on the other side talking.
“Quiet, hear that?” whispered Nathan.
“Do you think it’s those guys?” whispered Michael.
“Don’t know. Fox, go check it out,” said Andrew.
Fox sneaked across the room toward the other door. As he passed the open window, stopping and looking out, he noticed that they seemed to be in a farmhouse, somewhere in the countryside. He noticed a horse and a black carriage coming up a dirt road toward the house. He continued across the room, slowly opened the door, and sneaked out.
The other boys slowly followed behind him, walking out into the second-floor hallway. The hall was long, with a white wall on the right; the wall was covered with various pictures and paintings. On the boys' left side was a banister that overlooked the sitting room below. Lying on the floor, they peered through the spindles of the banister; looking down, they noticed a woman standing in the sitting room as another woman dressed in a maid outfit slowly approached her.
“Here’s your drinks, miss,” said the maid as the woman took the glasses from the tray.
“Very good, Maggie. I want you to go prepare the spare room upstairs for our guest,” said the woman.
“Very good, ma'am. I will do it right away,” said the maid as she bowed and headed back toward the kitchen. The woman took the other glass and handed it to someone else who was sitting in a big green chair.
“All is going as planned,” said the woman as she gave a horrific smirk.
"Yes, my dear, soon we will have everything we’ve ever wanted,” said a man’s voice coming from the chair.
“Where are we?” whispered Michael.
“Don’t know, but this isn’t those guys; apparently we are in someone’s house,” said Fox.
“Let’s get out of here before we get caught,” said Nathan.
“Yeah, let’s head back the way we came,” said Andrew.
The boys got up, quietly walked down the hall to the door they had just come from, slowly sneaked back into the room, and gently closed the door behind them. Standing in the room discussing what they should do—if they should go back into the infinite hallways or try to sneak out of the house—they suddenly could hear footsteps slowly approaching the room.
“Quick, back into the hallways!” said Nathan as he opened the door that led back into the long white hallway.
The boys rushed across the room into the doorway that led into the hall. Fox followed behind the boys, running across the room, when he tripped and stumbled, falling face first onto the ground. As he hit the ground, his bracelet smacked hard against the brass bed. Quickly, he bounced back up and headed toward the door his friends just passed through. Walking through the doorway, instead of being in a long white hallway with his friends, he stood in a small empty closet.
Scared, Fox opened the window and climbed out onto the small roof, which led onto the larger roof. Quickly closing the window before the maid entered, he climbed up to the peak of the roof, away from the window, so the maid couldn’t see him. He sat on top of the roof and waited.
The maid quickly entered the room after she heard the loud thump that originated from that room. Looking out the window to see if it came from outside she didn’t see anything. She then quickly looked in the closet and there was nothing there, except some old coats that were hung up. She then looked under the bed and didn’t see anything. Standing there, puzzled she finally thought to herself that it was just her imagination.
After waiting a while, Fox slowly made his way back down toward the window. Peering in, he noticed the maid was making the bed. He quickly pulled his head back so the maid couldn’t see him, and as he did, he heard a clicking noise and peered in again. Peeking into the window once again, he noticed the maid was leaving, slowly closing the door behind her. After she left, Fox reached over to the window and tried to open it up. He noticed it wouldn’t open; he peered into the top part of the window and noticed the maid had locked it. About that time, Nathan, Andrew, and Michael stepped out of the closet and looked around the room for Fox. As they looked around the room, they heard a light tapping on the window. Looking toward the window, they noticed Fox outside on the roof. Nathan climbed onto the bed and opened the window; Fox slid back through the window onto the bed.
“Now that we got Fox, let’s get the heck out of here,” said Andrew.
“No wait guys, I think my bracelet is broken, so I can’t go through the door,” replied Fox.
“What do you mean?” asked Andrew.
“I think this is one of those time room’s that I had read about in the book” said Fox.
“Well, what are we going to do?” asked Michael.
“Here, take it and see if you can get another one or find a way to get this one fixed,” said Fox as he took the bracelet off and handed it to Nathan.
“How are we suppose to do that?” asked Andrew.
“There should be a place where you can fix it or has replacements.” Said Fox.
“What will you do?” asked Nathan.
“I’ll hide under the bed until you get back, but hurry,” said Fox.
The three boys went back through the door, while Fox hid under the bed to wait for their return, fearful that the maid or the owners of the house would show up in the room and find him.
The boys walked down the hallway, checking the rooms as they went along. They found a massive water park with colorful slides that went into a massive ocean size pool. Another room they found was a library that seemed to be the size of a planet. They found an outside room that looked like an island in the south Pacific. Another room was a room of stairs that went every which way and seemed to go on forever. Going room to room they found nothing that could help them get the bracelet fixed. After walking a while, they came to what appeared to be a dead end with an elevator.
"Hey, let’s take the elevator,” said Andrew.
“OK, it's better than going back and running into those guys,” said Nathan as Michael pushed the button and the elevator door slowly opened. They walked into the elevator and noticed a number pad on the side next to the door, which went from 0 to 9.
“Hmm, I guess we just type what floor we want to go to,” said Nathan.
“Which floor should we go to first?” asked Michael.
“Who knows what the top floor of this place is?” said Nathan.
“We could go to floor 999,” said Michael.
“Let’s type in 100 and go there,” said Andrew.
“No, let’s go to 50 first,” said Nathan.
“OK, we will go to 50 first, then go to 100,” said Michael.
The elevator door closed as Michael pushed the button, and within minutes they arrived at level 50.
“That was fast,” said Nathan as the doors opened up.
“Are you sure that you pressed the button?” asked Andrew.
“Yeah, I pressed the button,” said Michael as he walked back into the elevator.
Nathan and Andrew followed as the elevator doors shut once again. Michael pressed the button for fifty, and the light on the number 50 came on and then went off, and the doors slowly opened.
"See, we are on level 50,” said Nathan as he once again exited the elevator.
"Well, that was sure fast for it to get to level 50; I didn’t even feel it move,” said Michael.
“It had to be going super fast to get to this level that quick,” said Andrew.
“Yeah, you're telling me,” said Nathan. “Let’s find a place to get this thing fixed.”
Walking down the long corridor, each boy would peek into the rooms to see if there was something that could get the bracelet fixed. Moving farther and farther down the long hallway, it seemed like the hallway was never-ending.
“Let’s not go too far, or we will get lost,” said Nathan.
"Yeah,” said Michael.
While Nathan and Michael continued down the hall, Andrew stood in front of two large white doors with gold trim and just peered at them as if he was in a trance.
“Hey guys, I wonder what’s in this room?” he asked the other two boys.
Walking over to where Andrew was; Nathan and Michael looked at the large doors that Andrew had been looking at and wondered too what was inside. Nathan slowly went up and grabbed hold of the large gold handles, opening the doors. The door slowly crept open, and a blinding light emerged from the open door. The boys entered the doorway and noticed a room filled with diamonds and gold stacked high. Gold bars lined the walls, while a large pile of gold coins sat in the middle. Other gold items scattered the floor, and paintings known and unknown filled the room. The boys walked around the room, taking in the sight of all this valuable wealth before them. Andrew stood in front of a painting and just stared at it.
“What are you looking at?” asked Michael.
“This painting of this girl,” he said as Michael slowly walked up to him.
Michael looked at the picture and noticed it was of a young eight year old girl with yellow hair and yellow eyes.
“Forget that; we need to find a replacement for this device so Fox can get back here,” said Nathan.
“I wonder who she is?” asked Andrew.
“Who cares, let’s go,” said Nathan.
So all three boys turned around and headed out the two large doors. Closing the doors behind them, they continued on their way down the hallway. Heading down the hallway, they began opening the doors on either side, checking the rooms to see if anything could help in their mission, but all they found was a sitting room, a few bedrooms, a couple of swimming pools, along with another water park, and another room that led to another outside room, this time a jungle. They finally reached the door at the end of the hallway, and Nathan opened the door up. As the door flung open, it revealed a room filled with test equipment and various parts.
After walking for two hours, Frank, Winston, and Bob arrived on the other side of the woods and noticed that this wasn’t the set of woods that they were in before. The men finally looked up into the sky and noticed the two massive moons.
“Guys, I don’t think we are in the same place we were before,” said Bob as he pointed toward the two moons.
“We better get back, mate; those boys probably called the police on us,” said Winston.
“You're right, let’s head back,” said Bob.
“Yeah, we need to find those punk kids and find out how they did this,” Frank said as he and the other two turned around and headed back the way they came.
Nathan, Andrew, and Michael walked into the room with all the electronic equipment and began going through all the drawers, until they came across some more bracelets. So the boys grabbed a bracelet and headed back to the room that Fox was in. They shortly arrived back at the room, and Fox climbed out from underneath the brass bed, grabbed the bracelet, and put it on. About that time, the door of the room flung open, and the owners of the farmhouse entered the room along with eight handymen who worked on the farm.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” said the man as he looked at his wife and gave off an evil grin.
“It looks like we have some sneaky rats hanging about,” said the woman.
“Or some riff-raff that has broken into the house,” replied the man.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” asked the woman.
“We were just leaving” said the boys as they began to head toward the closet only to be grabbed by the eight handymen.
“Jim, you and the boys take these young men to the cellar and lock them up and go to town and fetch the sheriff,” said the man.
“But my love, what if these boys know about our plans” said the women.
“I doubt these little hooligan know that.” Said the man “We’ll let the sheriff deal with them, if anything they broken into out house to steal, like all poor little hooligans do”
“We didn’t do squat!” said Andrew as he tried to free himself from the two handyman holding onto him.
“ENOUGH!!!” yelled the man, “take them away to the cellar!”
The eight men grabbed the boys, two to each boy and led them down the stairs, while Nathan, Andrew, Michael, and Fox fought to try to get away. As they were being pulled down the stairs, the four boys could hear the man and woman giving off an evil laugh.
The Master Plan
The farmhands took Nathan, Andrew, Michael, and Fox to the cellar, pushing them into a small room. One of the men closed the door quickly and locked it. The boys stood there in the room as they heard the men walk back up the steps.
"Great, we are never going to get out of here,” said Michael.
“Yeah, we are going to get out of here soon as the sheriff comes and arrest us” said Fox.
“Right, how are we going to explain to the sheriff what we were doing in that room?” said Andrew.
“Don’t worry about that Andrew, Let’s see if we can find a way out of this room." said Nathan.
The boys began to look around the room to see if there was any way out. Nathan and Michael looked on one side of the room, while Andrew and Fox looked on the other side. As he was looking, Fox noticed that behind a wooden shelf that part of the brick wall had a piece of wood blocking a hole in the wall.
“Hey guys, look at this. I wonder where it goes," asked Fox.
“Don’t know, let see.” said Nathan “Michael help me move this wooden shelf.”
“Fox and Andrew you guys get on the other side and help move it” said Michael.
The boys quietly moved the shelf and then pulled the piece of wood out from the wall to reveal a hole.
“By the looks of it, it looks like it goes underneath the whole house,” said Nathan.
“Maybe there is a way out,” said Andrew.
"OK, Andrew, you go first, and we will follow you,” said Michael.
So Andrew climbed through the small hole, followed by Michael, then Nathan, and lastly Fox.
The passage under the house was dirty and covered in cobwebs as the boys slowly made their way through the passageway. After a few minutes, they arrived at the halfway point of the length of the house and could hear voices coming from above.
“Hey guys, listen,” whispered Michael.
The boys stopped, hearing the man and woman who own the house talking above them.
"SOON, MY DEAR! We will eliminate the ruler of this pathetic little planet,” said the man, “and we will turn this little world into a slag pile.”
"Of course, once we take over this planet, we will populate this planet with others from Sirius 5. We will rule this planet, and its people will become our food," said the woman as she let out a joyful laugh.
“Be patient, my dear; all is going according to plan,” said the man.
“I can’t wait for it, my love; I want to devour these humans and lay my slimy larva in their fleshy carcass,” said the woman.
“Of course this is only the first step, my love; we have a lot more to go; soon we will expand our empire and rule the universe!” said the man.
“But husband, what about those intruders?” asked the woman.
“We will turn them over to the sheriff and not worry about them; we don’t want to draw attention to ourselves; besides, what if someone comes around here and looks for them?” said the man.
“But what if—just what if—no one is looking for them?” asked the woman.
“What are you going on about, wife?" asked the man.
"I want them; I want to taste their flesh and feast on their entrails,” said the woman.
"Patience, my dear, once we conquer this backwards planet, we will have a massive feast,” said the man.
“Oh man, did you hear that?” asked Andrew.
“Yeah, we need to stop those guys,” said Michael.
“Why, let’s just get out of here and go back home," said Nathan.
“We can’t because if they take over the world now, there will be no home to go to,” said Fox.
“Fox is right; if we don’t stop them, there will be no home to go back to; heck, we might not even exist,” said Andrew.
“OK, but we're going to need some help on this; we can’t do it ourselves,” said Nathan.
“But who??” asked Fox. “The sheriff isn’t going to believe us.”
“I have an idea, but you guys ain’t going to like it,” said Michael.
"Well, what is it? It can’t be that bad," said Nathan.
“We get help from those three guys chasing after us,” said Michael.
“ARE YOU NUTS!!” yelled Fox.
“Quiet Fox, they will hear you,” said Andrew.
“I see it as killing two birds with one stone,” said Michael.
“How?” asked Nathan.
“We convince the three guys to help us, and we stop these aliens or whatever they are, and then we leave,” said Michael, acting smug.
“And?” said Nathan, still trying to figure out how they were going to kill two birds with one stone.
“That’s its beauty. Those three guys don’t have a bracelet,” said Michael.
“So?” Andrew replied.
“So when they come in here, they will be trapped in the past,” said Michael as he began to smile.
“Not a bad plan,” said Fox.
“So let’s find a way out of here and track those guys down,” said Nathan.
“Who is that man and woman anyway?” asked Andrew.
"Well, apparently they are not from this world,” said Michael.
“Hmm, I wonder...," said Fox.
“What?” said the other boys.
“I wonder what Doctor Who would do in a situation like this,” said Fox, pointing with his finger in the air and a big smile on his face. The three other boys crashed to the ground, face first with a loud crash.
“Oh Jesus, not that,” said Michael.
“Fox, I thought we told you, you couldn’t mention that stupid TV show,” said Nathan.
“Ah, Doctor Who is an awesome show,” said Fox.
“At any rate, we need to get out of here and get back to that room with the closet and find those guys,” said Michael.
So the boys continued onward through the catacombs that lay underneath the house, making sure that no one heard them.
"Hey, I just thought of something,” said Fox.
“What now, Fox!?!” said Andrew.
“I was wondering what's stopping them from coming in that room and checking to see if we are still there,” replied Fox.
“Well then, we better hurry our butts up and get out of here,” said Andrew.
So the boys continued on, moving faster through the catacombs, searching for a way out. After a short period of time, they arrived at another small opening in the wall.
"I wonder what's in there?" asked Andrew.
"Well, Andrew, go see," said Michael.
So Andrew climbed through the hole and came out into a small room. He was followed by Michael, then Nathan, and finally Fox.
"Where are we?" asked Michael.
"It appears to be a root cellar," said Fox.
"A what?" asked Nathan.
"It is a place where people store vegetables. It's usually a small room underground with a few shelves in it," said Fox. "See that door? It goes outside," said Fox as he pointed to a door at the top of a small set of stairs.
"Andrew, go take a look," said Nathan as Andrew walked up to the top of the stairs and peeked out the crack of the door.
"Yeah, it looks like we're outside near the side of the house," said Andrew as he came back down the stairs.
"So what is the plan on how to get back into the house?" asked Michael.
"Hmm, that's going to be tough," said Nathan.
"How about we use Fox as bait and distract them while we escape?" said Andrew.
"WHAT!!" exclaimed Fox.
"Just kidding, Fox," said Andrew.
"Hey guys, when I climbed out onto the roof from that room, I noticed a trellis going from the window down to the ground; maybe we can climb up that," said Fox.
"Yeah, and the window should still be open, because I never closed it," said Nathan.
After going over their plans, the boys opened the door to the root cellar and headed toward the front of the house. Arriving at the trellis that sat underneath the upstairs window, each boy took a turn climbing up into the window without making a noise.
But by that time, it was too late; the owners of the house noticed that they were no longer in the room. So they, along with their hired hands, began searching the property for the boys. As Fox was climbing up the trellis, the hired hands saw him between the window and the ground and believed he was climbing down. He yelled for the others, who began swooping in as Fox frantically climbed up the trellis and into the window.
"They saw me, guys," said Fox.
"Quick, to the closet," said Michael.
The boys dashed into the closet, and as Fox was closing the door, the owners entered the room and walked toward the closet.
"NOW WE GOT YOU!!" they said as they flung the closet door open, but inside the closet were only a few pieces of clothing and some small boxes, but no boys.
Back in the long white hallways of the inter-dimensional hub, the boys began their long search, looking for the four men who had recently been chasing them. After what seemed to be an hour of searching, the four boys found the four men sitting in the hallway, looking as if they were out of breath.
“Hey, bank robbers!” said Nathan.
The bank robbers looked at the boys and seemed tired and out of breath.
"Look, kid, we're done chasing you brats; all we want to know is how to get out of here,” said Frank.
“OK, we will help you get out of here, but we need your help,” said Nathan.
“With what?” asked Winston.
“There are aliens that are in the past that want to take over the planet,” said Andrew.
“So, who cares, show us how to get out of this place!” exclaimed Bob as he threw his arms in the air.
"Listen, man, if you don't help us, there isn't going to be any place to go back to; these aliens are going to turn everyone into food. By the time we leave here, the earth you know will no longer exist," said Fox.
"Tell you what," said Nathan. "You help us out; not only will we show you how to get out, but we will not tell anyone about you wanting to rob the bank."
Frank, Winston, and Bob moved away from the boys and huddled together to talk it over among themselves, and after a few minutes, they agreed to help.
The boys led the three men back to the doorway to the room that was in 1868. Back inside the room, they noticed it was night outside and the room was dark, except for the moonlight coming through the closed window. In the bed, lying asleep, was a young boy around ten years of age. He had short brownish blond hair and was wearing a long nightgown. Nathan pointed toward the boy and put his finger to his lips as a sign for the others to be quiet.
"You sure this is the place?" whispered Bob.
"Yeah, but it seems that time..." said Michael, only to be stopped by Fox poking him.
"Where are these aliens, mate?" asked Winston.
"They must be downstairs," said Nathan.
So the three men slowly opened the door and walked out into the hallway, followed by the four boys. Standing in the hallway that overlooked the living room, they could hear screaming coming from the kitchen. The three men, followed by Nathan, Andrew, Michael, and Fox, ran into the kitchen and saw one of the hired hands lying on a table shaking as two large brownish slugs with two small eyes on two long optical tentacles stood over his body.
"Hey, Slug!!" said Bob, and both of the slugs slowly turned around toward the three men.
"I think we have something you are looking for," he said as the men grabbed the boys and dragged them into the kitchen. Frank grabbed Fox and dragged him into the kitchen, while Fox reached for a container that sat on the counter to use as a weapon.
"You scum," said Michael.
"Well done, humans, for catching these nuisances," slurred one of the slugs. "What do you want in return?" said the other.
"Only to live as your servants," said Winston.
"Yeah, and not be like that poor sap," said Bob as he pointed to the dead body on the table.
"He failed us," slurred one of the slugs. "Make sure you don't make the same mistake," slurred the other one.
About that time, Frank let Fox go, throwing the contents of the container on the two slugs. Suddenly, smoke began oozing from the slugs' bodies.
"What have you done, you pesky child?" said the slug.
"Used the slugs' most poisonous substance...common household salt," said Fox as he and the three men watched as the slugs let out a horrifying scream.
The two slugs began to slowly melt away into a pile of goop. It was then that the sheriff arrived and asked what was going on, what the goop on the floor was, and what happened to Mr. and Mrs. Peterson. The boys told the three men that they better tell the sheriff because, after all, he probably wouldn't believe some teenagers.
While the three men began telling the sheriff about the Petersons, Nathan, Andrew, Michael, and Fox slowly made their way back up the stairs. Going into the room, they noticed the boy was still asleep.
“Do you think he's dead?” asked Nathan.
“Don’t know,” said Michael.
Andrew checked the other room to see if it was occupied and noticed the boy's parents dead in a pile of slimy slug goop.
Andrew walked back into the room and told the other boys that the boy's parents were dead.
“Never mind, into the closet quick,” said Nathan as the boys began to hear footsteps coming towards the room.
Frank opened the door and entered the room, followed by Bob and Winston, and noticed the room was empty. Walking over to the closet, they opened the closet door and noticed instead of the long maze of hallways, it was just a closet, with a few coats and some small boxes in it. Around that time, the young boy, who had been sleeping, woke up and asked the three men what was going on. The three men just stood there disgusted. The boys' plan had worked; the three men were now trapped in 1868.
Nathan, Andrew, Michael, and Fox were walking down the long hallway to try to find their way back to the main control room so they could leave this bizarre place.
"What if they get out?" asked Andrew.
“They can’t, not without a bracelet,” said Fox.
"Don't worry, I think we've seen the last of them," said Nathan as all four boys walked deeper into the inter-dimensional hub.
Nathan: Well we finally got rid of those guys and saved the world.
Andrew: Yeah, but now we have to find our way back home.
Michael: Fox, are you sure this is the right way? These corridors all look the same.
Fox: I’m sure, have I ever got us lost??
Nathan, Andrew and Michael: Yes!!
Fox: Anyway, I think were going to be here a while.
Andrew: Why is that Fox?
Fox: Do you know how long it took to write this one story?
Nathan: Anyway, the next book: The Russian Revolution.
Michael: Wait, wasn’t that suppose to be the first story.
Fox: Yeah…use to be.
The Yellow Queen’s Gambit
Neo Tokyo shimmers under neon lights, a city of endless possibility—but also deception. The disappearance of three famous online celebrities shakes the metropolis to its core. Millions speculate. Were they kidnapped by a rival media empire? Eliminated by the government for speaking too freely? Or, as the more unhinged whispers suggest, taken by something beyond human comprehension?
Alex, a relentless investigator known for unraveling impossible cases, is determined to uncover the truth. But truth in Neo Tokyo is slippery—like blood slicking pavement.
Strange clues lead Alex to a crumbling warehouse, where forgotten shadows linger. There, bathed in eerie golden light, stands a figure: an eight-year-old girl with unnatural yellow eyes and hair spun from pure sunlight.
"I am The Yellow Queen," she says, her voice both innocent and omniscient, a sound that crackles through Alex's mind like static.
The air grows thick, pressing against his lungs. She does not blink.
She does not move.
She does not breathe.
Alex clutches his badge tighter, forcing himself to speak. “Where are they?”
The Yellow Queen smiles—a slow, deliberate movement, like a puppet learning how to be human.
“They were liars,” she murmurs. “Deception poisons the city. Their influence was a disease, twisting minds, sewing chaos. I gave them a choice.”
Alex feels the weight of unseen eyes upon him, the walls trembling with whispers. “What choice?”
“They were offered truth or oblivion. They chose poorly.”
His pulse pounds against his skull. “You can’t just—”
She laughs, a sound like glass splintering. “I did not decide their fate. They did.”
He is forced to understand: she is not merely a god of decisions—she is the arbiter of consequence. The celebrities had been given the chance to confess their lies. To walk the path of truth. They refused. And so, reality swallowed them whole.
Alex stares into her golden gaze, realizing that he, too, stands at a crossroads.
She steps forward, bare feet silent against the concrete. “Tell me, Investigator, will you reveal my presence to the world? Will you let the city know of what lurks beneath its surface? Or will you keep my secret?”
The walls whisper, the neon outside flickers, and somewhere—everywhere—time fractures.
Alex must decide.
And whatever choice he makes…
It will be his to live with.
Forever.
The Price of Choice
The rain fell in sheets over the city, drowning its neon glow in relentless darkness. The streets whispered with wet footsteps, hurried breaths, and secrets.
Samuel Marquez had spent his life chasing power, influence, and wealth. He had stepped on friends, abandoned family, and made deals that should have buried him long ago. But he was still standing. Still climbing. Still untouchable.
Until tonight.
A single golden note had appeared on his desk, with words written in delicate, childlike cursive:
Come. It is time.
He had laughed. Who would dare summon him like this? But something in the ink unsettled him. It glowed—faintly, impossibly—pulsing like a dying heartbeat.
The address led him to a forgotten alley, where the city seemed to fold in on itself, the air too thick, the night too quiet. And then, at the end of the corridor of crumbling walls and flickering streetlights, stood her.
The Yellow Queen.
She was small—an eight-year-old girl in a lace-trimmed yellow dress, golden hair cascading down her back like molten sunlight. But her eyes—those eyes—were too ancient, too knowing. They swallowed the streetlights, flickering with endless, unreadable depths.
Samuel felt his pulse falter.
"You have lived without consequence," she said, her voice carrying a weight far beyond her form. "You have taken, betrayed, and devoured. Now, you must choose."
He sneered, masking his unease. "Choose what?"
The Queen tilted her head. "Your price."
The street behind him faded, swallowed by darkness. The rain ceased. He turned, but the city was gone—only vast emptiness stretched beyond the alley, a void in which his past crimes echoed like distant screams.
She stepped forward, smiling. "You may live forever, untouched by age, wealth beyond imagination. Or, you may face your sins and know suffering as they have."
Samuel laughed, despite the knot in his throat. "This is a trick. You want me to choose pain? Come on."
She did not blink. "Do you wish to live without consequence?"
He scoffed. "Of course."
The Yellow Queen smiled wider.
And Samuel felt his skin tighten—his veins harden—his breath stop.
The world trembled.
His heart stilled.
And yet—he did not die.
He was awake. Alive. Frozen.
His skin was smooth as porcelain. His body unmoving. His lips unable to scream.
In the reflection of a shattered window, he saw himself—his form had become a golden statue, frozen in eternal perfection. His eyes wide with terror. His mind still intact. Still aware.
The Yellow Queen stepped closer, her golden fingers tracing his rigid cheek.
"You may live forever," she whispered, "but you will watch eternity pass, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to touch the world ever again."
Her laughter echoed through the alley as the darkness swallowed him, his silent screams lost in the abyss.
And in the heart of the city, bathed in neon, a new statue stood—its golden eyes wide, mouth frozen in an unspoken horror.
People admired it. Photographed it. Wondered at its eerie beauty.
None would ever know that it still saw.
That it still screamed.
That it had chosen its fate.
And The Yellow Queen, watching from the shadows, smiled.
For choice is sacred.
And the price is eternal.
The Last Request
The hotel had been abandoned for years, its skeletal remains swallowed by decay and dust. But tonight, the doors stood open.
Detective Valerie Harlow stepped inside, the beam of her flashlight slicing through the darkness. She’d followed the trail here—the whispers, the disappearances, the strange, golden notes left on the doors of the missing. Come. It is time.
Her instincts screamed at her to turn back. But she was too deep now.
The air inside the lobby was thick, stale, yet humming with something alive. The paintings on the walls had been defaced, their faces scratched out, leaving only yawning voids. The chandelier overhead flickered, its golden glow pulsating like a heartbeat.
Then—footsteps.
Soft. Slow.
A child’s giggle echoed through the hall.
Valerie turned, gun raised.
She was there.
A little girl in a delicate yellow dress, standing in the ruins of the grand staircase. Her golden eyes gleamed in the dim light, unblinking, unmoving.
"You came," The Yellow Queen murmured.
Valerie swallowed, forcing her voice steady. "What have you done to the missing people?"
The child tilted her head, her hair falling like liquid gold. "They wanted something. I gave it to them."
A rustling noise—dozens of voices whispering all at once. Valerie’s stomach twisted.
She had made the mistake of reading the case files too closely.
Each victim had made a request—some desperate plea for help, for love, for relief. And then, they were never seen again.
"What did you give them?" Valerie demanded.
The Queen stepped forward, bare feet silent against the dust-covered floor. "What they asked for."
The whispers grew louder. Valerie turned her flashlight toward a doorway—and stopped breathing.
Behind the cracked frame stood figures, barely human anymore. Their forms twisted, warped. One man had arms too long, stretching into the walls like shadows. Another woman’s mouth gaped open in a scream that never ended, her lips fused together at the corners.
Their eyes—every single one—were gold.
Valerie staggered back. "You did this—"
"They did this," The Yellow Queen corrected softly. "I do not decide their fates. I merely ensure their choices are final."
The air pressed against Valerie, suffocating, thick with unseen weight.
She knew what came next.
The Queen’s gaze locked onto her, unblinking, unwavering.
"It is your turn, Detective," she whispered. "Make your request."
The walls pulsed with distant laughter, with the echoes of past decisions—their consequences eternal.
And Valerie understood one terrible truth.
There was no way to refuse.
1. The Broken Contract
Jacob Archer was a gambler, a man who thrived on risk. The night he met The Yellow Queen, she presented him with a wager: He could bet his life on a coin toss.
Heads, he’d win limitless wealth.
Tails, his existence would end instantly.
Jacob, ever confident, flipped the coin.
It landed on its edge.
The Queen’s golden eyes gleamed with amusement. "Ah," she whispered, "you exist between fate now. Neither won nor lost."
For hours—years?—Jacob stood, unable to move, the coin resting impossibly balanced. He could neither age nor die, only remain frozen in the moment of his gamble.
In desperation, he pleaded. "Break the bet! Let me live!"
The Yellow Queen smiled. "Very well," she murmured.
The coin fell.
Jacob was free—but so was his luck.
Every bet he placed after that encounter was a loss. Every risk unraveled. The man who had once been invincible in the games of chance could no longer win anything.
And in the distance, he still heard her laughter.
2. The Silent Witness
Margaret Halloway was a journalist chasing forbidden stories. She wanted proof of The Yellow Queen, to expose her existence to the world.
The Queen allowed it.
Margaret was given all the proof she wanted—visions of lost souls, twisted bodies, echoes of choices gone wrong. She filled notebooks with horrors no one had ever documented before.
But when she tried to publish her findings, she discovered the curse of her survival.
Whenever she spoke of The Yellow Queen, her voice refused to come out.
Whenever she tried to write about her, the words vanished from the page.
Whenever she attempted to tell someone what she had seen, their memories of the conversation erased themselves.
She had survived.
She had proof.
But no one would ever be able to hear it.
And somewhere, The Yellow Queen watched—amused.
3. The Bargain Unraveled
Derek Lowe had been dying, his body failing, his time running short. When The Yellow Queen appeared, she offered him a choice:
He could have ten more years, perfectly healthy and strong.
But after that, he would simply cease to exist—no pain, no suffering, no afterlife, just... nothingness.
He took the deal.
And for nine years, eleven months, twenty-nine days, he lived without fear. He thrived. He laughed at death.
Then, on the final day, desperation clawed at him. He wanted out.
Panic led him back to the place where he'd met her. The Queen was waiting, her golden gaze unwavering.
"You agreed to ten years," she said softly.
"I want to renegotiate!" Derek pleaded.
She tilted her head, considering. "Very well," she said.
And with that, Derek was granted eternal life.
But his body never aged. Never changed. Never felt hunger or sleep again.
He could never die. But he could still suffer.
The first century was bearable. The second was agony.
And by the third, Derek understood—he had lost everything.
1. The Choice That Never Ends
Lena Ramirez had spent her life trapped in indecision. Every major decision—college, career, relationships—sent her spiraling. She avoided choices, terrified of making the wrong one.
Then The Yellow Queen appeared.
Lena was offered a gift: the ability to see all possible outcomes before making a choice. Never again would she be uncertain.
Desperate, she agreed.
But the moment she received the ability, she realized her curse.
Every single tiny choice—what to eat, what to wear, whether to step left or right—unfolded in infinite possibilities before her mind. She was paralyzed, drowning in countless futures.
She could see the results of each step, each breath, each glance—but she could not stop looking.
She starved, unable to choose what to eat.
She collapsed, unable to take a step forward without analyzing every possible outcome.
And in the distance, The Yellow Queen watched, smiling.
For Lena had wished for certainty.
And she had been given endless possibility.
2. The Puppet’s Smile
Damien Sloane was a stage actor who longed to capture true emotion in his performances. He wished to move audiences with tears, fear, heartbreak—something so pure that it became undeniable.
The Yellow Queen listened.
She granted him his wish.
When Damien stepped onto the stage the next evening, his expressions were too perfect. His grief was too raw, his joy too radiant, his terror too real.
The audience was enthralled. Then horrified.
Because Damien could no longer stop.
His body no longer obeyed his own commands—his face twisted into an endless display of expressions. A laugh became too wide, too stretched, unnaturally frozen in glee even as tears poured down his cheeks. A scream echoed, locked in a mouth that refused to shut.
The audience fled.
The director burned the footage.
Damien was found days later, still standing on the abandoned stage, smiling—his mouth never closing, his eyes forever wide.
And somewhere in the shadows, The Yellow Queen whispered:
"You wished to move others. Now, you will never stop performing."
3. The Collector’s Regret
Elliot Graves was obsessed with rare treasures—artifacts, paintings, antiques. He craved one-of-a-kind items, things no other collector could claim.
Then, one night, a golden-haired girl visited his estate.
"I can give you something no other man on Earth possesses," she told him, her fingers trailing across his desk.
His greed overtook him. He accepted.
The Yellow Queen gifted him a perfect golden mirror—a piece so exquisite it felt alive.
And then, his reflection blinked.
Elliot recoiled. His reflection was not him.
It was watching him.
As days passed, his reflection began to move independently. It walked when he stood still. It smiled when he frowned.
Then one morning, Elliot awoke to find himself inside the glass, trapped in his own reflection.
And in his place, outside of the mirror—stood the thing that had been watching him.
It grinned. Stretched. Rolled its shoulders.
Then, without hesitation, it shattered the mirror.
Elliot screamed, silenced forever, lost in the void behind the glass.
And The Yellow Queen, ever amused, whispered:
"You wished for something no man could own. Now, no man will ever find you again."
The Cost of Power
Dante "Silk" Mercer ran the streets like a king. Money, women, control—it was all his. People feared him, envied him, whispered his name like it was scripture.
But deep down, he wanted more.
So when he found the golden note tucked into his pocket—its handwriting childish, delicate—it made his pulse quicken.
Come. It is time.
It led him to an abandoned church, its doors splintered, its stained glass shattered. He stepped inside, swaggering, unbothered.
She was waiting.
Small. Barefoot. Dressed in yellow. Golden eyes staring, unblinking.
"You run things," The Yellow Queen murmured. "You demand loyalty, respect. You wish for complete control over your world."
Silk smirked. "You're damn right."
She tilted her head, considering. "Then I will grant it."
The air shifted—thick, heavy, electric. Silk blinked, his skin tingling. The city suddenly felt different.
And when he walked back into the streets, something was wrong.
Every person he passed stopped—mid-step, mid-conversation—staring at him.
Unblinking. Silent.
His girls lined up before him, eyes vacant, waiting.
The dealers, the muscle, his enemies—motionless, their heads slightly tilted, awaiting his words.
He spoke, hesitant. "Get back to work."
They obeyed. Instantly.
No hesitation. No resistance.
Silk laughed—until the laughter felt hollow.
Because they only moved when he commanded them to.
No one spoke unless he willed it.
No one breathed unless he allowed it.
And soon, his empire was silent.
Empty.
Every soul under his control, their will erased, their existence dependent on his word.
And in the darkness, she watched, golden-eyed, smiling.
For he was powerful now.
And utterly alone.
The Man Who Loved a Ghost.
Norman Trask was not a man people admired. At forty years old, overweight and unkempt, he had spent decades in quiet obsession—fixated on The Yellow Queen, a being of legend, whispered in dark corners and forgotten forums.
To the world, she was a myth, a cautionary tale, a whispered warning. But to Norman, she was real.
He had spent years drawing her—sketchbooks filled with golden eyes, delicate hands, lace-trimmed dresses. He spoke of her in hushed murmurs, imagined a life where she would understand him, where she would love him.
People avoided him.
"She's just a story," they said. "And even if she was real, she's a child, man. That's twisted."
Norman didn’t care.
She spoke to him in dreams.
In the deep hours of the night, he saw visions of her waiting—waiting for him. He told himself she was not truly a child, that she was older than time, that her form was merely a vessel for something greater.
Then, one evening, he found the note.
Come. It is time.
It rested on his desk, written in gold ink, shimmering under the dim glow of his lamp.
His heart raced.
He followed its instructions, walked to the edge of town, down an abandoned street no one used anymore.
And there—standing beneath a flickering light—was her.
The Yellow Queen.
Golden hair. Unblinking eyes. A smile that was not a smile.
Norman trembled, overwhelmed, barely able to speak. "You—you're real."
Her gaze pierced through him, unreadable.
"You have loved me for years," she murmured.
He nodded frantically. "Yes! I knew you'd come for me! I knew you were watching!"
She took a single step forward, and the air changed—thickening, pressing against his lungs.
"You dream of being mine," she whispered.
Norman swallowed hard. "Yes! Forever!"
She tilted her head.
"Then," she breathed, "you shall belong to me—for all eternity."
The shadows swallowed him.
Norman screamed, but the sound never escaped his throat.
His body froze.
His vision blurred—until he saw it.
The sketchbook.
He was inside it.
His form now made of paper, inked in frantic strokes.
Frozen.
Trapped.
A drawing among his own obsession, sealed forever within the pages of the world he had created.
And in the darkness, The Yellow Queen turned the page—searching for the next fool who whispered her name too lovingly.
The Wrong Kind of Gold
Kenny "Big K" Dawson ran the game. Girls, money, territory—he had it all. But ambition is a hungry beast, and Kenny wanted more.
When the golden note appeared in his pocket, he didn't hesitate.
Come. It is time.
It led him to a forgotten subway station, untouched by time. The air buzzed with something unnatural, and she was waiting.
Small. Innocent-looking. Unmoving.
The Yellow Queen.
"You have power," she murmured. "But you crave something more. Authority that cannot be questioned. Strength that cannot be challenged."
Kenny grinned, cocky. "Damn right."
She blinked—slow, deliberate. "Then I will grant it."
The world shifted, the underground humming. Kenny stumbled, his skin suddenly burning, itching, changing.
Then the pain stopped.
And he saw his hands.
Golden.
Not painted. Not artificial. His flesh had transformed, every inch of his body now smooth, shining, gold.
Power surged through him—his grip stronger, his steps heavier. Invincible.
He laughed, stepping out into the city, prepared to rule his streets.
But when he reached for one of his girls—she screamed, recoiling.
When he barked orders to his crew—they stared, expressionless, as if he were no longer real.
When he demanded respect—they ran.
And then, the worst of it.
Kenny felt nothing.
No warmth. No breath. No humanity left in him.
He was gold. A statue with the illusion of movement.
And he could never change back.
He stood in the heart of his empire, untouchable—feared.
But alone.
And from the shadows, she watched, golden eyes glimmering, whispering:
"You wished for power. And power does not feel, nor love, nor live."
And Kenny understood—far too late—what kind of gold he had truly gained.
The Door That Shouldn’t Exist
There was a door at the end of the alley—a door that should not exist.
Leo Ortiz had lived in this neighborhood for years. The alley was a dead end, bordered by brick and concrete. But tonight, under the flickering street lamp, a yellow door stood where there had only ever been a wall.
A child’s laughter echoed behind it.
The handle was gold, shaped like a delicate hand. It twitched when Leo looked at it, as if inviting him to turn it.
He knew better.
He took a step back.
The door moved closer.
His pulse slammed against his ribs. He turned to run, but the city behind him had vanished—only the alley remained, stretching longer, deeper, swallowing sound.
The laughter grew louder.
A voice—soft, ancient, childish—whispered from the door.
“Leo. It is time to choose.”
His breath hitched.
The Yellow Queen.
He had heard the rumors. A being who offered choices. A force that never lied, but never truly gave—only ensured that what was asked for became reality in ways no one expected.
Leo clenched his fists. “I’m not making any deals.”
Silence.
Then—click.
The door swung open.
Beyond it, golden light pulsed, revealing a room lined with mirrors.
No—not mirrors.
Reflections.
Hundreds, thousands of versions of himself stared back, each living different lives. One wore a suit, one was homeless, one held a child, one carried a knife dripping with blood.
The voice whispered, gentle, terrifying.
“Pick one, Leo. Step forward, and the life you choose will be yours.”
His chest tightened. He saw versions of himself that thrived, versions that suffered. One had riches beyond imagination. One lay dying.
But in every reflection, she stood behind him.
Unmoving. Watching. Waiting.
Leo stepped back.
“I don’t want this,” he rasped.
The Yellow Queen smiled in the glass.
“Then you shall have nothing.”
The golden light flared, swallowing him whole.
And somewhere, in another world, another alley—someone else found a yellow door that should not exist.
And the choice began again.
The Forgotten Path
James Parker had been lost for years. Not in the physical sense—he knew where he was, what city he lived in, which streets he walked every day. But his life had no direction. A dull job, empty relationships, a routine that felt more like a slow funeral than existence.
Then one night, he saw her.
Standing at the corner where two streets should have met—a place where no alley had ever existed. Yet now, there was a narrow road, stretching deep into the darkness.
And at its entrance stood a small girl, bathed in the golden glow of a street lamp that flickered like a dying sun.
The Yellow Queen.
Her hair spilled over her shoulders like molten gold. Her dress shimmered in ways fabric should not.
"You are looking for a way forward," she murmured, her voice carrying too far, too deep into the alley. "Shall I show you the path?"
James's mouth was dry. His instincts screamed to turn around. But something in her eyes pulled him closer—a promise, a temptation, something he couldn’t name.
He nodded.
She stepped aside, revealing the road beyond. "Then walk," she whispered.
And he did.
Each step changed something.
The walls grew taller, stretching into the sky, warping the familiar into something ancient. The pavement cracked, revealing gold beneath the concrete.
Then—he saw them.
Figures emerging from the shadows.
Some wore familiar faces—old friends, family, coworkers. Others were strangers, yet he knew, deep in his gut, they were versions of him—lives he never lived.
One had wealth. One had love. One carried scars from battles he had never fought.
One was dead.
The path split into countless directions—each road leading to a different version of his future.
He turned to The Yellow Queen, his breath shallow. "Which is the right one?"
She smiled—slow, deliberate.
"There is no right path," she whispered. "Only the one you choose."
James hesitated. He could take the road of riches, the road of safety, the road of love.
Or he could turn back.
But as he glanced behind him, he saw only endless golden mist—the life he had known was gone.
He had come too far.
The decision was his alone.
And no matter which path he chose…
She would be watching.
The Boy and the Golden Queen
Fox Smith never believed in legends.
Taylorville, Illinois was an ordinary town. Quiet streets, familiar faces, nothing that screamed mystery or magic. But Fox had always felt like something was missing—something unseen pulling at the edges of his life.
Then he met her.
It happened on an autumn evening, the sky bruised with shades of violet and red. Fox had wandered down a forgotten street, one he could have sworn had never existed before. The wind whispered as he stepped forward.
And there—beneath a flickering street lamp—stood The Yellow Queen.
She was impossibly golden, her hair spilling past her shoulders like liquid sunlight. Her dress shimmered, delicate lace trimmed in unseen patterns that made Fox's eyes ache if he stared too long.
But it was her eyes that unsettled him most.
They knew him.
Not in the way strangers recognize a familiar face—but in the way someone who had watched every moment of your existence might gaze upon you.
She smiled, and the street seemed to tilt.
"You are interesting," she murmured, her voice soft, amused, infatuated.
Fox took a step back. "You—you're real."
The Queen laughed, a sound like bells shattering.
"Of course I am real. And so are you. That is why I like you."
Fox had heard the stories—the whispers of a girl with golden hair who appeared only when fate demanded it, offering choices that never led where people expected. But she was supposed to be dangerous, a trickster, a force beyond comprehension.
Yet now, she stood before him, looking at him like he was something rare.
"You think differently," she said, tilting her head. "You do not stumble through life like the others. You question things. You see things."
Fox swallowed hard. "You’re not gonna… mess me up, are you?"
She laughed again—real, genuine, delighted.
"No. I do not wish to twist your fate," she whispered, stepping closer. "I wish to watch you."
Fox felt the world bend around her presence.
"You are my equal," she murmured, golden eyes flickering with unreadable depth. "The others are predictable. Dull. But you… you are different."
He didn’t know what to say.
Then—without a sound—she was gone, the street restored to normal as if she had never been there at all.
Fox stood frozen, his heart hammering.
And from that moment on, he always felt her watching—not as a threat, but as a presence just beyond perception.
Waiting.
Watching.
Intrigued.
The Last Survivors
Fox Smith never thought much about fate—not until he met The Yellow Queen.
Not until she told him that his entire life had been planned.
His family’s move from Hamden, New York, to Taylorville, Illinois Orchestrated. His discovery of the interdimensional outhouse, leading him beyond the Gates of Dawn to Dane County Designed. And now, she stood before him again, golden-eyed, unblinking, whispering the next step of his journey.
“Find the City of Dreams.”
A place lost in the In-Between, a massive structure—a box with a glass tower rising from its heart. Inside, a sprawling metropolis. And at its center, a planet—home to a people long gone. The birthplace of the multiverse itself. The ultimate weapon that, once fired, erased their universe entirely.
But the city did not vanish.
It remained. Waiting.
Fox had heard enough stories about The Yellow Queen to know she was dangerous. She never lied, but her truths were never comforting. She was a god of choice, a force unlike anything else.
But this time, there was something different in the way she watched him.
Infatuation.
Recognition.
She saw him as an equal.
That terrified him more than anything.
“What happens if we find it?” Fox asked, feeling the weight of the moment press against him.
The Yellow Queen tilted her head, as if savoring his question. “Then you will meet my brother.”
The Yellow King.
The only other survivor of the lost civilization. Where she embodied decision and consequence, he ruled over madness and chaos.
They were clones, creations of a forgotten race, beings meant to serve—but after the destruction, they became gods, shaped by the forces of a new universe, by the raw power of the multiverse.
Fox’s stomach tightened. “And what does he want?”
Her lips curled into the faintest smile.
“To awaken the City of Dreams again.”
The blood drained from Fox’s face.
If the city was used once before—to wipe out their entire universe—then using it again could destroy not just a world, but everything. The multiverse itself.
Fox took a slow, steady breath.
“And what do you want?”
The Yellow Queen stared at him—so deeply that he swore she was seeing every version of him across every possible timeline.
Her voice softened.
“I want to know what you will choose.”
A cold shudder ran through Fox as he realized the truth.
She wasn’t guiding him toward an answer.
She was watching him make the most important decision of his life.
And whatever he chose—there would be no turning back.
The Disappearance of the City of Dreams
The sky tore open above Taylorville, Illinois.
It was a night that should have been like any other—cool autumn air, distant train whistles, the hum of streetlights flickering in rhythm. But then, it appeared.
A massive structure, boxlike in shape, a glass tower stretching toward the heavens like a monument to something long forgotten. The City of Dreams had emerged from In-Between, breaking through the veil between worlds.
And Earth was not ready.
Within hours, the U.S. military descended, tanks surrounding the perimeter, helicopters cutting through the sky, high-ranking officials barking orders. To them, this was an invasion—an alien force landing without warning. They didn’t realize they were standing before something older than time itself.
Fox Smith did.
He and his friends—Nathan Brooks, Andrew Brooks, and Michael King—knew the truth. The City of Dreams was no ordinary artifact. It was a weapon—one that had ended a universe before, birthing the multiverse from its ashes. And now, it sat in the middle of a military operation, its activation a real possibility.
They had only one chance.
Sneaking past armed patrols, the four of them slipped into the city’s depths, navigating its impossible architecture. Inside the box, a full civilization thrived, its remnants watching from silent corners, its core planet resting at the heart of the structure—the world of its lost creators.
Fox felt the weight of it all—the knowledge that The Yellow Queen had guided him here, that she had placed this burden upon him, that somewhere, her brother lurked in the void, waiting.
The self-destruct mechanism sat deep within the core, hidden behind layers of unknowable technology. Fox and his friends reached it as alarms blared, as the military realized something was happening within the structure.
One button.
One action.
Fox pressed it.
The City shuddered.
A low hum vibrated through the air. Lights flickered. The planet at its center wavered—as if it was never truly real to begin with.
The soldiers ran. Helicopters cleared the sky.
Then—without warning—the City of Dreams vanished.
Not destroyed. Relocated.
Fox had placed it within one of the outside rooms inside the interdimensional hub, sealing it away in a pocket of existence between worlds. Where no one would find it again.
The next morning, the news struggled to explain what had happened. Officials called it a mirage, an unexplained phenomenon, a trick of the sky.
But Fox knew the truth.
And so did The Yellow Queen.
From the shadows, she watched him, golden-eyed, pleased.
He had chosen.
And the game was far from over.
The Last Step
The night was thick with fog, swallowing the world in silent gray.
Michael Blake awoke to the sound of distant laughter—childlike, distant, wrong.
The air smelled damp, filled with the scent of wet bark and cold earth. He sat up, his fingers gripping the edge of the bench beneath him. A playground.
He blinked hard, rubbing his temples. The swing set creaked, the empty seesaws swayed, yet there was no wind.
This wasn’t right.
He had been walking home. He remembered that clearly—passing the late-night diners, waving to the old man at the liquor store, stepping onto his street—
The headlights.
Too fast.
Too close.
His breath hitched.
No. No, that didn’t make sense. He was here, awake, alive—
A girl sat on the swing, gently kicking her feet, though they never quite touched the ground.
She was small. Golden. The faint light of the streetlamp washed over her lace-trimmed yellow dress, making her glow with an unnatural radiance.
She watched him with knowing eyes—deep, infinite, unreadable.
Michael’s pulse thundered.
He licked his lips, forcing his voice steady. “What are you doing out here this late?”
The girl tilted her head, as if amused by the question. “Waiting.”
He swallowed. “For who?”
Her lips curved—not in the way children smile, but in the way someone does when they know something you don’t.
“You.”
A chill crawled up Michael’s spine.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, standing. “There are bad people out there.”
The swing creaked as she gently swayed, her golden hair slipping across her shoulders like strands of liquid light.
“There are no bad people here,” she said softly.
Something in her voice made the world tilt—as if she had spoken not just to him, but to the very air itself.
Michael stepped back.
“I—I need to get home,” he muttered.
The girl studied him for a long moment, then slowly slipped off the swing, her bare feet silent on the gravel.
“There is no home now,” she murmured. “Only choice.”
Michael’s breath hitched.
“What are you talking about?”
She blinked once, slow and deliberate.
“You are dead, Michael.”
The words hit him like static in his brain, warping his thoughts, twisting his reality.
“No.” He shook his head. “No, I—I can’t be—”
The world shrank.
The playground dimmed, like a photograph losing its color.
“You died crossing the street,” she continued, golden eyes unwavering. “The car never stopped.”
Michael’s stomach lurched.
“No. No, I was just—I was just walking home—”
“But you never made it.”
His knees buckled. He sucked in a breath, trying to fight the rising panic.
This wasn’t real.
It couldn’t be real.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember—he had to remember—he had to prove that he was still alive—
Except—he couldn’t recall what his last thought had been.
Had he noticed the headlights before they hit him?
Had he felt the impact?
Had he screamed?
The fog thickened, pressing in from all sides.
Michael looked up, heart hammering.
The playground was gone.
No swings. No seesaws. No streetlamp.
Only emptiness remained.
And The Yellow Queen watched him, golden-eyed, expectant.
The silence stretched.
“What… happens now?” Michael whispered.
The Queen smiled.
“You choose.”
The void swallowed everything.
And Michael understood—far too late—that death was never truly the end.
The Quiet Passenger
The night bus was nearly empty.
Joseph Lang sat near the back, headphones in, the hum of the tires rolling against the pavement a steady rhythm beneath his thoughts. The driver said nothing. The city outside the window blurred into neon smears, streaking through the rain.
Then, at the next stop, she stepped aboard.
A small girl, no more than eight, dressed in yellow lace. Her golden hair shimmered under the fluorescent lights. Her feet barely made a sound as she moved down the aisle.
Joseph felt his stomach tighten.
Something about her was wrong.
She didn’t belong here—not at this hour, not alone.
Yet the driver didn’t seem to notice. The other passengers—few as they were—didn’t react.
She moved closer.
Joseph lowered his headphones.
“Hey, kid,” he muttered. “You lost?”
She smiled—slow, deliberate.
“No,” she said.
Her voice was soft, yet it filled the bus, humming beneath the vibrations of the tires, settling into his bones.
Joseph swallowed.
She took the seat beside him.
No hesitation. No request.
Just sat down, as if the decision had already been made long before he realized it.
“You think too much,” she murmured, folding her hands in her lap.
Joseph’s skin crawled.
“I—what?”
Golden eyes watched him, unblinking, ancient in a way no child’s should be.
“You think about your choices. About the ones you never made. The ones you regret.”
The air thinned.
The bus grew longer, stretching in ways that should have been impossible, distorting reality like a warped reflection in glass.
Joseph gripped his seat.
“Who—who are you?”
Her smile widened.
“The one who waits.”
The lights flickered.
Joseph saw them then—faces staring from the windows.
Not passengers.
Not reflections.
Just eyes—hundreds, thousands—watching from the glass, waiting, expectant.
Joseph’s breath hitched.
The girl tilted her head.
“You regret your life,” she whispered. “I can give you another.”
The words echoed, stretching into the space between moments, filling the gaps of his memory.
A second chance. A different path. A new future.
Joseph’s hands trembled.
He had lost so much—so many mistakes, so many failures, so many roads he wished he had taken.
But somewhere, deep in his gut, the truth rippled through him.
This wasn’t salvation.
This was something else.
The Yellow Queen did not lie.
She did not force.
She only offered.
And once you chose, there was no going back.
Joseph clenched his jaw.
“No,” he said.
Silence.
The bus shuddered.
Then—without a sound—she was gone.
The space beside him was empty.
The world snapped back into place—the bus normal again, the windows clean, the driver humming under his breath as if nothing had happened.
Joseph sat there, pulse racing, staring at the vacant seat beside him.
And far beyond the city, in the places between existence, The Yellow Queen smiled.
She would wait.
She always did.
The Queen Beneath Reality.
There are places in the universe that should not be touched.
Places where reality folds, where time shivers, where existence stares back at itself and blinks.
But even in those places—she watches.
Doctor Nathaniel Carrington never believed in myths. He was a scientist, a man devoted to tangible things—the pull of gravity, the patterns of decay, the sharp edges of time.
Then, his research uncovered something impossible.
A frequency hidden within the fabric of existence itself—something woven into everything, from the burning stars to the human mind. A signal that did not fade, that did not weaken, that had always been there.
It was speaking.
And when he listened, he heard laughter.
Not the laughter of joy. Not madness.
But something old.
Something watching.
Something waiting.
The deeper he dug, the more reality unraveled.
Maps showed roads that did not exist until he looked for them.
His notes rewrote themselves, shifting from equations to words in a language he did not know.
The reflections in glass lingered too long after he turned away—golden eyes staring too deeply, even in the absence of light.
And then, one night, he awoke to her.
Standing at the foot of his bed.
A small girl.
Golden hair. Lace-trimmed dress. Smiling.
"You found me," she murmured.
Carrington’s pulse froze.
He tried to speak, but his breath fractured, his thoughts splintering into a thousand broken truths.
"This isn’t real," he whispered.
The Yellow Queen laughed, and the sound tilted existence.
"You ask too many questions," she said, stepping closer. "And now, you see too much."
The walls breathed. The air thickened.
Carrington understood then—she was not a god.
Not a trickster.
Not a mere entity that slipped between dimensions.
She was a fundamental force, a law of nature that no one had ever dared name.
She was woven into the structure of reality itself—not born, not created, but always there.
Waiting. Watching. Offering.
She was in the pattern of thoughts that lead men astray.
She was the unseen weight in every decision that warps into regret.
She was the moment between knowing and unknowing, where something else chooses before you even realize it was not truly your own will.
"You are mine now," she whispered, golden eyes swallowing him whole.
Carrington screamed—but the sound never left his throat.
Because there was no throat anymore.
No body.
No mind.
Only knowing.
And she watched.
She always did.
The Girl in Yellow
There are places in the world where the rules bend—where time hiccups, where shadows stretch too far.
She always appears there.
James Holloway had heard the rumors.
A girl in yellow spotted on abandoned roads, waiting beneath flickering streetlamps, standing at the edge of mirrors that don’t quite reflect correctly. People spoke of her in half-truths, never fully believing, yet never quite doubting.
She was not a ghost.
She was not a demon.
She was something older.
Something watching.
Something waiting.
James saw her for the first time on a quiet autumn evening.
The fog rolled in heavy, thick enough to swallow the town in gray silence.
And beneath a lone streetlamp—she stood.
Yellow dress. Golden hair. Smiling.
James's breath caught.
He wasn’t alone on the street—but no one else noticed her.
She watched only him.
Slowly, hesitantly, he stepped forward. “Are you lost?”
Her head tilted, curious.
“No,” she said.
Her voice filled the air—not loud, not echoing, but present, like something settling beneath his skin.
James swallowed. “It’s late. You shouldn’t be out here.”
Her lips curved—not quite a grin, but something amused, something expectant.
“There is no late,” she murmured.
The fog thickened.
James glanced around—where was everyone?
He turned back.
She was closer now.
“I know you,” she whispered.
James’s pulse hitched.
“I don’t—I don’t think so,” he muttered, stepping back.
Her golden eyes flickered with unreadable depth.
“You chose something once,” she murmured. “A small thing. Something you have long forgotten.”
James’s stomach churned.
“But it mattered.”
She smiled fully now, as if pleased.
And James understood, far too late, that he was never supposed to have seen her.
He had made a choice, once, long ago—something simple, something small.
And she had been watching ever since.
Waiting.
Deciding.
His vision blurred.
The streetlamp flickered.
And when the fog finally cleared—James Holloway was gone.
She fumbled through her purse, fingers shaking as they scraped against the plastic edges of a lipstick tube. The dim light overhead buzzed—an unnatural, sputtering sound, the bulb flickering erratically as if choking on something unseen.
She didn’t notice at first. Not the way the walls breathed, shifting ever so slightly, the faint scent of rot curling through the air. Not the way the bathroom stall door warped, its edges bending inward just a fraction—just enough to seem wrong, just enough to make the space smaller.
And then—
"Can’t you see?"
The voice slid through her mind like a needle, slipping beneath skin, burrowing deep into her thoughts. The words weren’t spoken aloud. They were placed inside her, crawling through her skull with a sensation like something dripping behind her eyes.
Her pulse stuttered.
She pressed the lipstick against her lips, smearing deep red across trembling skin, trying to drown out the sound. But the words only grew louder, twisting into something jagged, raw—a chorus of whispers stacked upon each other, layering into something that no longer sounded human.
"Can’t you SEE?"
The bulb overhead burst.
Glass rained down, glittering shards scattering across the grimy floor. In the sudden darkness, the stall felt suffocating, closing in around her, pressing against her chest. Her breath hitched as she grabbed for her phone, fingers slick with sweat, shaking as the screen cast weak blue light across the mirror.
A reflection stood behind her.
But it wasn’t just a shadow. It was watching.
And then—
It moved.
She whirled around, but the stall was empty. The door remained closed. The space remained silent.
Except—
A breath. Not hers. Right behind her.
The mirror cracked.
She didn’t turn back. She couldn’t. Every instinct, every primal scream inside her mind told her do not look, do not acknowledge it, do not give it power—
But she did.
Her eyes lifted.
And the thing grinned.
Its teeth were too many, stretching wide in a jagged, inhuman smile, the edges of its face bleeding into the surrounding darkness as if the shadows were devouring it and yet birthing it at the same time.
"Now you see me."
Her scream never had the chance to leave her throat.
It lunged.
Hands—wrong, malformed, too many fingers twisting in unnatural directions—wrapped around her neck.
The stall warped inward, folding in on itself, collapsing into something smaller, tighter, crushing, pulling her into a space where no sound could exist, where nothing could be seen, where breath had no meaning—
And as the last flicker of life faded from her eyes, the voice whispered against her skin, the words sliding down her spine like ice.
"Now you belong to me."
Russell Grady had spent his life listening to signals that most people ignored.
Born in a small, dying Midwest town, Russell was always the quiet observer. His father, a truck driver, was constantly on the road, while his mother worked long night shifts at a factory. Their home was filled with absence—no conversation, no warmth, only the hum of forgotten appliances and the distant rumble of passing freight trains.
But one evening, when he was ten years old, Russell discovered an old transistor radio buried in a pile of discarded belongings. He fixed it, painstakingly adjusting wires and circuits with childlike determination.
Then, for the first time, his world expanded.
Voices crackled to life. Not just those in his house, but voices from distant cities, from fishermen calling coordinates, from lost signals bouncing between satellites. Late at night, he lay in bed listening, imagining that the voices belonged to travelers, explorers, wanderers—all connected by invisible threads stretching across the void.
As he grew older, his obsession deepened. He built his first receiver at thirteen, intercepting signals no ordinary radio could pick up. By eighteen, he could identify the subtle differences between military chatter and rogue satellite signals.
But somewhere along the way, the search consumed him.
His friends drifted away, his family lost track of him, and soon, his entire life shrank down to one thing—listening.
And then, one night, in his tiny shack on the outskirts of town, he heard something that should not exist.
It began as a pulse.
A slow, rhythmic beat, like the heartbeat of something immense. It wasn’t interference, wasn’t an errant transmission bouncing off the ionosphere—it was alive.
Russell adjusted the dials, fine-tuning the reception. Patterns emerged, strange distortions in the static. The pulse grew louder. It began to change.
Then, the voice came.
It wasn’t a normal transmission. It wasn’t sound at all. It bypassed his ears entirely, threading itself directly into his mind—a voice of impossible age and infinite depth.
We are coming.
His breath hitched.
We are hungry.
Russell recoiled, fingers trembling over the transmitter. This wasn’t stray interference. This wasn’t a lost broadcast.
This was communication.
He scrambled to respond, tapping out a hesitant Morse code message.
Who are you?
The answer came instantly, delivered in a voice that should not exist.
You are small. You are bright. We have seen your fire across the void. We have consumed others like you. Now, we come for you.
Russell gasped, sweat trickling down his brow. He looked outside, at the sky above the horizon—deep, endless, a mouth yawning wide.
Then, he heard something.
Not from his radio.
From the world itself.
The signal had left the airwaves.
It was here.
The stars flickered. The ground hummed beneath him—not with an earthquake, but with the distant breathing of something colossal, descending from the void.
Russell reached for his microphone, but his fingers stopped midair.
Because now, he understood.
He wasn’t transmitting.
He was receiving.
And Earth had already been heard.
Authorities found Russell’s shack abandoned. His radio was still humming—emitting a constant pulse, slower now, deeper.
Scientists took the receiver, analyzing it with cold precision. They expected interference, expected solar activity, expected rationality.
Instead, the signal shifted.
At first, it was just noise, untraceable distortion. Then, it became numbers.
Then, names.
The names of people.
The names of places.
The names of everything.
One by one, cities were listed. Then nations. Then continents.
Then, silence.
For months, nothing came through the speakers. Some thought it was over. That whatever had spoken had moved on.
But then, the transmission returned.
And this time, it was not listing names.
It was counting down.
The scientists never learned what would happen when the countdown reached zero.
Because before that moment arrived—before the final transmission ended—something answered.
Not in words.
Not in radio waves.
But in shadow.
And by then, it was far too late.
Winston Harrow stepped into the machine, a crude construct of whirring gears and tangled wires, built on the theories of men who only dreamed of piercing time’s veil. He did not expect it to work.
But it did.
He left the year 1892 behind, his body unraveling through the unseen corridors of existence, pulled like a thread through a tapestry too vast to comprehend.
When he awoke, he was no longer in his world.
The year was unknowable. The sky was wrong—gray, swollen, undulating like a living thing. Towering structures jutted from the earth, but they were not buildings. They pulsed.
And then, Winston saw them.
Humans—or what had become of them.
They moved in unnatural ways, their limbs bending with boneless ease, flesh stretched taut over shifting shapes. Their eyes, once set and human, now roved freely across their skin, migrating like parasites seeking nourishment.
The air reeked of something spoiled, something festering beneath the surface of reality itself.
He watched in horror as they merged.
Two figures touched, their flesh knitting together with grotesque fluidity, forming something larger, something worse.
No screams. No protest. Only a quiet acceptance of this sickening evolution.
Winston stumbled backward, choking on his own breath. His presence had gone unnoticed. Or so he thought.
Then, one of them turned.
Its skin rippled, shifting, molding itself in his direction. A mouth formed—too wide, too wet.
You are before.
The voice was inside his skull. Not spoken, but placed—an intrusive thought that did not belong to him.
You should not be here.
Winston ran.
He forced his way back into the machine, back into the stream of time, his mind unraveling alongside his flesh.
When he awoke, he was home.
1892 was unchanged—the sky clear, the streets familiar. But Winston was not the same man who had left.
He knew now.
He knew what humanity would become.
What it was becoming even now, beneath the surface of existence, in the quiet spaces between cells, between thoughts, between time itself.
They were changing. Slowly, imperceptibly.
The shift had already begun.
But he said nothing.
He could not speak of the horrors he had seen.
Because if anyone knew… if they believed him…
Then they might try to stop it.
And the things of the distant future did not want to be stopped.
Piper at The Gates of Dawn
Piper At The Gates of Dawn
And Other Tales
By Todd Daugherty
Copyright; 1992, 2025
Todd Daugherty
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Piper At The Gates of Dawn
A Novella
“Dawn is a feeling, A beautiful ceiling, The smell of grass just makes you pass into a dream”
Dawn - Days of Futures Passed Moody Blues
This book is dedicated to Ernie Williams who read the original draft back in 1992 and said it was “weird”
Chapter 1: The Visit
The town of Pickford, Dane County, in the spring of 1913, held a quiet charm that time had yet to wear away. The cobblestone streets glistened in the morning dew, and the sun cast golden rays over the modest yet dignified homes lining Main Street. Westview Academy, nestled on the edge of town like a stately guardian, stood tall with its weathered brick walls and ivy-covered towers. Phineas Bogg, a fifteen-year-old student with an aura of quiet mystery, strode toward the academy, his trench coat flapping in the brisk morning air.
Phineas was not the sort of boy to attract attention deliberately, though his striking blond hair and piercing blue-green eyes rarely went unnoticed. Thin but wiry, he had a way of carrying himself that seemed both confident and guarded, as if he bore the weight of secrets no one else could fathom. His white tee shirt and blue jeans set him apart from his classmates, whose attire mirrored the Edwardian era's more formal conventions. The wireframe glasses perched on his nose gave him an air of scholarly intent, and his tennis shoes—a rarity in Pickford—completed his peculiar look.
Phineas walked briskly, clutching his satchel and the small notebook he never left behind. He hadn’t slept much the night before, consumed by thoughts he could no longer keep to himself. He needed to speak with Mr. Alden, his history teacher, and he needed to do so soon.
Westview Academy’s halls echoed with the hustle and bustle of students settling into their routines. The smell of chalk dust mingled with the faint aroma of ink and paper, and the soft murmur of voices created a symphony of academic life. Phineas entered Room 207, where Mr. Alden was preparing for his next class.
Mr. Alden was a man of middle age, with graying hair and a measured demeanor. His keen eyes conveyed both wisdom and warmth, making him approachable even to students like Phineas, who rarely trusted adults. He wore a dark suit, slightly rumpled, and his spectacles rested on the bridge of his nose as he reviewed a set of papers.
“Good morning, Mr. Alden,” Phineas said, his voice steady despite the turmoil within.
Mr. Alden looked up, his face brightening with a smile. “Ah, Phineas. Good morning. What brings you here so early? Need help with the latest history assignment?”
Phineas hesitated, gripping his satchel tightly. “Not exactly, sir. I—I need to talk to you. It’s about something... important.”
The weight in Phineas’s words made Mr. Alden set his papers aside. He gestured toward the chair nearest his desk. “Sit down, Phineas. You have my attention.”
Phineas shook his head. “No, sir. Not here. I don’t think it’s safe to talk about it at school. I was wondering if I could come by your house tomorrow evening. Around seven.”
Mr. Alden raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “My house? That’s an unusual request. Are you in trouble?”
“No, sir,” Phineas replied quickly, adjusting his glasses. “It’s just... I need to explain something. Something I think only you can understand.”
Mr. Alden studied the boy for a moment, noting the nervous energy that seemed to pulse through him. Finally, he nodded. “Very well, Phineas. Seven o’clock tomorrow evening. I’ll make time.”
“Thank you, sir,” Phineas said, his relief palpable. He glanced at the door, his thoughts already racing toward the conversation they’d have tomorrow.
The next evening, the streetlights on Main Street flickered to life as dusk settled over Pickford. Mr. Alden’s home, a modest but inviting residence, stood with its warm glow spilling through the curtains. Inside, the teacher sat at his desk in the study, grading papers and sipping tea from a porcelain cup.
The sharp chime of the doorbell interrupted his thoughts. Setting his pen down, Mr. Alden rose and walked to the door. Through the beveled glass pane, he could see Phineas standing on the porch, his trench coat pulled tightly around him. The boy’s posture was tense, and he kept glancing over his shoulder as if someone might be following him.
Mr. Alden opened the door, greeting Phineas with a nod. “Good evening, Phineas. Come in. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Thanks,” Phineas said, stepping inside. His eyes darted around the room, taking in every detail as though it might offer him a clue or comfort.
“Let’s go into the study,” Mr. Alden said, guiding the boy down the hall. “I have tea ready. You look like you could use some.”
The study was a cozy space, lined with shelves of books and lit by the soft glow of a desk lamp. Phineas perched on the edge of the leather armchair near the desk, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his trench coat.
Mr. Alden handed him a cup of tea and took a seat opposite him. “Alright, Phineas. You’ve got me curious. What’s this about?”
Phineas took a sip of tea, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I’m leaving.”
Mr. Alden’s brow furrowed. “Leaving? What do you mean?”
“I’m going home,” Phineas said, his voice low but resolute.
The teacher leaned forward, his curiosity deepening. “Home? Phineas, you live here, in Pickford. What are you trying to tell me?”
Phineas took a deep breath and looked directly at Mr. Alden. “I’m not from here, sir. Not really. I’m from another world.”
Mr. Alden sat back, his expression unreadable. “Another world? You mean... outer space?”
“No,” Phineas said firmly. “Not space. A parallel universe.”
The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the ticking of the clock on the wall. Mr. Alden’s mind raced, trying to make sense of the boy’s words. “A parallel universe,” he repeated slowly. “Phineas, you realize how extraordinary that sounds.”
Phineas leaned forward, his blue-green eyes meeting Mr. Alden's with quiet intensity. “But it’s the truth,” he said, his voice steady. “My world isn’t like yours. I don’t come from Pickford—or anywhere in Dane County. Where I come from, we don’t have kings. There’s no monarchy at all. My country is a democratic republic, where people elect their leaders.”
Mr. Alden studied Phineas closely, noting the earnestness in his eyes. “That’s quite a claim, Phineas. How did you get here? And why are you telling me this?”
Phineas hesitated, the weight of his secret pressing down on him. “That’s a long story,” he said finally. “But I’ll tell you everything, sir. You deserve to know.”
Chapter 2: The Gate
The room was bathed in the amber light of a desk lamp as Fox Smith nervously clasped his hands together, sitting on the edge of the armchair in Mr. Alden's study. The air smelled faintly of ink and old books, and the faint ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece seemed to grow louder in the silence. Mr. Alden leaned back in his chair, his kind eyes focused intently on the boy in front of him.
Fox inhaled sharply, his words tumbling out all at once. "My name isn’t Phineas Bogg," he said, his voice trembling slightly but firm. "It's Fox Smith."
Mr. Alden raised his eyebrows but said nothing, letting Fox continue.
"I was born in a small town called Hamden, tucked away in the foothills of the Catskill Mountains in New York," Fox explained. His blue-green eyes flickered with the weight of the memories he was conjuring. "But when I was eight, my parents packed up everything and moved us to Taylorville, Illinois. My grandfather was dying, and they wanted to be close to him. That’s when everything started to change."
The teacher leaned forward slightly, folding his hands on the desk. "Go on," he encouraged, his voice calm but curious.
Fox’s lips curved into a small, nostalgic smile. "Taylorville wasn’t like Hamden. It was a small farming community with wide open fields and dusty roads. It didn’t take long for me to meet Nathan and Andrew Brook, two brothers who lived just down the road, and Michael King, who lived across town. They became my best friends. We were inseparable, always getting into some kind of trouble or adventure."
Mr. Alden chuckled softly. "Adventures, huh? Sounds like the kind of thing young boys thrive on."
Fox’s expression grew more serious. "Yeah, but these weren’t normal adventures, sir. They were... different. Strange. The kind you wouldn’t believe even if I told you. We fought supervillains, traveled through time and space, and—and we even found an inter-dimensional hub inside an old outhouse."
The teacher blinked, caught off guard. "An outhouse?"
Fox nodded, leaning forward as if the intensity of his story demanded a closer audience. "It all started in August of 1983. We were enjoying the last few days of summer vacation before school started again. That night, I was at Nathan and Andrew’s house. We stayed up all night in our makeshift clubhouse—a coal shed. We were drinking Pepsi straight out of glass bottles and eating Neapolitan ice cream until we couldn’t take another bite."
He paused, the memory making him smile faintly. "It was one of those nights you never want to end. But by four in the morning, I figured I should head home. The walk was long, and I didn’t want to fall asleep on the way."
The air was cool and damp as Fox walked down Vandeveer Street, the faint chirping of crickets accompanying his steps. The town was still and quiet, the kind of silence that only came in the early hours before dawn. Fox adjusted the straps of his backpack and sighed, the solitude of the walk giving him time to reflect.
When he reached the outskirts of Taylorville, he stopped to rest in front of a newly built church. The grass was damp with dew, and he dropped his backpack onto the ground before sitting down. The world felt heavy, but in a calm, peaceful way. He fished through his bag and pulled out a glass bottle of Pepsi, along with a bottle opener.
As he was about to pry off the cap, something caught his eye—a dark, cloaked figure standing in the dirt driveway of an old, abandoned farmhouse across the street. The house looked like it had been uninhabited for years, its windows dark and its roof sagging under the weight of neglect. The figure seemed to be watching him, the shadows obscuring its face.
Fox froze, the bottle and opener slipping from his hands and landing softly on the grass. His heart raced, but his curiosity outweighed his fear. The figure raised an arm, beckoning him silently. The gesture was unnerving yet oddly compelling.
Gathering his courage, Fox grabbed his backpack and stood up. "Hey!" he called out, but the figure didn’t respond. Instead, it turned and began to walk toward the back of the farmhouse, its movements smooth and deliberate.
Fox hesitated for only a moment before following.
The figure led Fox past the rundown farmhouse and into a cluster of derelict buildings—a barn that reeked of moldy hay, a chicken coop long since abandoned, and, most notably, a small, rickety outhouse that looked as if it might collapse with a strong gust of wind. Fox wrinkled his nose at the stench wafting from the outhouse but said nothing.
They emerged into a small pasture bordered by a tall wall made of monolithic blocks. It was a strange sight—there was no reason for such a wall to exist here, and yet it stood, imposing and unyielding. Set into the wall were two large wooden doors, their surfaces weathered and splintered but intact.
The figure stopped and turned to Fox. Its face remained hidden beneath the dark hood, but its voice, low and gravelly, cut through the quiet. "Do you see the doors?"
Fox nodded, his throat dry. "Yeah. What... what is this place?"
The figure ignored his question. "When the sun rises, the light will reveal the way. The doors will open, and you must stay on the path. If you stray, you will be lost forever."
Fox’s brow furrowed. "Lost? What do you mean, lost? Where does the path lead?"
But the figure offered no further explanation. Instead, it turned and walked back the way they had come, its silhouette vanishing into the predawn darkness.
Fox stared after it, his mind racing. He glanced at the wooden doors and noticed how the first rays of sunlight were beginning to crest over the horizon. The light hit the doors, and slowly, with a deep creak, they began to open.
Beyond the doors lay a forest bathed in golden light, its leaves shimmering like precious metal in the morning sun. The trees stood tall and ancient, their trunks wrapped in thick, silver-gray cobwebs that clung to every surface. The air was heavy and still, filled with an otherworldly hum that made the hairs on the back of Fox’s neck stand on end.
At the edge of the forest, a single path stretched forward, free of cobwebs but winding into the unknown.
Fox hesitated, his hand clutching the strap of his backpack. He glanced around, half-expecting the cloaked figure to return, but the pasture was empty. The only sound was the creaking of the wooden doors behind him, which began to close slowly.
Realizing he had little choice, Fox noticed a lit torch mounted on the wall beside the doors. He grabbed it, the flames casting flickering shadows across his face. His heart pounded as he took his first step onto the path.
The golden leaves rustled faintly as he walked, the cobwebs swaying gently in the unseen breeze. The path wound deeper into the forest, and with every step, Fox felt the weight of the ordinary world falling away. This place—wherever it was—felt alive in a way he couldn’t quite explain.
As he moved forward, he couldn’t shake the figure’s warning: Stay on the path, or you will be lost forever.
Chapter 3: The Forest
The air felt heavy the moment Fox stepped across the threshold of the massive wooden doors. The warmth of the sunlit pasture behind him vanished in an instant, replaced by the chilling dampness of the forest. His torch flickered faintly in his hand, its flames casting dancing shadows on the silvery cobwebs that draped everything like a macabre tapestry. The path beneath his feet was firm and clear, cutting through the thick underbrush in a way that seemed deliberate, almost unnatural.
Fox gripped the torch tighter, the dark figure’s warning still echoing in his mind: Stay on the path, or you will be lost forever.
He pressed on, his breath visible in the frigid air. The golden leaves above him seemed to trap the darkness, their eerie glow doing little to illuminate the dense forest. Strange sounds echoed through the trees—chirps, growls, and shrieks that sent chills up his spine. Yet, for all the noises, there was no sign of any animals. The absence of life made the forest feel even more oppressive.
Fox paused for a moment to catch his breath. He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see the cloaked figure lingering in the shadows, but the path behind him was empty. He adjusted the strap of his backpack and trudged on, the torchlight guiding his way.
After what felt like hours of walking, something caught Fox’s eye. Just off the edge of the path, half-buried beneath a tangle of cobwebs, was something shiny. He stopped, leaning closer to get a better look. His curiosity got the better of him as he took a cautious step off the path, his boots crunching on the brittle leaves below.
The shiny object turned out to be a suit of armor, tarnished with age but unmistakably medieval in design. The helmet was tilted at an odd angle, and the chest plate bore deep scratches that suggested it had seen battle. As Fox leaned in for a closer look, his breath caught in his throat.
Inside the armor was a skeleton, its bones yellowed and brittle. But what sent a shiver down Fox’s spine was the sight of a massive snake slithering out of the skull’s gaping mouth. Its scales gleamed in the torchlight as it uncoiled itself, its black eyes locking onto Fox.
“Whoa!” Fox stumbled backward, nearly dropping the torch. His heart pounded as the snake hissed, its tongue flicking menacingly. He didn’t wait to see what it would do next. Grabbing his backpack, he bolted back to the path.
Breathing heavily, Fox glanced around, half-expecting more horrors to emerge from the shadows. He made his way back toward the doors, hoping to retrace his steps and leave this nightmare behind.
When Fox reached the massive wooden doors, his heart sank. They were shut tight, the intricate carvings of ancient runes glowing faintly in the dim light. He tried pushing against them, but they didn’t budge. Panic rose in his chest as he realized there was no way back.
“Okay... okay, think, Fox,” he muttered to himself, trying to stay calm. “There’s got to be another way out.”
With no other choice, he turned and headed back down the path. As he walked, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the forest was shifting around him. The trees seemed taller, the cobwebs thicker. The air itself felt alive, pressing against him as if it were aware of his presence.
After what felt like an eternity, Fox arrived at a junction where the path split into four directions. Each path disappeared into the dense forest, offering no clue as to where they might lead. Fox hesitated, glancing at each one in turn.
“Great,” he muttered. “As if things weren’t confusing enough.”
He chose the first path on his left, the torchlight guiding him forward. The air grew colder with every step, and an acrid stench began to fill his nostrils. When he emerged into a clearing, the source of the smell became clear.
Before him was a black lake, its surface glistening like oil. The ground surrounding it was made of coarse black sand, and the air reeked of sewage and rotting flesh. Fox gagged, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve.
In the middle of the lake stood a young woman, her back turned to him. Her long, matted hair hung down her back, and she appeared to be wearing a tattered white dress. Fox hesitated, unsure whether to approach her.
“Hey!” he called out, his voice shaky. “Can you help me? I’m... I’m trying to find a way out of here.”
The woman didn’t respond. Fox took a cautious step closer to the edge of the lake. “Hello? Can you hear me?”
As he neared the water’s edge, the woman began to move. Slowly, she turned to face him, and Fox’s blood ran cold. Her face was a grotesque mask of decay, her skin peeling away to reveal rotted flesh beneath. Maggots wriggled out of her hollow eye sockets and fell into the water with soft plops.
She raised an arm, her bony fingers beckoning him to come closer.
“Nope. Nope, nope, nope,” Fox muttered, backing away quickly. His heart raced as the lake erupted behind the woman. A massive maggot, easily the size of a small house, burst from the water, its slimy body glistening in the torchlight. The woman clung to its head, her decayed form serving as a grotesque lure.
Fox didn’t wait to see what would happen next. He turned and ran as fast as his legs could carry him, the torchlight bouncing wildly as he sprinted back down the path.
When he returned to the junction, he was out of breath and trembling. He took a moment to collect himself before choosing the next path. This one led to a dilapidated farmhouse, its windows shattered and its paint peeling away in flakes. The air smelled of wet wood and decay.
Sitting on the front porch were three dogs, their fur matted and filthy. Fox’s breath caught in his throat as he noticed that each dog had two heads, their snarling mouths filled with sharp, yellowed teeth.
The dogs growled, their eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. Fox took a step back, his pulse quickening. The growls grew louder, and the dogs began to rise to their feet.
“Okay,” Fox whispered, backing away slowly. “Not going this way.”
The moment he turned and ran back to the junction, the dogs let out a chorus of chilling howls that echoed through the forest.
Fox chose the third path, hoping it would lead to something—anything—better than what he had already encountered. But as he walked, the forest began to thin, and the path abruptly ended at a vast, empty void.
Fox stopped at the edge, staring into the darkness. Worlds flickered in and out of view, their landscapes shattered and crumbling as if some great catastrophe had consumed them. Stars twinkled faintly in the distance, but their light felt cold and lifeless.
As he peered into the void, a sudden burst of movement caught his eye. A double-decker bus, battered and rusted, hurtled past him at an impossible speed, its lights flashing as it vanished into the abyss.
Fox took a step back, his stomach churning. “What is this place?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
With no path forward, he returned to the junction.
The fourth and final path was his only option. As he walked, the forest began to change. The cobwebs grew thinner, the air lighter. In the distance, a warm light beckoned him forward.
Fox quickened his pace, the promise of escape filling him with hope. When he emerged from the forest, he found himself standing in a vast wheat field. The golden stalks swayed gently in the breeze, and the sky above was a brilliant shade of blue.
For a moment, Fox allowed himself to breathe, to take in the beauty of the scene. But as he looked closer, he realized something was off. The constellations in the sky were unfamiliar, and the air carried a faint hum that felt otherworldly.
“I’m not in Kansas anymore,” Fox muttered, his voice tinged with both awe and trepidation.
He adjusted his backpack and took a step forward, the wheat brushing against his legs. Whatever lay ahead, he knew there was no turning back now.
Chapter 4: The Road East
The sky stretched endlessly above Fox, an expanse of blue so deep it almost seemed unnatural. The golden stalks of wheat that had surrounded him earlier gave way to rolling hills dotted with wildflowers, but despite the beauty of the scenery, Fox's spirits were weighed down. His legs ached from hours of walking, his throat was dry, and the torch he had carried through the forest was now extinguished, tucked into his backpack as a grim reminder of what lay behind him.
The road that stretched out before him was narrow and cracked, cutting through the countryside like a forgotten vein. It led only eastward, its destination obscured by the horizon. It wasn’t much, but it was all Fox had. If he kept walking, he hoped it would eventually lead him to some sign of civilization—or at least someone who could explain where in the world he was.
The crunch of gravel beneath his sneakers was the only sound as he trudged forward, his thoughts swirling in a mix of anxiety and determination. He couldn’t stop replaying the events of the forest in his mind—the golden leaves, the cobwebs, the terrifying encounters. It all felt like something out of a dream, and yet his aching muscles and parched throat reminded him it was all too real.
It was nearly midday when Fox spotted a structure in the distance. At first, he thought it might be a mirage, but as he drew closer, the outline of a small, one-story block house came into focus. It looked oddly familiar, though he couldn’t quite place why. The building was constructed from gray cement blocks, its flat roof sagging slightly under years of wear and tear. The windows were shattered, and the front door hung loosely on its hinges.
Fox hesitated at the threshold, peering into the hollowed-out building. The interior was dimly lit, the sunlight filtering through the broken windows creating streaks of light on the dusty floor. The faint sound of voices reached his ears, and he realized he wasn’t alone.
“Hey! Who’s there?” a sharp voice called out, startling Fox.
He stepped cautiously into the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. Inside, a group of kids, no older than sixteen, turned to face him. There were five of them, each wearing mismatched and tattered clothing. Their appearances were rough, their faces smeared with dirt, and their eyes sharp and calculating. One of them—a girl with short, choppy hair and a scar running down her left cheek—stepped forward, her arms crossed.
“Well, well,” she said, her voice laced with suspicion. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a wanderer. What do you want?”
Fox raised his hands slightly, trying to show he meant no harm. “I... I’ve been walking for hours. I came out of a forest back there.” He pointed over his shoulder, though the forest itself was no longer visible. “I’m trying to find my way back home.”
The kids exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of surprise and amusement. A boy with a crooked grin and a bandana around his neck let out a low whistle. “You came through the Katt Forest?” he said, his tone incredulous. “Are you crazy, or just stupid?”
“The Katt Forest?” Fox echoed, confused.
“Yeah,” the girl said, her scarred face tightening into a frown. “No one goes near that place, let alone through it. People who enter don’t come out. Or if they do, they’re not the same.”
Fox swallowed hard, the weight of her words sinking in. “Well, I came through it. And I made it out,” he said, though his voice wavered slightly. “I just need to find my way back home.”
The boy with the bandana chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re lucky you’re not dead. Or worse.”
Another boy, smaller than the rest but with a keen look in his eyes, spoke up. “You say you’re lost?” he asked, his voice softer than the others. “We can help you with that.”
Fox glanced at him warily. “Help me how?”
“We help kids like you,” the boy said, stepping forward. “Lost kids. Runaways. We find them homes, places they can belong.” He gestured to the others. “We’re all part of it. We work for someone who looks out for kids like us. His name’s the Candyman. If you’re lost, he’ll take you in.”
The mention of the name sent a ripple of murmurs through the group. Some of them nodded in agreement, while others smirked knowingly. The girl with the scar gave Fox a measured look.
“Yeah,” she said, her tone more neutral now. “The Candyman’s helped all of us. He gives us a home, food, protection. If you’ve got nowhere to go, he can do the same for you.”
Fox hesitated, his instincts kicking in. There was something about the way they spoke, the way their eyes glinted with a mix of eagerness and something darker, that set him on edge.
“I appreciate the offer,” Fox said carefully. “But I’m not a runaway. I have a home. I just need to figure out how to get back to it.”
The girl narrowed her eyes slightly, but she didn’t push the issue. “Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug. “You want to keep wandering, that’s on you.”
Another boy, tall and lanky with a mop of unruly hair, spoke up. “There’s a town up the road,” he said, his voice casual. “Penryn. Maybe someone there can help you.”
“Penryn?” Fox repeated. “How far is it?”
“Not too far,” the boy replied, gesturing vaguely. “Just keep walking east. You’ll find it.”
Fox nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Thanks. I’ll try there.”
As he turned to leave, a chorus of good-natured chuckles followed him. “Good luck,” the girl called after him, her tone carrying a hint of mockery. Fox ignored it, focusing on the road ahead.
The sun was high in the sky as Fox continued his journey, the heat beating down on him and making the road seem even longer. His mind replayed the encounter with the kids in the block house. Something about them didn’t sit right with him—the way they had spoken about the Candyman, the way they had laughed as he left.
He shook his head, trying to push the doubts aside. He had more immediate concerns, like finding Penryn and figuring out where exactly he was. The road stretched on, lined by tall grasses and wildflowers that swayed gently in the breeze. The landscape was eerily quiet, the only sound the crunch of gravel under his sneakers.
As he walked, Fox couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder. The laughter of the kids seemed to echo in his mind, and he felt an inexplicable sense of unease creeping over him. Were they still watching him? Were they following him? He shook the thought away, telling himself he was just being paranoid.
After what felt like hours, the outline of a town began to appear in the distance. Fox quickened his pace, relief flooding through him as he saw the rooftops and spires of Penryn in the distance. Whatever lay ahead, it had to be better than the Katt Forest—or so he hoped.
Chapter 5: Road to Penryn
The winding country road stretched out before Fox, snaking through fields of golden wheat and rolling green hills. The sun hung low in the sky, its warm rays casting long shadows across the landscape. Fox walked with steady determination, his mind filled with thoughts of Penryn and the hope that someone in the town could help him find his way back home.
The rhythmic crunch of gravel under his sneakers was the only sound for miles, an odd silence settling over the countryside. The road itself seemed timeless, unmarked by cars or carts, its edges framed by tall wildflowers that swayed in the gentle breeze. Fox adjusted the straps of his backpack, its familiar weight grounding him as he pressed onward.
After nearly an hour of walking, a flash of yellow caught Fox’s eye. As he approached, the outline of a picturesque farmhouse came into focus. The house was painted bright yellow, its facade cheerful against the sprawling fields that surrounded it. A white picket fence bordered the property, and a grand oak tree stood proudly in the front yard, its branches stretching wide.
Beneath the tree, a young girl swung gently on a wooden swing, her blond hair catching the sunlight. She looked up as Fox approached, her wide eyes sparkling with curiosity. Without hesitation, she jumped off the swing and ran toward him.
“Hi there!” she said, her voice sweet and bright. “What’s your name?”
Fox stopped, surprised by her sudden enthusiasm. “Fox,” he replied. “Fox Smith. What’s yours?”
“Samantha Jones,” she said with a grin. “Do you want to stay and swing for a bit?”
Fox shook his head, though he appreciated the innocence in her offer. “I’m actually trying to find my way to Penryn. I’m hoping someone there can help me get back home.”
Samantha tilted her head, intrigued. “Penryn? That’s not far from here,” she said. Her eyes then drifted toward the house. “Wait here a second—I’ll tell my mom you’re here.”
Fox stood awkwardly as Samantha ran toward the farmhouse, the screen door slamming behind her. Moments later, the door opened again, and a beautiful woman stepped outside. She had soft features and a warm smile, her brown hair tied neatly in a bun. She listened as Samantha relayed Fox’s story and then turned her kind eyes toward him.
“Why don’t you stay for dinner, Fox?” she suggested, her voice gentle. “It sounds like you’ve had quite an adventure.”
Fox hesitated, unsure of what to do. He didn’t want to impose, but Samantha’s pleading look made it difficult to decline.
“Please stay!” Samantha said, clasping her hands in front of her. “It would be nice to have some company.”
Eventually, Fox nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Alright. Thank you.”
The comforting aroma of dinner greeted Fox as he stepped inside the house. The interior was cozy, with wooden floors and lace curtains framing the windows. A long dining table sat in the center of the living room, surrounded by chairs of varying shapes and sizes. Samantha introduced Fox to her family, which included her mother, aunt, and uncle—all of whom greeted him warmly.
“Have a seat,” Samantha’s mother said, gesturing toward the table. “You must be starving.”
Fox sat down, his backpack resting beside him. As the food was brought out, he noticed it looked strange—though it smelled enticing, the meat had a peculiar texture and taste, almost like pork but slightly off. Despite his reservations, he ate politely, grateful for their hospitality.
Midway through the meal, Samantha spoke up, her tone solemn. “We just had a baby sister,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness. “But she passed away recently.”
Fox paused, the weight of her words sinking in. “I’m... I’m so sorry,” he said, his heart aching for the family.
“It’s alright,” Samantha’s mother said softly, giving her daughter a comforting pat on the back. “She’s in a better place now.”
After dinner, Samantha’s mother suggested Fox stay the night since it was getting late. Though grateful, Fox felt a flicker of unease in his chest. Nevertheless, he agreed, knowing he needed the rest after such a long day. Samantha led him to the guest room, which was small but tidy. The bed was covered in a quilt stitched with bright patterns, and a single lamp on the bedside table provided a soft glow.
“Goodnight, Fox!” Samantha said cheerfully before closing the door.
Fox collapsed onto the bed, exhaustion washing over him. The events of the day played in his mind—the winding road, the strange kids in the block house, and the warmth of Samantha’s family. Before he knew it, his eyelids grew heavy, and he drifted into a deep sleep.
Around three o’clock in the morning, Fox jolted awake. Strange noises echoed down the hall, faint whispers mixed with low giggles. At first, he thought it might be a dream, but the sounds persisted, growing louder and more distinct.
Curiosity got the better of him. He quietly slipped out of bed and tiptoed toward the door, careful not to make a sound. The hallway was dimly lit, the faint glow of moonlight streaming through the cracks in the curtains. One of the doors down the hall was slightly ajar, and Fox hesitated before peeking through the crack.
His breath caught in his throat as he saw what lay beyond.
Inside the room, the family was engaged in various forms of debauchery, their faces twisted in grotesque expressions of ecstasy. Samantha was there too, her innocent demeanor replaced by something dark and sinister. She nudged one of the others and said, “We should wake Fox and have him join us.”
Fox’s heart raced, panic gripping him. He quickly and quietly retreated down the hall, his movements frantic but silent. Back in the guest room, he grabbed his bag and opened the window. The trellis provided a narrow escape, and Fox climbed down as quickly as he could.
The night was thick with fog as Fox sprinted away from the farmhouse, his feet pounding against the damp grass. The eerie glow of the lights faded in the distance, but the fear in his chest remained. He didn’t dare look back, the grotesque images of the family burned into his memory.
Breathless, Fox eventually stopped beneath a streetlight, his chest heaving. The faint sound of rustling leaves reached his ears, and he froze. From the shadows, a voice called out, soft and melodic.
“Why are you running?”
Fox turned, his eyes wide. From the darkness emerged a young girl with yellow hair and piercing yellow eyes. Her presence was both unsettling and mesmerizing, her movements graceful as she stepped into the light.
“Who are you?” Fox asked, his voice trembling.
“I am the Yellow Queen,” she replied, her tone gentle yet commanding. “A god-like being able to cross over the various dimensions.”
Fox’s mind raced, her words both confusing and terrifying. “How do I get home?” he implored, desperation lacing his voice.
The Yellow Queen circled Fox, her golden eyes locking onto his. “You are like me,” she said cryptically.
“What do you mean?” Fox asked, his voice rising. But before he could press further, the Yellow Queen vanished into the night, her presence disappearing as quickly as it had come.
Fox felt a mix of frustration and determination. The road ahead was long and uncertain, but he knew he couldn’t stop now. Adjusting his backpack, he began walking once more, the weight of his journey heavy on his shoulders.
The country road stretched before him, its end still hidden by the horizon. Whatever lay ahead, Fox was determined to find his way home—no matter what awaited him in the depths of this strange and dangerous world.
Chapter 6: The Festival of Penryn
The sun had just begun to climb above the horizon, its warm glow spilling across the countryside as Fox trudged down the winding road. The events of the past days weighed heavily on his mind. The encounter with the Yellow Queen left him with questions that gnawed at his thoughts like an itch he couldn’t scratch. You are like me, she had said. The words echoed in his head, mysterious and unsettling.
Fox adjusted the strap of his backpack, his footsteps steady against the gravel. He felt the familiar ache of exhaustion creeping into his muscles, but he refused to slow down. Answers waited ahead, and he was determined to find them.
Around midmorning, Fox spotted something in the distance. At first, it was a faint blur, but as he approached, the outlines of a bustling town came into focus. The sight was almost surreal after the desolation of the road. Thatched roofs dotted the skyline, their straw gleaming in the sunlight. Large terraces extended from some of the larger buildings, adorned with colorful streamers and banners. In the town square, glistening gazebos housed musicians playing lively tunes. The air was alive with energy, the streets brimming with people.
Fox hesitated for a moment, taking in the spectacle. The town, Penryn, seemed to be in the midst of a grand celebration. Curious, he approached a man standing near a food stall. The smell of roasted meat and sweet pastries wafted through the air, making his stomach rumble.
“Excuse me, sir,” Fox said politely, his voice cutting through the hum of activity. “What’s going on here?”
The man turned to him with a warm smile, his face ruddy and cheerful. “You must be new here,” he said. “We’re celebrating the summer festival! It’s a time when the entire town comes together to feast, dance, and honor the god Ierōkingu. We pray for a bountiful harvest and give thanks for the blessings of the season.”
Fox nodded, intrigued. “I see. It looks like quite a celebration.”
Before the man could respond further, a woman standing next to him jumped in, her enthusiasm spilling over. She was a middle-aged woman with bright eyes and a wide grin. “Oh, it’s wonderful!” she exclaimed. “There’s food, music, dancing—you should join us!” Without waiting for Fox’s reply, she grabbed him by the arm and led him toward her small food vending spot.
Fox barely had time to protest, though his stomach’s growl betrayed his hunger. “I guess I am pretty hungry,” he admitted with a shy smile.
The woman laughed heartily. “That’s the spirit! I’ll get you something delicious. Just wait here.” She bustled off toward the cooking area, leaving Fox standing at the edge of the stall.
As Fox waited, he scanned the festival, the vibrant colors and lively atmosphere distracting him momentarily from his unease. Children raced through the streets with ribbons streaming behind them, while couples danced to the music near the gazebo. Despite the energy and joy on display, something felt off—though Fox couldn’t quite place why.
His gaze drifted toward a couple seated at the next table. They were laughing and chatting as their food arrived, but when Fox saw what they were served, his breath caught in his throat. On the man’s plate was what appeared to be a cooked human arm, its flesh charred but unmistakable. The woman’s dish was even worse—a cooked human leg, complete with the remnants of a foot.
Fox’s stomach churned, nausea threatening to overwhelm him. He forced himself to look away, his pulse quickening. I have to get out of here.
Quietly, Fox slipped away from the stall, moving through the crowded streets with careful steps. He avoided eye contact, his mind racing. He had seen enough to know that the festival was not what it appeared to be. As he turned a corner, he glanced over his shoulder, relieved to see that no one was following him.
But his escape was short-lived.
The woman who had greeted him returned to her stall, only to find that Fox was gone. Her cheerful demeanor vanished in an instant, replaced by a sharp expression. She called over two men standing nearby, both tall and muscular with grim faces. “We’ve got a runner,” she said coldly, pointing in the direction Fox had gone.
The men nodded and immediately began to chase after him, their heavy boots thudding against the cobblestone streets.
Fox ran for his life, weaving through the lively festival streets as panic gripped him. His heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline fueling every step. He darted between stalls and pushed through crowds, ignoring the startled cries of townsfolk as he barreled past them. The sound of the men’s pursuit grew louder, their voices barking orders at each other as they gained on him.
Fox glanced back, his fear mounting as he saw how close they were. His mind raced, searching for a way out. Up ahead, the festival seemed to thin as he reached the outskirts of town. The buildings became sparser, and the road turned toward the countryside once more.
To his left, a small lake came into view, its surface shimmering in the sunlight. At the water’s edge, a wooden boat was tied to a post. Without hesitation, Fox sprinted toward it, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Reaching the boat, Fox quickly untied it and pushed it into the water. The men shouted behind him, their footsteps closing in, but Fox ignored them. He climbed into the boat and grabbed the oars, rowing with all his strength. The vessel lurched forward, the water rippling as he propelled it toward the center of the lake.
By the time Fox reached the middle, he was drenched in sweat, his arms burning from the effort. He looked back to see the men standing on the shore, their frustration evident. One of them cursed loudly, while the other kicked at the dirt.
Fox allowed himself a moment to catch his breath. The lake was quiet and tranquil, its calm surface reflecting the sky above. The rising sun cast a golden light across the water, providing a brief respite from the chaos of Penryn.
As Fox drifted farther from the shore, his thoughts returned to the Yellow Queen. Her cryptic words lingered in his mind, a puzzle he couldn’t solve. You are like me. What had she meant? How could he be anything like her? And what did that mean for his journey?
Fox leaned back, staring at the horizon. The road had led him to this place, but he knew it couldn’t end here. There were still answers to find, and still a way to get home—he had to believe that.
Gripping the oars once more, Fox began to row toward the opposite shore, his resolve strengthening with each stroke.
Chapter 7: The Hidden Realms of Tek-Kath
Fox’s heart thudded in his chest as he sat in the small boat, its wood creaking under his weight. He gripped the edges tightly, the calm of the lake offering him little solace. How am I going to get back to shore? he thought to himself. Just as his mind began to race with plans, the boat shuddered, its gentle drift replaced by an abrupt jolt forward.
Fox whipped his head around in panic. The oars he’d placed beside him remained still, yet the boat surged ahead, carried by unseen forces. The surface of the water rippled violently as the boat gained speed, cutting through the lake like an arrow. The rhythmic splashes of water filled the air, mingling with the sharp whistle of the wind.
Fox turned toward the direction the boat was heading and felt his stomach drop. Looming ahead was the jagged outline of a cave, its entrance dark and foreboding. The cave mouth seemed to swallow the light, an abyss of shadow and silence.
“Wait, what’s happening?!” Fox cried out, though there was no one to answer him. His attempts to steer the boat proved futile as the currents forced him closer to the cave.
The boat hurtled into the cave, the darkness enveloping Fox like a heavy cloak. Rapid currents churned below, propelling him deeper into the subterranean passage. His torch was no longer with him, and the dim light reflecting off the water was the only thing allowing him to see. The walls of the cave loomed close, lined with glistening layers of ice and snow that sparkled faintly in the darkness.
The boat suddenly lurched to a halt, crashing into a large slab of ice. Fox was thrown forward, catching himself with trembling hands. He sat still for a moment, his breath ragged and his thoughts scrambled. He couldn’t stay here. Climbing out carefully, he slipped slightly on the frozen surface but managed to steady himself.
The cave was bitterly cold, the air chilling him to the bone. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to generate warmth as he pressed onward. His footsteps echoed in the cavern, the sound eerie in the silent expanse. The icy terrain was treacherous, but Fox refused to stop. I have to keep going. There has to be a way out.
After what felt like an eternity, Fox emerged from the darkness. The sudden change was overwhelming, the icy cavern giving way to a vibrant, dense jungle. The sunlight pierced through the canopy above, the dappled light illuminating the lush foliage and thick underbrush. The air was humid and heavy, filled with the earthy scent of vegetation. Fox blinked, his eyes adjusting to the brightness as he took in the towering mountain visible in the distance. Its peak rose sharply, but what caught his attention was the large cut-out section near the summit—a stark void against the verdant landscape.
Fox’s curiosity surged as he wondered about this strange place. Where am I? What is this jungle? His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices nearby. Emerging from the underbrush were two individuals, both wearing khaki clothing and carrying weathered backpacks. Their disheveled appearances suggested they’d been here for quite some time.
“Hey!” Fox called out, relieved to see other people. “Do you know where we are?”
The pair approached cautiously. The woman, tall and angular with piercing green eyes, was the first to speak. “You don’t look like a local,” she said, her tone guarded. “Who are you?”
“I’m Fox,” he replied. “I came through... well, I’m not really sure how I got here.”
The man, shorter and stocky, adjusted his glasses. “That makes all three of us,” he muttered. “I’m Dr. Reginald Williams, and this is my colleague, Dr. Amelia Hawthorne. We’re researchers from Pickford University.”
Fox’s eyebrows raised. “What are researchers doing here?”
Dr. Hawthorne sighed, her expression weary. “We were exploring this jungle—it’s called Tek-Kath—but now we have no idea how to get back home.”
Dr. Williams added, “There are legends about this place, whispered among the gypsy folk. We’ve been hearing stories for years from a man named Koji Úlfur Wetzel. He spoke of the unseen horrors that lurk within Tek-Kath.”
Fox frowned, unease creeping into his thoughts. “Horrors?”
Dr. Hawthorne nodded grimly. “We’ve only seen glimpses, but trust me, this jungle isn’t safe.”
The three of them continued their journey through the jungle, cutting through thick vines and forging ahead despite the oppressive heat. The air was alive with strange noises—the rustle of leaves, the distant cry of unknown creatures.
Suddenly, a chilling scream shattered the relative calm. Fox spun around to see Dr. Williams being dragged into the underbrush by something large and fast. His screams were guttural, filled with agony.
“Reginald!” Dr. Hawthorne shouted, running after him. Fox stood frozen, his eyes wide with terror, unable to move.
Dr. Hawthorne stopped abruptly and let out a horrified gasp. Emerging from the shadows was a monstrous spider the size of a two-story house. Its long legs glistened, and its multiple eyes gleamed with malevolent intelligence. The spider devoured Dr. Williams without hesitation, its mandibles snapping shut with a sickening crunch.
Dr. Hawthorne turned and sprinted back toward Fox, her face pale and her voice frantic. “We need to move, now!”
They ran through the jungle, their footsteps pounding against the earth. The eerie silence of the jungle was replaced by the chaotic rustle of leaves and branches. Fox glanced behind him, expecting to see the monstrous spider, but there was no sign of pursuit.
“Amelia, keep going!” Fox urged, his voice strained.
But as they ran, Dr. Hawthorne suddenly vanished, her presence gone in an instant. Fox skidded to a halt, his chest heaving as he turned around frantically. “Amelia?! Amelia!” he shouted, but there was no response.
The fear was overwhelming. Fox’s legs carried him forward without thought, his mind clouded with panic. He collided with a low-hanging limb, the impact sending him sprawling to the ground. Darkness consumed him as he blacked out.
When Fox awoke, he found himself lying on a mat surrounded by a group of natives. Their faces were painted with intricate patterns, their bodies unclothed except for tribal jewelry. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and cooking meat. Fox glanced around in confusion, his gaze landing on a large black pot at the center of the group.
His stomach lurched as he recognized the lifeless body of Dr. Hawthorne being cooked inside the pot. Fear surged through him, but before he could react, the chief of the cannibal natives approached him. The chief was a towering figure, his eyes glinting as he patted Fox on the chest and said a single word:
“Ierōkingu.”
The name sparked something in Fox’s memory, but his mind was too clouded by fear to fully recall where he had heard it before. The natives surrounded him, chanting the word in unison. The chief gestured toward the towering mountain, urging Fox forward.
With no other choice, Fox began climbing the mountain, the cut-out section near the summit his destination. The natives watched from below, their chants echoing faintly as he ascended. The climb was grueling, the rocky terrain testing his strength and resolve.
When he finally reached the cut-out portion, Fox discovered a fir forest growing within the mountain. The sight was surreal, the soft carpet of pine needles and dark dirt beneath him offering an odd sense of comfort. He sat on the warm ground, catching his breath.
As he ran his fingers through the soil, something metallic caught his touch. Curious, Fox brushed away the dirt and uncovered a brass ring embedded in the ground. He hesitated for a moment before pulling on it.
The ring gave way, revealing a hidden hatch. Fox lifted the hatch, his pulse quickening as he saw a ladder descending into darkness. He took a deep breath, the unknown beckoning him forward.
Gripping the ladder tightly, Fox climbed down, pulling the hatch closed behind him. The air grew cooler with each step, the silence of the descent broken only by the sound of his own breathing. Whatever awaited him in the depths of Tek-Kath, Fox knew there was no turning back.
Chapter 8: The Great Waste
Fox Smith carefully climbed down the ladder, his trembling hands gripping each worn wooden rung. The deeper he descended, the cooler the air became, carrying with it a faint dampness that chilled him despite his perspiration. Each creak of the rungs was like the whisper of the unknown waiting below. The faint glow of daylight from the hatch above faded gradually, swallowed by the shadows until all that remained was darkness.
When Fox reached the bottom, he stepped onto solid ground. His sneakers sank slightly into soft, gritty dirt, and a faint echo of his movements reverberated through the long, dim corridor ahead. Squinting, Fox peered into the murkiness, his eyes slowly adjusting. The corridor stretched on endlessly, its stone walls covered in strange, etched symbols—markings that seemed to pulse faintly as he brushed past them.
At the far end of the hallway, two imposing wooden doors stood silently, their weathered surfaces reminiscent of those he’d encountered when he had first stepped into that serene pasture. The odd sense of familiarity tugged at his mind, though he could not place why.
Fox approached the doors cautiously, his footsteps echoing in the silence like the ticking of a distant clock. The closer he got, the more the doors seemed alive, their hinges moaning softly in the still air. Then, as if responding to his presence, they creaked open by themselves, revealing what lay beyond.
Fox stepped forward hesitantly, and the sight that greeted him made him stop in his tracks. Spanning before him was a vast desert, its pristine white sand stretching into infinity. The sky above was pitch-black, adorned only by a single crescent moon. Its muted glow cast ghostly light over the dunes, creating deep shadows that seemed to dance as Fox moved. The air was heavy, its stillness broken only by the whisper of the wind.
Fox took a deep breath, his chest tightening with unease, and began his journey across the desert. Each step sank slightly into the cool, powdery sand, and the silence that enveloped him felt almost suffocating.
Hours passed as Fox navigated the tall dunes, the monotony of the white sand and dark sky pressing on his thoughts. The lack of sunlight gnawed at his sense of time, leaving him disoriented. He glanced up at the moonlit sky, his mind wandering. When will the sun rise? he thought, though the answer eluded him. As he trudged on, his body grew heavier, exhaustion beginning to set in.
Just as despair threatened to consume him, Fox spotted something in the distance—a splash of color against the endless white. Squinting, he made out the shapes of tents clustered together, their vibrant hues standing out starkly against the desert’s pallor. Relief flooded through him as he quickened his pace, his energy renewed by the promise of human company.
As Fox approached the encampment, figures emerged from the shadows, their movements fluid and deliberate. Cloaked in flowing robes of deep indigo and crimson, their faces were obscured by layers of fabric, leaving only their piercing eyes visible. The nomads watched him intently, their silence weighing heavily on Fox’s growing unease.
One of them, a tall man with eyes like molten silver, stepped forward. His gravelly voice cut through the stillness. “Welcome to El Gran Desperdicio,” he said, spreading his arms wide, “the great endless desert.”
Fox nodded tentatively. “Thank you,” he said. “But… when does the sun rise here?”
The nomads exchanged glances, their muted laughter reverberating eerily. An older man with a long, braided beard spoke, his voice tinged with amusement. “The sun never rises in this place,” he said. “This desert exists between worlds, a void where light cannot reach. It is a place where monsters dwell—horrors that prey on those who venture too far.”
Fox shivered at the thought, his gaze drifting to the shadows cast by the crescent moon. “Then how do you survive here?” he asked.
The elder stepped closer, his robe swishing softly against the sand. His deeply lined face was etched with both wisdom and pain. “We have lived here for eons,” he explained. “We hunt the monsters that roam this desert, living off the land and its hidden treasures. It is not an easy existence, but we endure.”
Fox took a deep breath and began to explain his predicament. He told the nomads how he had come through the strange forest, crossed countless paths, and had been searching for a way home ever since. As he spoke, the nomads listened intently, their curiosity evident in the way they leaned toward him.
When Fox finished, the elder nodded thoughtfully. “There is an ancient city deep within the desert,” he said. “It is a place of great mystery, where worlds collide and secrets are kept. Perhaps you will find what you seek there.”
Fox’s eyes widened, his heart racing with renewed hope. “Where is this city?” he asked.
The elder’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Rest now,” he said. “We will take you there when the time is right.”
The encampment was a strange oasis of warmth and hospitality amidst the desolate expanse. Fox was given a small mat to sleep on, and the nomads offered him food—a simple meal of roasted roots and dried meat. As he ate, he couldn’t shake the lingering sense of unease that accompanied their cryptic words.
When dawn—marked only by the eternal darkness—arrived, three of the nomads prepared to lead Fox deeper into the desert. The journey was arduous, the dunes growing steeper and the wind picking up, scattering sand into their faces. But the nomads were unwavering, their movements purposeful and sure.
After what felt like an endless trek, the group finally arrived at their destination. Rising before them were the ruins of a city, its once-grand architecture now crumbling and half-buried in the shifting sands of time. Towering pillars, adorned with faded carvings, stood precariously amidst the rubble, and remnants of walls formed jagged silhouettes against the moonlit sky.
One of the nomads pointed toward an open doorway framed by massive stone blocks. “That is the path you must take,” he said.
Fox turned to them, confusion clouding his expression. “Aren’t you coming with me?”
The nomads shook their heads, their faces grave. The elder spoke, his voice somber. “Within the ancient city lies a dark cosmic horror—a force that transcends understanding. It is said to drive men insane with its presence. We cannot accompany you.”
Fox felt a surge of fear but knew there was no turning back. Taking a deep breath, he nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “For everything.”
The nomads stepped away, their figures disappearing into the shadows. Fox faced the open doorway, the darkness beckoning him forward. He steeled himself, his resolve firm as he stepped through the threshold.
The shadows closed around him, and the silence became deafening as he ventured deeper into the ancient city’s heart.
Chapter 9: Beneath the Surface
Mr. Alden sat in his high-backed chair, his chin resting on his steepled hands as he listened to Fox’s story with rapt attention. The boy’s voice, trembling at times but laden with conviction, filled the quiet study. For hours, Fox had recounted his harrowing journey—his confrontation with monsters, the oppressive deserts, and the cryptic encounters with the Yellow Queen. The tale sounded like something out of a fantastical novel, yet Fox spoke with such earnestness that Mr. Alden couldn’t dismiss it outright.
But as the boy continued, Mr. Alden felt a gnawing unease in his chest. Was Fox delusional? Could this all be the product of an overactive imagination gone awry? Or was there something darker at play?
“Phineas—” Mr. Alden paused, correcting himself. “Fox, this has been… quite a story. But perhaps we should take a break. You’ve been speaking for hours, and I imagine you must be hungry.”
Fox looked up, his blue-green eyes weary yet alert. “Yeah, I guess I could eat,” he admitted, though there was a trace of suspicion in his voice. It was as if he sensed Mr. Alden’s growing doubts.
Mr. Alden forced a reassuring smile. “Stay here. I’ll fetch us something to eat,” he said, rising from his chair. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Once in the kitchen, Mr. Alden let out a slow breath, his mind racing. The story Fox had spun was extraordinary, but extraordinary was often a thin veil for the unimaginable. Grabbing the phone from the wall, Mr. Alden dialed Pickford Sanitarium. His fingers tapped against the counter as he waited for the line to connect.
“Doctor Vinkmeir,” came the clipped voice on the other end.
“Doctor, it’s Harold Alden,” Mr. Alden said in hushed tones, glancing back toward the study to ensure Fox couldn’t overhear. “I need your advice on something… peculiar.”
“Peculiar, you say?” Vinkmeir’s voice was calm but curious. “Go on.”
Mr. Alden hesitated for a moment. “I have a student here—Phineas Bogg, though he claims his name is Fox Smith. He’s been telling me this wild story about coming from another world through some kind of gate. He says he’s been traveling across deserts, through jungles, and meeting beings that—well, frankly, beings that defy explanation. He insists he’s telling the truth, but—”
“But you think he may not be well,” Vinkmeir finished for him. There was no judgment in his tone, just the clinical precision of a professional. “Where is the boy now?”
“In my study,” Mr. Alden replied. “He seems calm, but I—”
“Keep him there,” Vinkmeir interrupted firmly. “I’ll be over as soon as I’m finished with my current patient. Until then, try not to alarm him. Let him keep talking if it comforts him.”
Mr. Alden nodded, though the doctor couldn’t see him. “Understood.”
Returning to the study, Mr. Alden carried a tray of snacks—simple sandwiches and glasses of lemonade. Fox was sitting stiffly in his chair, his trench coat draped over the armrest. He looked up as Mr. Alden entered.
“Sorry for the wait,” Mr. Alden said, setting the tray down on a small table between them. “Thought we could use a little fuel.”
“Thanks,” Fox mumbled, picking up a sandwich. He bit into it cautiously, as if unsure of Mr. Alden’s intentions. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
Once they had finished eating, Mr. Alden leaned back in his chair, his expression calm but expectant. “Now then, Fox,” he said, “why don’t you continue your story?”
Fox nodded, his gaze distant as he dove back into the memories of his strange and harrowing journey.
Fox’s voice dropped to a hush as he described walking through the dark, buried city. The ancient ruins beneath the white sand were cold and oppressive, the air thick with the weight of time and forgotten secrets. His only light was the torch he’d found discarded on the floor—its handle worn smooth by years of use.
“The whispers were the worst part,” Fox said, his voice trembling. “I could hear them in the shadows, faint voices calling out… but there was no one there. They weren’t human. They weren’t even close.”
Mr. Alden leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowing. “What did they say?”
“I don’t know,” Fox admitted. “It wasn’t words—it was… feelings. Anger, sadness, fear. It was like they were trying to get inside my head.” He shivered at the memory. “But I didn’t let them shake me. I couldn’t.”
He described descending deeper into the labyrinthine ruins, the torchlight flickering against walls etched with strange symbols. The air grew colder, the whispers more insistent, until finally, he reached a massive circular room. The walls were covered in an indecipherable language, the characters glowing faintly like embers in the dark.
“In the center of the room was a ladder,” Fox continued. “It was metal, and it went straight up. I thought… maybe it was my way out.”
As he approached the ladder, something moved in the shadows. Fox’s breath hitched, his hands tightening on the torch. Slowly, a familiar figure stepped into the light—the young girl with yellow eyes.
“She smiled at me,” Fox said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t comforting. It was… knowing.”
“What did she say?” Mr. Alden asked, his tone betraying his captivation despite his earlier doubts.
Fox hesitated, his eyes meeting Mr. Alden’s as if weighing the gravity of his next words. “She told me that she had planned this. All of it.”
Mr. Alden blinked. “Planned… what, exactly?”
“Everything,” Fox replied, his voice gaining a desperate edge. “She said she was the one who sent the cloaked figure to lead me to the gate. She’s the reason my family moved from Hamden to Taylorville. She’s the reason my friends and I found the inter-dimensional hub in that outhouse. She even said it was her who opened the door to the third floor of our high school—the floor that doesn’t exist.”
He paused, his breath coming fast. “She’s been pulling the strings this whole time.”
Mr. Alden’s skepticism wavered as he watched the raw emotion in Fox’s expression. “Did she explain why?”
Fox nodded slowly. “She said it was all leading to the City of Dreams. She said it was destiny.”
“What did you say to her?” Mr. Alden asked, his voice softer now.
“I asked her… ‘what if I don’t want to go?’” Fox’s gaze dropped to his lap. “But when I looked up, she was gone. It was like she’d never been there.”
Fox recounted how he’d turned his attention to the walls of the room, where he discovered a chiseled image of two figures—one a boy, the other a girl. Behind them was a building unlike anything he’d ever seen: a large box with a glass tower extending from its top. The sight left him unsettled, though he couldn’t say why.
Feeling no closer to answers, Fox climbed the metal ladder. The echoes of the whispers faded as he ascended, the air growing warmer with each rung. When he reached the top, he found himself staring at what appeared to be a manhole cover. Bracing himself, he pushed it open and climbed out.
“I thought maybe… just maybe… I’d finally made it home,” Fox said, his voice heavy with emotion. “And when I looked around… it looked like Taylorville.”
Mr. Alden sat back in his chair, his mind churning. Fox’s story was fantastical, impossible even, yet there was something about the boy’s earnestness that made him question his own disbelief. Could it all be true? Or was Fox simply a troubled young man crying out for help?
Before Mr. Alden could respond, there was a knock at the door.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Mr. Alden said, rising to answer it. As he walked toward the door, Fox watched him closely, suspicion flickering in his eyes.
When Mr. Alden opened the door, Dr. Vinkmeir stood on the threshold, his expression calm but assessing. “Harold,” he greeted. “Where’s the boy?”
“In the study,” Mr. Alden replied, glancing back. “But… I’m not so sure anymore.”
Dr. Vinkmeir raised an eyebrow. “Let’s find out together, then.”
As the two men entered the study, Fox stood, his posture defensive. He could sense something had shifted, and his instincts told him to be on guard. Whatever happened next, he knew his journey was far from over.
Chapter 10: The In-Between
The study was quiet save for the soft ticking of the grandfather clock. Mr. Alden sat in his chair, his fingers steepled in thought. Dr. Vinkmeir reclined on the couch nearby, studying the boy in front of them. Fox Smith sat stiffly, his trench coat slung over the armrest, his blue-green eyes clouded with intensity. He had been recounting his story for what felt like hours, yet the conviction in his voice had never wavered.
Mr. Alden took a sip of his now-cold tea and cleared his throat. “Well, Fox,” he said, setting the cup down carefully. “Please continue. Tell us everything.”
Fox nodded, his gaze distant as he picked up where he had left off.
“When I climbed out of the ladder and pushed up the manhole cover, I thought for sure I’d finally made it home,” Fox began. “It looked just like Taylorville—the same streets, the same houses, even the same smell in the air. But as I walked, something felt… off.”
He described walking down the familiar streets, the weight of his experiences making him hyper-aware of every detail. The houses all seemed slightly different—perhaps smaller, or painted in colors that didn’t match his memory. The trees lining the roads were taller, their branches twisting in unfamiliar patterns. And the sky, though blue, seemed somehow muted, as if it lacked the vibrancy of the one he knew.
“I figured I’d go to Nathan and Andrew’s house first,” Fox said. “If anyone could help me make sense of all this, it was them. But when I got there…”
Fox paused, his hands clenching into fists on his lap.
“What happened?” Mr. Alden prompted gently.
“I knocked on the door,” Fox said, his voice tinged with frustration. “And instead of Nathan or Andrew, this guy opened it. He looked like he was in his mid-forties—blond-gray hair, black-rim glasses. Definitely not anyone I knew.”
Fox described the interaction with the man, who seemed agitated by his presence.
“What do you want?” the man had asked sharply, clutching a pencil and notepad as though Fox were interrupting something important.
“I’m looking for Nathan and Andrew Brooks,” Fox had replied, confusion evident in his tone.
The man’s face remained blank. “Never heard of them,” he said brusquely. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy working on my book.”
The door was promptly slammed in Fox’s face, leaving him standing on the porch in stunned silence.
“That’s when I realized I wasn’t home,” Fox said softly. “Not really. This place—it looked like Taylorville, but it wasn’t. It couldn’t be.”
Fox wandered back to the street, trying to make sense of what had just happened. His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a peculiar little man. The man was short and plump, with a cheerful yet unsettling grin. Without a word, he handed Fox a slip of paper before waddling away down the street.
“It was a bus ticket,” Fox explained, pulling the memory into sharp focus. “It said ‘In-Between Express.’ I didn’t know what it meant, but I was desperate for answers.”
Fox described how he had followed the street until he reached a lonely bus stop. He sat on the bench, the ticket clutched tightly in his hand, when suddenly, out of nowhere, the bus appeared.
“It wasn’t like any bus I’d ever seen,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “It was a double-decker, but its frame shimmered, almost like it was made of light. Instead of a route number, the display read: ‘Destination: Anywhere.’”
The doors creaked open, and Fox described the driver—a figure clad in a strange uniform, their face obscured by shadow. The driver tilted their head as if silently urging Fox to board.
“I didn’t want to get on,” Fox admitted. “But… something compelled me. Like it was the only way forward.”
He stepped aboard, the doors hissing shut behind him. The interior of the bus was unsettling, filled with a metallic tang that made his skin prickle. The other passengers were just as strange: a woman clutching a porcelain doll, a man scribbling incomprehensible symbols on the window, and a child whose face seemed blurred, as though reality couldn’t quite decide what they looked like. A weird guy in a Hawaiian shirt sat in the corner, playing an accordion.
Fox climbed to the upper deck, hoping for solitude, but the eerie emptiness only added to his unease. The bus jolted forward, and the world outside the windows began to change.
“It started slowly,” Fox said, his hands trembling slightly as he described it. “The streets melted away, replaced by… nothing. Just this swirling void of colors and shapes. It was like a broken kaleidoscope, but worse. Stars would burn bright and then vanish in an instant. There were oceans of liquid silver, skies that screamed, shadows that moved with no source.”
And then came the horrors.
“Eyes,” Fox said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thousands of them, blinking and swirling in the darkness. And shapes—things that didn’t make sense. Crawling, slithering. They left trails of cold dread, like they were rewriting reality itself.”
Fox pressed his forehead against the window, his breath fogging the glass. “I didn’t think it could get worse. But then the whispers started again.”
A voice broke through the oppressive silence, startling Fox.
“The In-Between,” said the man in the Hawaiian shirt, still idly playing his accordion.
Fox turned, his voice shaky. “The In-Between?”
The man nodded. “This is where worlds collide and bleed into one another. The bus travels through it to get where it must go.”
Fox swallowed hard, his chest tight with fear. “What about… those things out there? The eyes, the shapes?”
“They are the Forgotten,” the man said simply. “Pieces of worlds that no longer exist. Lost souls and fractured realities. They’re hungry. They’ll try to pull you in, make you part of them.”
Fox’s heart pounded. “What happened to them? Why are they like that?”
The man stopped playing, his gaze sharpening. “It was the Yellow Queen and the King. They drove those worlds mad and then destroyed them.”
The bus came to a sudden, jarring stop. Fox stumbled to his feet, his balance unsteady as the world outside the windows began to right itself. The colors stabilized, the void gave way to streets, and the horrors disappeared as if they had never been.
“The driver didn’t say a word,” Fox said, his voice trailing off. “The doors opened, and I got off as fast as I could. The second I stepped onto the street, the bus vanished—just like that.”
Fox leaned back in his chair, his shoulders slumping with the weight of his tale. “And that,” he said quietly, “is how I got here.”
The room was silent for a moment as Mr. Alden and Dr. Vinkmeir exchanged a glance. Both men were clearly grappling with how to respond.
Finally, Dr. Vinkmeir spoke, his voice measured. “Fox, I’d like you to come back to my office with me. We can talk more about your story there, in a more private setting.”
Fox shook his head firmly. “No. I can’t. I need to get back home—to my world.”
The conversation was interrupted by the sudden arrival of two muscular orderlies, who stepped into the study with purposeful strides. “We’re here for the boy,” one of them said, his voice gruff.
Fox’s eyes widened in panic. “No!” he shouted, leaping to his feet. “I’m not going with you!”
The orderlies moved to grab him, and a struggle ensued. Fox thrashed and fought, his voice rising in desperation. “You don’t understand—I’m not crazy!”
“Fox, please—calm down,” Mr. Alden urged, trying to defuse the situation. But his words fell on deaf ears.
Just as one of the orderlies managed to pin Fox’s arms, the front door slammed open. A girl no older than eight stood in the doorway, her yellow hair catching the light. Her piercing yellow eyes were unmistakable.
It was the Yellow Queen.
Before anyone could react, the girl darted forward with unnatural speed, delivering a forceful kick to the first orderly that sent him sprawling. The second followed, knocked out cold with a single blow. Grabbing Fox by the arm, the girl pulled him toward the door.
“Let’s go!” she commanded, her voice sharp and urgent.
Fox hesitated for only a second before following her. Together, they disappeared into the night, leaving the others stunned in their wake.
A few weeks later, Mr. Alden received a call from the Pickford Sanitarium asking him to confirm the identities of two individuals they had apprehended. When he arrived, he was met with two strangers—neither of whom was Fox or the mysterious girl.
Months passed, and Mr. Alden found himself sitting alone in his classroom. The memory of Fox’s story lingered, his mind often drifting to the question he feared would never be answered: Did Phineas Bogg—or Fox Smith—ever find his way home?
Garrison was the sort of town where time seemed to move just a little slower, where the creak of rocking chairs on porches harmonized with the hum of cicadas, and where everyone knew everyone else by name. Nestled in the foothills, surrounded by forests that turned gold and crimson in the fall, it was a place that resisted change. History weighed heavy on the cobblestones, on the leaning fences, and on the narrow church steeple that pointed toward heaven like a weary prayer.
The townsfolk were content with their quiet lives, bound together by generations of shared stories and unspoken traditions. But in the fall of that year, something came to Garrison that did not belong. Something that did not heed the rules of time or tradition. Something that woke the town from its slumber and plunged it into nightmare.
It began, as many tragedies do, with a strange arrival.
The theater troupe appeared without warning. They called themselves The Pallid Mask Players, and no one in Garrison could say exactly when they had arrived. One morning, as the fog lifted from the town square, there it was—a garish yellow tent that had been erected overnight. Its fabric shimmered faintly in the early light, as though dusted with gold, and its height seemed to challenge the modest rooftops that surrounded it.
By midday, posters had appeared on every lamppost, shop window, and tavern door, bearing the troupe’s name and promising an unparalleled performance of The King in Yellow. No one had ever heard of the play before, yet curiosity swirled through the town like autumn leaves in the wind. The tagline on the posters read: He who dons the mask sees the truth.
The troupe themselves were an unusual sight. They wore clothes that seemed torn from another century—flowing coats, high collars, and wide-brimmed hats. Their faces were partially obscured by porcelain masks, each one carved with unsettling precision. Strangely, no one saw them speak. They moved silently through the streets, handing out invitations with a flourish but never uttering a word. The unease they inspired was outweighed by the mystery they represented, and soon, curiosity got the better of Garrison.
The first performance was held on a Friday night. The tent’s interior was larger than its exterior suggested, its vastness swallowing the small crowd of shopkeepers, farmers, and schoolteachers who had come to see the show. Flickering yellow lanterns cast unsteady light across the makeshift stage, their glow strangely hypnotic. The air was thick and humid, heavy with the scent of incense.
When the curtains rose, the play began in fragmented, dreamlike scenes. A crumbling city called Carcosa, a cursed lake that reflected too much, a mad king draped in tattered yellow robes. The words spoken by the actors felt disjointed, almost nonsensical, yet they stirred something deep within the audience—a mix of awe and unease. When the King himself appeared on stage, a towering silhouette whose mask seemed to shift and ripple like water, a strange buzzing filled the air. It grew louder and louder until the world itself seemed to tilt.
The audience members returned to their homes that night, dazed and silent. Some whispered of twin black suns hanging in the sky above Carcosa. Others murmured about the King, of his gaze that felt like the weight of centuries pressing down on them. A few simply vanished, their doors left ajar and their homes abandoned.
Elsie Reid was the first to notice the changes. As Garrison's librarian, she had always been an observer, someone who preferred the quiet company of books to the chaos of social gatherings. She saw how the play’s attendees gathered in secret, speaking in low voices and strange, guttural tones that didn’t match any language she knew. Their eyes seemed distant, their smiles too wide, as if they were staring at something the rest of the town couldn’t see.
She pressed one of them for answers—a young woman named Clara who worked at the bakery. But Clara only smiled and said, "The King is coming."
Determined to find out the truth, Elsie attended a performance. From the moment she stepped inside the tent, she felt as though she had crossed into another world. The air was heavy, almost suffocating, and the yellow light from the lanterns cast shadows that moved independently of their owners. The play unfolded in the same fragmented scenes she had heard described—Carcosa, the lake, the King. But when the figure in yellow appeared on stage, Elsie’s vision blurred, and a strange buzzing filled her ears. The world tilted, and then there was nothing.
She woke hours later, slumped over the desk in her library. A single slip of paper lay before her, bearing the symbol of the Yellow Sign. It glowed faintly in the dim light, and as she stared at it, her mind filled with fragments of an alien melody—a song that pulled her back to Carcosa. That night, she dreamed of wandering the city’s cracked obsidian streets, the King watching her from the shadows.
When she woke, the Yellow Sign was etched faintly into the skin of her forearm.
By the time Elsie realized the danger, it was too late. The Pallid Mask Players had vanished, leaving the yellow tent collapsed in the town square like a shed skin. But their influence lingered. Those who had seen the play gathered at the church, tearing down its cross and replacing it with a crude carving of the Yellow Sign. They spoke of a coronation, of the King’s arrival to claim his throne. Their voices carried through the town, joined by a strange, haunting melody that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.
On the night of the eclipse, Garrison was consumed by chaos. The sky turned a sickly yellow, the stars blinked out one by one, and an unnatural wind howled through the streets. The townsfolk gathered in the square, their voices rising in guttural chants as the church doors burst open. From within emerged the King in Yellow, his robes trailing ash and fire, his masked face turned upward toward the eclipsed moon. The crowd fell to their knees, their faces alight with rapture.
Only Elsie stood against him. Clutched in her hands was an ancient, half-burned book she had discovered in the library’s deepest recesses. Its pages were filled with arcane symbols and rituals meant to banish forces beyond comprehension. She read aloud from the book, her voice trembling but resolute, as the King turned his masked face toward her. His form flickered, and the mask split open to reveal an abyss too terrible to comprehend.
With a final, deafening roar, the King and his followers were consumed in the firelight, leaving behind only silence.
When the sun rose, Garrison was gone. Where the town had stood was nothing but scorched earth, its edges crumbling into ash. In the center of the wasteland lay a single yellow mask, its edges curling in the wind.
Far away, in a new town untouched by the events in Garrison, a yellow tent began to rise.
The boy's name was Oliver, a sixteen-year-old with wide, curious eyes and a frame so slight he often seemed to vanish into the backdrop of Greystone. His tattered backpack hung loose on his thin shoulders, the fabric frayed from years of wear, and his shoes—once white—were now worn and scuffed, their soles held together by sheer willpower. Life in Greystone had not been kind to him. The town was small, bleak, and suffocating, a place where dreams withered like leaves in autumn. It was a town where nothing ever changed, and for Oliver, it felt as though nothing ever would.
But that night was different.
Oliver stood at the edge of the empty street, a chill wind tugging at his threadbare jacket as he stared at the most peculiar sight he had ever seen. A double-decker bus sat beneath the flickering halo of the streetlight, its frame glinting with an otherworldly sheen. It was immaculate, as though untouched by time or wear, and its windows seemed to glow faintly from within. Where a route number should have been, bold letters spelled out the words: Destination: Anywhere.
He glanced down at the crumpled ticket in his hand. It had arrived earlier that evening, slipped silently into his mailbox with no return address, no sender, and no explanation. The words “Admit One” were scrawled across the yellowing paper in ornate lettering, along with his name inked neatly below. He hadn’t told anyone about it, hadn’t dared to, because deep down, he knew this ticket wasn’t meant to be questioned. It was a chance—a strange, inexplicable chance—to escape. He didn’t know who had sent it or why, but something inside him whispered that this was the moment he had been waiting for. His one way out.
The bus doors creaked open with a hiss, breaking the silence. Light spilled out in uneven flashes, revealing a driver sitting stiffly in his seat. The driver’s uniform was sharp and strange, its colors shifting like oil on water. A cap shadowed his face, leaving only the faint impression of features—too faint to seem real. The driver tilted his head slightly, a silent invitation, and Oliver felt his chest tighten.
He swallowed hard, clutching the ticket like a talisman. He couldn’t stay in Greystone, not one more day. Taking a deep breath, he stepped onto the bus.
The air inside was different. Heavy, metallic, as though charged with static electricity. It prickled against Oliver’s skin, setting his nerves on edge. The door hissed shut behind him, sealing him in. He glanced uneasily at the other passengers.
They were an odd assortment. A woman sat near the front, cradling an eerily pristine porcelain doll in her arms, her lips moving silently as though speaking to it. Farther back, a disheveled man pressed his face against the window, muttering incoherently as he traced bizarre, twisting patterns into the fogged glass. And in the corner, a small child sat utterly still, their face blurred like a smudged photograph, as though reality couldn’t quite hold onto their existence. None of them looked at Oliver, though he could feel the weight of their presence pressing against him like unseen hands.
Trying not to draw attention, he climbed the narrow staircase to the upper deck, his legs trembling with each step. To his relief, it was empty. He collapsed into a seat near the front, clutching his backpack like a shield. Through the windows, the faintly glowing streetlights of Greystone flickered one by one, and a strange anticipation settled over him.
The bus jolted forward, and then the world outside began to change.
At first, it was subtle—streetlights stretching unnaturally, their halos blurring into spirals of light. Then it became impossible to ignore. The houses of Greystone melted away, their shapes bending and twisting as though made of liquid. The pavement unraveled like threads of fabric, and the sky folded in on itself, revealing nothing but an endless void. Colors bled together in sickly hues, swirling into a cacophony that defied comprehension.
Oliver pressed his face against the window, his breath fogging the glass. Stars flared into existence outside, only to wink out seconds later. Oceans of liquid silver shimmered beneath skies that screamed with a soundless fury. Shadows roamed the void, dancing and shifting without a source. They moved with a predatory grace, but they weren’t alone.
Eyes. Thousands of them. They blinked in and out of view, swirling within the chaos like living constellations. Some were impossibly large, their irises spinning like whirlpools, while others were small and darting, watching him with an intensity that felt invasive. Shapes slithered and crawled along the edges of his vision, things that defied anatomy and logic. They left behind trails of cold dread, their presence gnawing at the edges of his mind.
The bus lurched violently, and Oliver clung to the railing, his heart hammering in his chest. "What… what is this?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the faint hum that now filled the air.
A voice answered from behind him, calm and resonant. "The In-Between," said the porcelain doll woman. She was standing at the top of the staircase now, her doll’s unblinking glass eyes fixed on Oliver. "This is where worlds collide and bleed into one another. The bus travels through it to get where it must go."
Oliver stared at her, his throat dry. "And… what are those?" he asked, pointing toward the swirling chaos of eyes and shadows.
The doll’s head turned slowly, its painted lips unmoving as the answer came. "They are the Forgotten. Fragments of worlds that no longer exist. Souls without homes. They hunger for something they’ve lost, and they will try to take you with them."
Oliver felt a chill crawl down his spine. Before he could respond, the bus screeched to a halt, throwing him to the floor. He looked up in horror. One of the creatures—a sprawling, many-limbed shadow with a singular, massive eye—had latched onto the side of the bus. Its gaze burned into the glass, cracking it with every passing second.
"Hold on!" the driver’s voice boomed from below. The bus accelerated, the floor vibrating with the force of its movement. The creature let out a soundless scream, its limbs stretching as it tried to drag the bus into the void. Other shadows swarmed, their forms merging and twisting into grotesque shapes, their fury palpable.
The passengers on the lower deck screamed, but the doll woman only smiled faintly. Oliver gripped the seat, every muscle in his body taut as the bus swerved, reality itself warping around them. The creatures clawed at the bus, their presence pressing down like the weight of a collapsing star.
Then came the light.
It burst from the void like a tidal wave, blinding and all-encompassing. The shadows recoiled, their forms dissipating into streams of smoke. The bus shuddered as it broke through the barrier, emerging into a city bathed in a soft, lavender glow. Spires of light stretched into the sky, and streets of polished stone gleamed like mirrors. The air was warm and serene, a stark contrast to the chaos they had left behind.
The bus slowed to a halt, its engine groaning like a wounded beast. Oliver stumbled off, his legs unsteady, his heart still racing. The driver stood beside the door, holding out a new ticket. It read: Destination: Home.
"Next time," the driver said, their voice reverberating strangely, "be ready for what lies beyond."
Oliver clutched the ticket, watching as the bus shimmered and vanished into the horizon. He didn’t know what he had just survived, or where he truly was, but one thing was certain: nothing would ever look the same again.
The Cliffs of Leisevain loomed ominously over Dane County, a jagged row of obsidian teeth that marked the edge of untamed wilderness. Their blackened stone faces seemed to swallow the light of the setting sun, casting long, creeping shadows over the pine forest below. To the locals, the cliffs were more than a geographical feature—they were an ancient warning, a scar left behind by forces that defied human understanding.
For generations, the cliffs had been a source of whispered fear, their dark reputation echoing in every corner of Dane County. Long before settlers staked their claims to the land, the Sauk tribe spoke of the place as cursed, a threshold to something unholy. They called it “the Maw of the Earth,” a place where reality itself thinned to breaking, and where those who ventured too close were lured to their doom—not by the rocks, but by the nameless shadow that dwelled beneath. No one truly knew what awaited those who fell into the chasm, but the Sauk believed that neither body nor soul could escape its grasp.
As time passed, settlers dismissed the warnings as primitive superstition. But strange disappearances began to plague the cliffs. First it was hunters who strayed too far, then travelers passing through the wilderness, and finally, even those brave—or foolish—enough to camp near its edge. Witnesses spoke of strange phenomena: whispers carried on still air, flickering lights deep within the forest, and a chill that seeped into the bones even in summer. Skeptics called it folklore. Thrill-seekers called it a dare. But no one called it safe.
Amelia Parks knew the legends well, though she hardly believed them. An ambitious journalist fresh out of Pickford, she had been looking for her big break—a story sensational enough to capture the attention of the world beyond her sleepy town. When she pitched an article about the Cliffs of Leisevain to her editor, he’d laughed outright, dismissing it as childish ghost-story drivel. That only fueled her determination. If she could bring back hard evidence of the cliffs’ eerie reputation, she might finally be taken seriously.
On a damp October evening, Amelia packed her camera, notebook, and flashlight and made the drive to Leisevain. The closer she came to the cliffs, the narrower and more treacherous the road became, the thick forest pressing in on all sides. Her headlights pierced the encroaching darkness, illuminating the tall silhouettes of pines that swayed like ominous sentinels in the wind. When the road ended in a muddy clearing, she parked her car and stepped into the quiet, carrying the heavy weight of her equipment.
The air smelled of moss and rain-soaked earth, and an unnatural silence blanketed the area. No birds called out, no insects chirped. Only the whisper of the wind through the trees broke the stillness, a sound that carried an eerie, mournful quality. As the cliffs came into view, Amelia felt a shiver crawl up her spine. There they were—tall and jagged, like the edge of the world. Their blackened surfaces glistened faintly with rain, and the fading light of dusk made their shadows stretch endlessly.
She pushed aside her unease and hiked toward the most infamous outcropping: Widow’s Perch.
Legend had it that Widow’s Perch was where the cliffs claimed their most tragic victims. Its flat, rocky surface jutted out over the chasm below, offering a breathtaking—and deadly—view of the forest. Locals spoke of a woman in a tattered white dress who appeared there on moonless nights, her hair streaming like a banner in an invisible gale. She was said to beckon to travelers with outstretched arms, her silent plea impossible to resist. Few who followed ever returned.
Amelia was determined to find no specters, only answers. As she approached the Perch, her boots crunching on loose gravel, her flashlight cast jittery shadows on the trees. The rock face came into view—a stark, lonely place that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Amelia set her camera down, steadying it on the uneven surface. She wasn’t looking for ghosts, but if anything strange was out here, her camera would capture it.
Then the ground beneath her shifted.
She froze, her flashlight illuminating the rock at her feet. For a moment, it looked… alive. The surface pulsed faintly, almost imperceptibly, like the slow rhythm of a beating heart. She knelt, reaching out a hand to touch it, when a low sound reached her ears. It wasn’t the wind—it was deeper, more guttural, like the groaning of a massive, unseen thing stirring within the earth.
Her breath hitched, and she stumbled backward, fumbling for her camera. A photograph—any photograph—was all she needed to validate her story.
The flash of the camera cut through the growing darkness, and Amelia checked the playback on the small screen. But what she saw froze her blood. The image did not show the cliffs, the trees, or even the outline of her equipment. Instead, the photo depicted a gaping void—a swirling black abyss that seemed to curl and breathe. Tendrils of shadow, almost like smoke, stretched outward from its edges, clawing toward the camera’s lens.
A cold whisper, soft as a lover’s sigh, caressed her ear: “You came for the truth. Let me show you.”
The ground beneath her cracked and shifted, small stones tumbling into the chasm below. Amelia’s instincts kicked in, and she ran. The shadows chased her, rising from the ground like living things, curling around her legs and pulling at her strength. Her breaths came in ragged gasps as the forest grew darker, the cliff face looming behind her like a living beast.
Her car came into view, and she flung herself into the driver’s seat, trembling hands fumbling with the keys. The engine roared to life, and she sped down the dirt road, her rearview mirror reflecting nothing but the eerie glow of her taillights. The whispers didn’t follow her, but even as she reached the safety of her apartment hours later, she couldn’t shake the sensation of the rhythmic pulsing that now echoed faintly within her chest.
Amelia never published her story. The single photograph, which should have been her triumph, was dismissed by her editor as nothing more than a poorly lit landscape distorted by camera error. But Amelia knew what she had seen—and what had seen her.
Her hair, once a deep chestnut, began to gray within days. Her hands trembled constantly, and her fierce ambition dulled into a quiet, haunted caution. She refused to speak of her experience to anyone, and eventually left her journalistic career behind.
But rumors began to spread in the years that followed. Travelers to the Cliffs of Leisevain claimed to see a figure standing at Widow’s Perch on certain nights—a woman in a tattered coat, her hair streaming as though caught in a storm that touched no one else. Witnesses swore it was Amelia Parks.
Some say the cliffs take a piece of everyone who gets too close. Others say they leave something behind—something that continues to haunt the land and those who dare to tread upon it. But one thing is certain: no one leaves the cliffs without carrying something back.
To the outside world, Mr. Elias Thorne was a man of discernment, an artisan of the overlooked. For decades, he had been a seeker and savior of forgotten objects, relics buried by time and neglect. His shop, tucked into a quiet corner of town, was a gallery of history—a haven where brass sextants glimmered next to well-worn leather-bound tomes and paintings darkened by centuries of tarnish.
Every item had a story, and Elias took pride in coaxing those stories to light. He had wandered flea markets, explored rotting mansions, and braved the chaos of estate sales, always in search of treasures hiding in plain sight. What truly captivated him were the inexplicable—the artifacts that whispered mysteries the ordinary could never contain. And though he would never admit it, it was this obsession, this unquenchable thirst, that defined him more than his craft.
It was on a warm summer day at the edge of nowhere that he stumbled upon the box.
The attic sale had been unimpressive—too many trinkets belonging to another time, all lackluster and predictable. Yet, there it sat in the dim light, as though waiting for him. A wooden box, weathered with age, rested on a crooked table. Its surface was inlaid with symbols that defied language, their sharp lines twisting into impossible forms. Elias’s chest tightened when he saw it. His trained eye swept over the carvings, unable to place their origin. It seemed to vibrate in his presence, though it made no sound. He pressed his fingertips against the surface. It was warm.
“Beautiful piece,” he said to the elderly man running the sale, though the words hardly reached his lips. “I’ll take it.”
The man looked uneasy, though whether it was the heat or Elias’s determination, it was hard to tell. “It’s yours,” the man replied after a pause, taking the bills Elias offered. “Good luck.”
Elias didn’t linger to ask what the man had meant. By nightfall, the box was on the desk in his study.
The quiet of the study was comforting as Elias placed the box under his desk lamp, the light emphasizing every groove, every line of its intricate etchings. He reached for his magnifying glass, studying the markings with growing fascination. They were geometric yet fluid, alive in their intricacy. He wondered if they were ancient ciphers, the kind that hid something momentous and profound.
He tapped the wood lightly with his knuckles. The box had weight, but it made no sound. “Sealed tight,” he muttered to himself. “Maybe even carved from a single piece.” He marveled at its craftsmanship.
And yet, there was a pull to the box he couldn’t explain. It wasn’t just its enigmatic appearance. No, it was something deeper. It was as if it was watching him.
The first sensation arrived as a tingling at the base of his skull—soft and almost pleasant, like static washing over his nerves. He shook his head, dismissing it as fatigue. But then the room seemed to dim, as though the light had drawn away from the corners. The air grew thick and electric, and Elias felt a shiver creep up his spine. His vision blurred.
He blinked hard, gripping the desk for stability, but the sensation overwhelmed him. The room dissolved, twisting and folding upon itself. His surroundings melted into a kaleidoscope of shifting shapes and colors, an impossible geometry that defied reason. He stumbled backward, gasping, only to find himself standing… elsewhere.
The landscape before him could not exist.
It stretched endlessly into the horizon, a vast alien terrain populated by impossible forms. Towering spires spiraled into skies that churned like liquid. The air shimmered as if alive, and the ground beneath his feet pulsed faintly, matching the erratic rhythm of his own heartbeat. He felt the cold wind against his skin and smelled the sharp tang of ozone.
“This isn’t real,” Elias whispered, though the sensation of solidity under his boots betrayed him.
As he wandered, he saw symbols carved into the spiraling structures—symbols that mirrored those etched into the box. They glowed faintly, pulsing in the rhythm of his steps, leading him forward into this strange domain. The farther he walked, the louder a distant hum grew. It wasn’t sound so much as vibration, reverberating through his chest and along his bones. The hum was alive. It was calling to him.
The first revelation came suddenly. Symbols on the box were not mere decoration; they were a map—a key. They whispered fragments of truths into his mind, ideas too vast for him to fully grasp. His pulse quickened as fragments of understanding slipped into place like falling puzzle pieces. Yet, with each revelation, a tight knot of fear grew in his chest. Whatever truths he sought, they were not meant for human minds.
The visions began to bleed into his waking life.
Elias found himself drawn back to the box again and again, compelled to decipher its secrets. The whispers grew louder each night. He began sketching the shapes and geometries he saw in his visions, filling notebooks with half-formed ideas and indecipherable scribbles. His once-organized study became a nest of papers and books, strewn about like fallen leaves. He spent hours staring at the carvings, lost in their maddening detail.
His health deteriorated. He rarely ate and slept even less, his eyes sunken and ringed with darkness. He muttered to himself constantly, his hands trembling as he wrote. The tethers that held him to reality were fraying, and everyone could see it.
Clara’s arrival was a lifeline he refused to grasp. His sister stared in horror at the ruins of his once-ordered sanctuary.
“You’ve gone too far,” she pleaded, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Whatever that thing is, Elias, you have to destroy it.”
He wrenched away. “Destroy it?” His laugh was hollow. “You don’t understand, Clara. This isn’t just an artifact. This… it’s a gateway.”
“To what?” Clara demanded, tears in her eyes. “To your own destruction?”
“To knowledge,” he hissed, his eyes glinting. “Knowledge beyond comprehension. I’m so close.”
Clara fled, unable to bear his mania any longer. Elias returned to the box.
The night of the breaking was silent. Not even the wind dared disturb the stillness. Elias knew the time had come. He sat before the box, his hands trembling as they traced its edge. The carvings glowed faintly now, reacting to his touch. The whispers had become a roar in his mind.
“I must know,” he whispered, lifting the lid.
The box unleashed its secrets with blinding force. Light and shadow spilled forth, forming a vortex that enveloped him. He screamed as the room vanished, replaced once again by the alien landscape. This time, there was no return.
The vortex pulled him deeper, through space, through time, through realities he could not comprehend. His mind unraveled as it expanded, forced to hold truths too vast to contain. In that moment, Elias Thorne ceased to be a man.
His disappearance became another mystery among the many objects left behind in his study. The box sat untouched, its lid sealed once more. Clara refused to enter the room, too haunted by her brother’s maddened expression.
But the whispers remain. The box waits.
For the next soul who dares to open it.
The city of Solstice never slept. Its streets pulsed with life and the relentless hum of the digital age. Neon signs blazed like false constellations against the night, painting the facades of skyscrapers in hues of electric pinks, greens, and blues. The air was thick with the energy of constant connectivity, data streams flowing invisibly through the ether, binding everything together in a chaotic web of information. For most, Solstice was a marvel of human progress—a testament to how far technology could push civilization. For Ellis Ward, the city was a labyrinth, its dazzling brilliance a mask for something far darker.
Once a celebrated investigative journalist, Ellis had become a ghost in the very city he used to write about. Burned-out and frayed at the edges, he drifted through the neon-lit streets, chasing whispers and urban legends no one else believed. His latest obsession—a string of unexplained disappearances—had consumed him entirely. Artists, programmers, writers, poets—all creative minds, vanishing without a trace. What tied them together wasn’t their professions, but what they left behind: cryptic messages scrawled in their apartments, painted onto alley walls, or embedded in corrupted data streams. The words were always the same: The Yellow Sign.
Ellis’s search for answers led him deeper into the underbelly of Solstice, into shadowed alleys and forgotten districts that seemed to exist outside the city’s endless glow. His informants—hackers, street poets, conspiracy theorists—fed him scraps of rumors, each one stranger than the last. All his leads pointed to a single place, one that seemed to defy discovery. They called it the Carcosa Archive.
The Archive was nothing like Ellis had expected. Tucked into an alley that twisted unnaturally when viewed out of the corner of the eye, it was a place untouched by the modern world. No digital footprint, no advertisements, no trace in any database. It existed only in whispers, passed from one wary voice to another, as though the city itself conspired to keep it hidden.
When Ellis finally found it, the sight gave him pause. The building was nondescript, its brick facade weathered and cracked. Above the door hung a hand-lettered wooden sign that read: Rare Books & Manuscripts. The air seemed heavier here, the hum of the city dimmed to a low thrum that Ellis could feel in his teeth. Something about the place made the hair on the back of his neck rise, but he was too far down the rabbit hole to turn back now.
Pushing open the door, Ellis stepped into the Archive, and the world outside seemed to evaporate. The air inside was cool, damp, and heavy with the scent of parchment and decay. The shelves stretched impossibly high, vanishing into shadow, each one crammed with ancient tomes and manuscripts that looked as though they might crumble to dust at the slightest touch. The dim lighting came from brass lamps that flickered faintly, casting shifting shadows that seemed almost alive.
Behind the counter sat the clerk. Gaunt, pale, and with sunken eyes that gleamed faintly in the dim light, he watched Ellis with an unsettling stillness. Without a word, the clerk reached beneath the counter and slid a book toward him. Its cover was bound in faded yellow leather, the edges worn smooth, and its title embossed in a script that seemed to shift and shimmer when viewed for too long. The King in Yellow.
Ellis hesitated. He hadn’t asked for this book, hadn’t said a word. But as his fingers brushed the cover, a faint warmth radiated through his skin, pulsing like a heartbeat. The clerk smiled—just a faint curl of the lips, but it sent a shiver racing down Ellis’s spine. He looked up to ask a question, but the clerk was already gone, vanished into the shadows of the Archive.
The city seemed distant as Ellis carried the book back to his apartment. The neon lights and bustling crowds barely registered, his thoughts consumed by the weight of the book in his hands. As he sat at his desk and opened the yellowed pages, the words seemed to rise off the paper, shimmering faintly in the dim light. The story they told was disjointed and fragmented, yet hypnotic. It spoke of a shadowed king, veiled and unknowable, who ruled over a crumbling city of madness and despair. Carcosa, it was called. A place that existed outside of time, where the stars were wrong, and the air carried the weight of forgotten tragedies.
The deeper Ellis read, the less real the world around him became. The words pulsed with a strange energy, pulling him further into their narrative. He lost track of time, the neon glow from his window fading into darkness. The moment he closed the book, the nightmares began.
In his dreams, Ellis wandered through a wasteland of broken towers and blackened lakes. The sky was a sickly yellow, its twin moons casting long, distorted shadows across the ground. The air smelled of ash and decay. He wasn’t alone. A figure moved through the ruins, its tattered yellow robes trailing behind it like mist. It never walked directly toward him, yet somehow, it was always closer than before. Its face was obscured by a veil, but Ellis could feel its gaze, burning and unrelenting. It called his name, its voice sharp and brittle, like shattering glass.
When Ellis woke, the nightmare didn’t fade. The boundaries between dream and waking life blurred. Neon signs flickered and displayed fragments of the text he had read. Strangers on the subway whispered lines from the book, their faces melting into hollow masks as he stared at them. The city itself seemed to shift, its edges folding in ways that made no sense, the familiar streets looping back on themselves.
No matter where Ellis went, he felt the pull of Carcosa.
As the days passed, Solstice began to change. Stars vanished from the night sky, one by one, leaving only darkness behind. The city’s towering skyscrapers flickered in and out of existence, their outlines fraying like old film. The faces of passersby grew indistinct, their voices merging into an unintelligible hum. Ellis knew the truth now—the King in Yellow wasn’t just a story. It was a contagion, infecting the minds of those who read it and spreading through the cracks in reality. Solstice wasn’t dying. It was being consumed.
Ellis returned to the Archive, but the alley where it had stood was gone. In its place was an empty lot, overgrown with weeds. The book was still with him, though. It hummed faintly in his hands, its pages whispering promises he didn’t want to hear.
On the final night, Ellis climbed to the rooftop of the tallest skyscraper, the book clutched tightly to his chest. The city below was unraveling, its streets dissolving into a void that spread like ink across a page. Above, the twin moons of Carcosa hung in the sky, their pale light illuminating the figure that waited below. The King stood at the center of the chaos, his arms outstretched, his presence consuming everything it touched. Behind him, the gates of Carcosa yawned open, promising eternity.
Ellis opened the book one last time. The words glowed brightly, searing into his mind. With a trembling breath, he whispered, “No one will believe me,” and stepped forward.
The next day, Solstice was gone. The bustling metropolis had been replaced by an empty field, its existence wiped from every map and memory. But somewhere, in another forgotten corner of another city, a new Archive appeared. On one of its shelves, The King in Yellow waited patiently for the next soul brave—or foolish—enough to turn its pages.
The Shadow of Ravenwood Bridge
In the heartland of Illinois, tucked away from the highway’s hum and nestled among sprawling cornfields, lies the small town of Pana. Life here has always been slow-moving, defined by quiet summers and the comforting predictability of rural routines. Yet, there is one place in Pana that no local would call comforting: Ravenwood Bridge.
The bridge, hidden off a winding dirt road, feels forgotten by time. Its wooden planks groan under the weight of travelers, its beams sagging from years of neglect. Most would dismiss it as a relic of an earlier era—old but unremarkable. But for the people of Pana, Ravenwood is more than just a bridge. It is a harbinger of unease, a place steeped in shadow and whispered stories that stretch back over a century. By day, the bridge is avoided. By night, it becomes a cursed ground that no sane person dares to tread.
The legend of Ravenwood began in 1892 with the disappearance of Margaret Hale. Margaret, a schoolteacher in her twenties with a reputation for kindness, was last seen during a thunderstorm, walking toward the bridge with a lantern in hand. Witnesses recalled the ethereal image of her white dress glowing in the lantern’s light as she vanished into the sheets of rain. When the storm passed, a group of townsfolk searched the area. They found the lantern, shattered on the wooden planks, but Margaret was gone. Her disappearance sparked conflicting theories. Some said the swollen river had claimed her; others whispered about something unnatural lurking beneath the bridge. Over time, the latter explanation began to stick.
Margaret’s disappearance was only the beginning. Over the decades, others vanished near the bridge—travelers, drifters, even a few curious locals who ventured too close on moonlit nights. Each disappearance fed the growing legend. Those who ventured near the bridge claimed to see a shadowy figure standing at its far end. It never moved, never followed, but its presence was a warning that did not need words. The shadow’s form was wrong, its limbs too long, its outline shifting as though it were made of mist. Those who saw it described an overwhelming sense of dread, a primal urge to flee before they could learn its true intentions.
By the early 20th century, Ravenwood Bridge had become a place of whispered warnings. Parents told their children to steer clear, and travelers passing through Pana learned quickly to take a longer route. Yet the bridge remained, its secrets concealed beneath the murmuring river.
In 1973, Ethan Grady arrived in town. A journalist for a Chicago-based magazine, Ethan was known for his skepticism and his thirst for sensational stories. To him, Ravenwood Bridge was nothing more than a local ghost story, an exaggerated piece of folklore ripe for debunking. Armed with a camera, a flashlight, and—humorously—an iron crowbar (“just in case”), Ethan declared to the townsfolk that he would spend a night at the bridge and uncover the truth behind the legend.
The townsfolk pleaded with him not to go, but their warnings only fueled his resolve. “Superstition thrives where curiosity is stifled,” he had said with a smirk before heading out into the night.
The drive to the bridge was uneventful, the dirt road illuminated by his car’s headlights cutting through the dense countryside. But as he stepped out of the car and onto the bridge, the night seemed to shift. The air was colder here, sharp and biting against his skin. The forest around him fell unnaturally silent—no crickets, no rustling leaves. Even the steady murmur of the river sounded muted, as though the world itself were holding its breath.
Ethan shone his flashlight across the bridge, its beam revealing weathered planks and rusted nails. He muttered to himself as he worked, inspecting every creak and groan with a mix of curiosity and impatience. For an hour, nothing happened. The bridge, he thought, was simply a decaying relic. He began rehearsing the smug opening lines of the article he would write.
Then the air changed.
It was subtle at first—the faintest sense of pressure building around him, a heaviness that clung to his skin. The temperature dropped further, and Ethan felt the hairs on his neck rise. He paused, his flashlight beam trembling as a new sound reached his ears: a faint, whispering rustle, like wind moving through tree branches. Slowly, he turned toward the far end of the bridge.
The Shadow was there.
It stood motionless, its silhouette framed by the pale glow of the moon. It was impossibly tall, its limbs elongated and twisted in ways that defied anatomy. The shape itself seemed to waver, as though it weren’t solid but a projection of darkness. Ethan froze, his breath caught in his throat.
His instincts screamed at him to run, but his curiosity—his stubborn pride—kept him rooted in place. He raised his camera, hands shaking, and snapped a photo. The flash lit the bridge for the briefest moment, and what Ethan saw through the lens nearly sent him to his knees. The Shadow’s surface wasn’t solid—it was made of faces, dozens of them, contorted in expressions of agony and fear. Their mouths were open in silent screams, their eyes hollow and searching.
The camera slipped from Ethan’s hands, clattering to the wooden planks. The Shadow began to move.
It didn’t walk. It didn’t glide. It unfolded. Limbs stretched toward him, elongating like vines twisting through the air. The oppressive darkness seemed to grow thicker, pressing against Ethan’s chest as he stumbled backward.
In a blind panic, he turned and ran. The planks creaked and groaned beneath his feet, each step echoing in the unnatural stillness. When he reached the end of the bridge, he dared to glance back. The Shadow was where it had first appeared, unmoving once more. But Ethan could feel its gaze, those countless faces etched into its form watching him with a malevolent intensity.
He fled to his car and sped back to town, heart pounding as though it would burst from his chest. He didn’t stop until he reached the inn, collapsing into a chair as trembling hands clutched at the camera around his neck.
Ethan developed the film the next day. Most of the photos were blank, overexposed by the darkness. But the final image—the one taken on the bridge—was different. Faint but unmistakable, the Shadow stood at the far end of the bridge, its outline flickering with unnatural light. Its eyes burned like embers, staring back at the lens as if aware of the viewer.
Ethan left Pana shortly after, refusing to speak of what he had seen. He wrote no article, offered no explanation. The townsfolk respected his silence, though they themselves continued to avoid Ravenwood Bridge.
To this day, the bridge stands as it always has, a forgotten sentinel hidden among the trees. On moonlit nights, brave souls who venture near claim to see the Shadow still waiting, still watching. But what it waits for, and why, remains a mystery lost to time and fear.
The Koppaburg Mountains stretched across the western horizon of Dane County like a scar gouged into the earth’s crust, their jagged peaks scraping at the heavens. Always shrouded in a pale, unbroken mist, they stood as a looming testament to an ancient divide—a barrier between the tangible world and the mythic, whispered realm beyond: the World of Everlasting Dreams.
To the people of Hythe, a small, windswept town nestled in the mountains’ shadow, the peaks were more than a geological marvel. They were a threshold, a liminal border between life and something far stranger. Legends and fears intertwined, forming a tapestry of folklore that painted the mountains as a sentient, watchful entity. The fog, they said, was alive, a thinking and breathing force that guarded the passage into the unknown. Those who ventured too far into the mist often returned… but seldom whole. Others never returned at all, their names carved into the town’s memorial stones alongside whispered prayers.
These were not idle stories to the townsfolk. The fog was a living menace, patient and all-encompassing. Dreamers—people who dared to cross into its veil—were its favorite prey. They would emerge as husks of themselves, their minds trapped in some eternal, unreachable slumber while their bodies roamed Hythe’s streets, aimless and unseeing. There was no cure, no reversal, only the haunting reminder that the mountains watched and waited.
Elias Grayson was a man who cared little for legends. A cartographer with a restless spirit, he came to Hythe not to succumb to its quiet superstitions but to conquer them. Armed with a lifetime of training, tools that could measure and map even the most treacherous terrains, and a confidence born of academic rigor, Elias arrived with one goal: to chart the uncharted.
When Elias strode into the town’s only inn, the room fell silent. The patrons—miners, traders, and fishermen who had spent their lives under the Koppaburgs’ shadow—regarded him with a mixture of pity and alarm. They saw him for what he was: a man too proud to listen, too determined to turn back.
As he warmed himself by the fire, he asked the innkeeper about safe routes into the mountains. The older man, his knuckles scarred from a lifetime of hard work, shook his head. “Best route’s the one that keeps you outta that fog,” he muttered, not meeting Elias’s gaze.
Elias waved him off with a dismissive laugh. “Superstition,” he said, his voice loud enough to carry across the room. “The fog’s no different from any other weather. It only seems alive because you’re looking for patterns where there are none.”
His confidence earned no allies. The townsfolk’s warnings grew quieter as they realized the futility of convincing him otherwise.
Elias departed at dawn. The mountains loomed dark against the pale horizon, and the mist hung low, curling around the first ridges like a beckoning hand. As he climbed, the town disappeared behind him, swallowed by distance and fog.
Days passed, and the townsfolk waited. Nights dragged on, and no message came from Elias. The innkeeper, along with a few reluctant volunteers, finally set out to search for him. They only dared approach the mountain’s edge, where the air grew heavy and the fog pressed against their chests like a living thing. There, in the shadows of the ridge, they found his camp.
It was abandoned.
His belongings were strewn about in chaos. Maps lay scattered across the ground, their ink smeared and incomprehensible, as though sketched by a hand trembling with fear. His compass, a finely crafted piece of brass, lay shattered underfoot. But the most unsettling discovery was carved into the bark of a nearby tree. Four words, scratched deep enough to peel the wood: “The fog dreams too.”
The search was called off, and Elias was assumed lost to the Koppaburgs, like so many before him.
But one moonless night, Elias returned.
He appeared in the town square, his silhouette emerging from the mist without warning. When the first villager saw him, they gasped—not with joy, but with dread. Elias’s once vibrant features were pale, his cheeks gaunt and sunken. His eyes, glassy and unfocused, held a faraway look that chilled the onlooker to the bone.
Word spread quickly. Soon, a small crowd gathered, their unease mounting as they watched Elias wander aimlessly. His movements were slow and disjointed, as though his body were being piloted by a force unfamiliar with human limbs.
“It’s Elias,” someone murmured. “But… it’s not.”
He spoke in riddles, his words slurred and halting. “The mountains… alive,” he mumbled. “They see. They dream us. In their dreams… we are nothing. Nothing but shadows.”
The crowd began to shrink, fear outweighing curiosity. Elias continued his ramblings, his voice growing softer with each passing hour. At dawn, the townsfolk awoke to find him gone, as though he had been nothing more than a nightmare made flesh.
All that remained of Elias was a journal he left in the town square, its leather cover damp from the mist. Within its pages, the villagers found an account of his final days in the mountains. The writing was disjointed, alternating between lucid observations and frantic scrawls. There were sketches of landscapes that defied logic—spires that twisted into the sky like corkscrews, islands that floated above rivers of shimmering light. In one passage, Elias wrote of voices in the fog, murmuring in an alien tongue. “They are not malevolent,” he wrote. “But they are not kind. They dream of us, and in their dreaming, they shape us.”
The final page was blank, save for a single line etched deeply into the parchment: “I am awake, but I am not free.”
The story of Elias Grayson became yet another chapter in the grim folklore of the Koppaburg Mountains. To this day, the fog clings to their peaks, impenetrable and eternal. Those who dare approach speak of strange whispers carried on the wind and shadowy figures moving just out of sight. The people of Hythe take no chances. They lock their doors at night and keep their children far from the mountains’ shadow.
For they know the truth. The Koppaburgs are not merely a boundary between worlds. They are a portal—and the toll for crossing is your soul.
The storm descended upon Ashwood with a ferocity that felt almost personal, as though the skies themselves sought to punish the land below. The once-quaint streets of the small town were reduced to rivers of mud and debris, windows shattered by winds that howled like unholy creatures. Trees splintered, their limbs flailing like wounded giants, and the air carried an acrid tang, sharp enough to sting the lungs. By the time the tempest began to wane, Ashwood was unrecognizable—a town stripped bare of its veneer, left only with the remnants of despair.
It was in this desolate aftermath that I found the letter.
I had been searching the wreckage of my home, sifting through the soaked ruins of what once was. Among broken picture frames and tattered books, it lay waiting for me: an envelope, pristine despite the chaos, with my name scrawled across it in red ink. The ink looked as though it hadn’t dried—glistening, almost alive. My heart sank as I picked it up. The weight of the envelope was wrong, too heavy for paper alone. With trembling hands, I tore it open, pulling out the single sheet within. At the top, in jagged, unsteady handwriting, were the words Your Majesty.
Beneath them was the text of the letter itself. It wasn’t long, but each word felt like a dagger driven deep into my chest. I don’t recall the exact phrasing—time and madness have blurred the specifics—but the meaning was unmistakable: the King in Yellow had marked me.
At first, I laughed. It was the laugh of a desperate man trying to stave off the inevitable, a sound too brittle to hold. Of course, I had heard the tales. Every child in Ashwood grew up on whispers of the King in Yellow, a phantom who haunted the edges of reality. They said he had a court that no one could see and a crown that no one could bear to gaze upon. He spoke to his chosen ones through dreams and madness, offering power but taking far more in return. But those were just stories meant to frighten the gullible—or so I had always believed.
Yet, as I held the letter, I felt the thin veneer of my disbelief cracking. The parchment felt warm against my fingers, and the ink seemed to writhe, shifting its shape when I wasn’t looking directly at it. I tried to convince myself it was a cruel prank—a neighbor’s sadistic joke in the wake of the storm—but my mind could not banish the image the letter conjured: the twisted crown of the King in Yellow, his unblinking eyes glowing with an unnatural light.
It began that night.
The storm’s remnants had finally faded, leaving behind an uneasy calm. The moon hung low, its light pale and sickly, as though it too had been tainted by the chaos. I sat by the window, unable to sleep, the letter burning a hole in my pocket. As I stared out at the broken world, I felt it before I saw it: a presence pressing against the edges of my consciousness, a weight that felt too immense to bear.
And then I heard it—a voice, low and guttural, speaking not in words but in sensations. It filled my mind with images I could not comprehend: sprawling cities made of bone and shadow, skies torn asunder by unnameable forces, and a throne at the center of it all, where a figure cloaked in yellow sat in eternal judgment.
“The yellow ink flows from your heart,” the voice murmured, its tone both intimate and cruel. “Into the void. The king awaits.”
I turned away from the window, heart pounding. Every instinct screamed at me to run, though I had no idea where I could go to escape. I bolted from my home, the cool night air doing little to steady my racing mind. The streets were eerily empty, the silence oppressive. Somewhere, in the distance, I thought I heard laughter—high-pitched and mocking.
But it wasn’t until I reached the edge of town that I realized the truth: there was no escaping the King in Yellow. The storm wasn’t over. It had simply taken another form.
The wind returned with a sudden, furious intensity, tearing at my clothes and whipping my hair into my eyes. I stumbled, and as I fell to my knees, I saw it: the book.
It sat in the middle of the road, as though waiting for me. Bound in black leather, its cover bore strange, twisting symbols that seemed to shimmer in the darkness, glowing faintly like dying embers. I wanted to look away, but my body betrayed me. My hand reached out on its own accord, my fingers closing around the book’s edges.
When I opened it, I was no longer in Ashwood.
The landscape around me dissolved into shadows, replaced by a boundless void that stretched in all directions. At the center of it stood a throne, impossibly tall, crafted from the same black leather that encased the book. Seated upon it was a figure that could not be human—a silhouette draped in robes that billowed like smoke, its head adorned with a crown that seemed to twist and writhe, refusing to take a coherent shape.
The King in Yellow.
He spoke no words, but I understood his command. The book was mine now, bound to me as surely as my own soul. It hummed in my hands, resonating with a dark energy that was neither hot nor cold but something altogether foreign. I knew, in that moment, my fate was sealed.
I returned to Ashwood, though I wasn’t the same person who had left it. My mind felt fractured, splintered into fragments that I could not piece back together. The book never left my side. Its symbols glowed brighter in the dark, mocking me with their cryptic power. I tried to burn it once, but the flames recoiled as though frightened. I buried it in the woods, but it reappeared on my nightstand by morning.
And then, one day, I read it.
The words were not words but concepts—shifting, mutable things that wormed their way into my mind. They spoke of the King’s court, a place where reality bent and madness reigned, and where those who bore the book were crowned not as rulers, but as prisoners.
So, if you ever find yourself in Ashwood, and the skies darken with the promise of another storm, take heed. Do not follow the wind, no matter how it calls to you. Do not touch the book, no matter how it tempts you. For once the King in Yellow has marked you, there is no escape.
And if you hear my voice among the whispers, know this: the King may sit upon his throne, but I am his shadow, and I will forever watch the road to Ashwood.
The storm was unrelenting, an unbridled force of nature that battered the small coastal town of Blackthorn into submission. For three endless days and nights, rain lashed against crooked rooftops, wind howled like a grieving banshee, and the sea became a feral beast, tearing at the shoreline with ravenous intent. The docks, once bustling with fishermen hauling in the day’s catch, were eerily silent. Boats that had long defined Blackthorn’s survival now bobbed aimlessly, abandoned to the chaos of the churning waves. The townsfolk barricaded themselves indoors, their breath fogging the windows as they peered out into a world that no longer felt their own.
It was on the third night of this tempest that Dr. Evelyn Marrow arrived. A figure wrapped in a heavy trench coat, her hair plastered to her face by the rain, she stood on the edge of the town’s main road like an ill-omened specter. Evelyn had not come to Blackthorn by chance. She held in her hand the crumpled remains of a telegram, its ink smeared but the message still decipherable: “The idols are stirring. They must be contained.” No name, no sender, no explanation. Just those ominous words. They had dragged her from the safety of her university study, away from dusty books and ancient artifacts, and into the heart of the storm.
The townsfolk were less than welcoming. Their faces were pale, their eyes hollow, as though the storm had stripped them of something intangible. At the inn where Evelyn sought shelter, the innkeeper avoided her gaze, sliding the room key across the counter with hands that trembled. No amount of polite conversation could coax a word from the locals. Their silence was not born of apathy but of fear, a fear that clung to the air like the fog that crept relentlessly inland.
That night, Evelyn sat by the warped window of her room, staring into the darkness. Beyond the lighthouse on the cliffs, waves smashed against the rocks with a fury that seemed almost sentient. The storm was alive, whispering secrets in the language of nightmares. Evelyn felt its pull, an inexplicable compulsion to uncover what lay hidden beneath the surface of this cursed town.
The following morning, Evelyn set out to uncover the mystery of the idols. The telegram’s cryptic warning gnawed at her, its urgency resonating with the uneasy rhythm of the town. Her inquiries led her to the edge of Blackthorn, where the abandoned church stood perched on the cliffs like a sentinel. The church was a crumbling relic of a forgotten time, its stained glass shattered, its pews rotting. Here, the fog seemed thicker, the air heavier, as though the land itself recoiled from what lay within.
Inside, Evelyn discovered what she had been searching for. The stone door loomed at the far end of the church, its surface carved with intricate symbols that defied logic. The figures etched into the stone were faceless yet imposing, their bodies elongated and alien. Their arms were raised—whether in lamentation or fury, Evelyn could not say. She placed a hand on the door and immediately recoiled. It was warm, pulsing with a heat that felt alive. The faintest sound reached her ears—chanting, distant and rhythmic, seeping through the cracks of the stone.
Her search of the church yielded more than just the door. Hidden beneath a broken pew, she unearthed an ancient leather-bound journal, its pages brittle with age and stained by time. The words within painted a grim history of gods once revered but deliberately forgotten. These were deities born of the sea, beings of unfathomable power who demanded worship in the form of blood and sacrifice. When humanity turned away, abandoning the old ways for new beliefs, the gods retreated into slumber, their wrath left simmering beneath the waves. The journal warned of one thing above all: “Do not seek them, lest you wake what cannot be unmade.”
Evelyn spent the day poring over the journal, the storm’s howling serving as a grim soundtrack. The text spoke of idols—artifacts that served as keys to the gods’ prison. It was these idols, it seemed, that the telegram had alluded to. And it was the door, with its pulsating heat and haunting whispers, that stood as the threshold.
The storm reached a new crescendo on the fourth night. Thunder cracked like a divine whip, and lightning illuminated the cliffs in fleeting bursts. Evelyn stood before the stone door, clutching the journal in one hand and a lantern in the other. Every instinct screamed at her to turn back, to leave Blackthorn and its cursed relics to rot in obscurity. But something deeper, something primal, compelled her forward.
With trembling hands, she pushed against the door. It resisted at first, groaning as if in protest, but then it gave way, opening slowly. What lay beyond was not a chamber or a tomb but an abyss. Shadows churned and writhed within, a void that seemed to stretch endlessly. The air was suffocating, thick with the weight of something ancient and hungry.
Then they came.
The figures emerged from the abyss in a torrent of chaos. They were shapes, but not shapes—forms that shifted and writhed, refusing to settle into anything the human mind could comprehend. Their bodies were masses of shadow and light, their edges blurred like smoke. Towering and vast, they moved with a fluidity that defied nature. Their voices were a cacophony of despair and rage, a thousand cries layered upon one another.
Evelyn fell to her knees, the lantern slipping from her grasp. The gods did not speak to her—they didn’t need to. Their presence alone conveyed their fury, their insatiable hunger. They surged forward, their shadowy forms consuming the church and spilling into the town beyond.
Blackthorn stood no chance. The gods moved like a tide, swallowing everything in their path. Streets dissolved into the sea, homes crumbled as though made of sand, and the lighthouse—the last beacon of hope—was extinguished. Evelyn’s scream was lost amidst the cacophony, cut short as the abyss claimed her.
By dawn, the storm had vanished. The sea was calm, the fog lifted. Where Blackthorn once stood, there was only barren coastline. The town had been erased, its history consumed by the gods who now lay dormant once more, deep beneath the waves.
But their hunger was far from sated. Deep in the ocean’s abyss, they waited, their wrath slumbering but never forgotten.
The summer heat clung to the air like a suffocating blanket, yet James only felt the chill of apprehension as he packed his bags for an unexpected stay at his grandmother’s home. At sixteen, James had envisioned his summer as a whirlwind of lazy pool days, video games, and late-night escapades with his friends—not a retreat to the sprawling, remote estate of his eccentric grandmother, Mildred.
Mildred’s house was infamous in the family, whispered about during holiday gatherings. Perched at the edge of a dense forest, it was an architectural relic, its pointed gables and ivy-covered walls evoking images of old-world tales. But it wasn’t the house itself that gave it an infamous reputation—it was Mildred’s collection of porcelain dolls. Room after room, shelf after shelf, they sat with their vacant stares and unsettlingly delicate features. James hadn’t been to her house since he was a child, but he still remembered the way those dolls seemed to follow him with their painted eyes.
As his parents’ car disappeared down the gravel driveway, James stepped onto the creaking porch, the towering door groaning open as though reluctant to let him in. Mildred stood in the doorway, a crooked smile creasing her paper-thin skin. "Welcome, James," she said in her high, wavering voice, her eyes gleaming like polished stones. Her grip was cold and strong as she ushered him in.
James forced a smile. "Thanks for having me, Grandma."
The moment he stepped inside, he froze. The memory of her collection hadn’t done justice to the reality. Dozens—no, hundreds—of dolls filled every inch of the space. Perfectly aligned, their porcelain faces gleamed in the muted daylight, each expression eerily serene. Some sat on high shelves, others on rocking chairs, and more still peered out from behind glass cabinets. A shiver ran down James’s spine as he followed his grandmother further into the house.
Mildred’s enthusiasm about her collection was palpable. Over tea in the sitting room, she spoke endlessly about the "newest additions" and her meticulous upkeep of the dolls. James barely listened, too distracted by the way the dolls seemed to loom over him, their eyes glinting in the dim light.
The days turned into a monotonous blur. James wandered the house, often finding himself drawn to the rows of dolls despite his unease. He began to notice peculiar details—how some dolls looked startlingly lifelike, their faces radiating an almost human sorrow, or how their positions would shift ever so slightly when no one was looking. One evening, as he ate dinner alone with his grandmother, he asked, "Grandma, where do all these dolls come from?"
Mildred’s smile tightened. "Oh, they’ve found their way to me over the years. Each one has its own story, its own soul."
James didn’t like the way she said "soul."
The news around town didn’t help James’s growing paranoia. Almost every evening, the local TV station reported on another missing teenager, their photos plastered across the screen with desperate pleas from their families. What was most unnerving was how, each time one of those reports aired, a new doll would quietly appear in Mildred’s collection. James tried to dismiss the idea as his imagination running wild, but he couldn’t shake the creeping dread.
Nightmares began to haunt his sleep. In them, James found himself in a room full of dolls, their painted mouths opening and whispering his name in unison. He tried to run, but his legs wouldn’t move. He looked down to find his hands stiff and pale, his skin cracking like fragile porcelain. He would wake up drenched in sweat, the whispers still echoing in his ears.
One stormy night, the power went out, plunging the house into darkness. Armed with a flashlight, James roamed the halls, intending to find candles. But as he passed the door to Mildred’s basement, he paused. The door, which was always locked, stood slightly ajar, revealing a set of stairs descending into darkness.
Driven by equal parts fear and curiosity, James crept down the stairs. The air grew colder with each step, carrying an odd metallic tang. At the bottom, his flashlight beam revealed a room unlike any he’d ever seen. Shelves filled with dolls—more than he’d thought possible—lined the walls. In the center of the room stood an altar of sorts, its surface cluttered with strange artifacts: a tattered book with symbols James couldn’t read, bowls filled with dark stains, and candles that had long since melted down to their stubs.
James’s breath hitched as he approached a smaller table nearby. On it sat a row of dolls, their faces eerily familiar. He froze when he recognized one of them—it was an almost perfect replica of Sarah, a girl from town who had gone missing just days ago.
"James," came a voice, soft yet menacing.
He whipped around to find Mildred standing at the top of the stairs, her silhouette illuminated by a flash of lightning. She descended slowly, her expression cold and unreadable. "I told you not to go poking around."
"Grandma," James stammered, "what—what is all this? What are you doing down here?"
Her lips curled into a wicked smile. "Preserving beauty. Preserving life. My dolls, dear boy, are special—they carry the essence of those who’ve wandered too far into the dark."
James’s heart pounded. "You—you’re the reason those kids are missing!"
Mildred tilted her head, as though amused by his realization. "They’re not missing, James. They’re here. With me. Forever."
Before he could react, she began to chant, her voice low and guttural, the words foreign and ancient. James felt his limbs go stiff, his vision swimming. He tried to move, to scream, but his body wouldn’t obey.
The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was Mildred’s face, her eyes gleaming with triumph.
When James opened his eyes, the world felt different. The air was cold, his vision strangely fixed. He tried to move but couldn’t. Panic surged as he realized he wasn’t breathing—not in the way he used to. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a nearby glass cabinet: a porcelain doll, its features a cruel mimicry of his own.
He tried to scream, but no sound came. He was trapped, his soul confined within the fragile shell of porcelain. From his new vantage point, he watched as Mildred lovingly placed him on a shelf, her fingers gentle but unyielding.
"Don’t worry, James," she whispered. "You’re safe now. Part of the family."
Days turned to weeks, weeks to months. James could only watch as other unfortunate souls met the same fate, their screams unheard in the depths of Mildred’s cursed house. His new existence was a prison, an eternity of silence and stillness, his only companions the lifeless dolls that had once been just like him.
And so, the house remained, its secrets hidden behind a façade of eccentricity. Mildred’s collection grew, each doll a silent testament to her dark obsession. And though James’s body would never age, his mind began to fade, his thoughts dissolving into the cold, unfeeling void of porcelain.
Eugene Knickerbocker was a man whose peculiarities were the stuff of local legend. Born into old money, his days were spent amassing more land and more peculiar trinkets, while his nights were reserved for preening before gilt-edged mirrors that dotted the manor he called home. He was an odd figure, with a sharpness to his voice that seemed to echo off walls, and a gait that wavered between a limp and a march. His eccentricity was tolerable, even amusing, but his vanity was monstrous. He loved his life with an obsessive fervor, so when the slow grip of old age began to seize him, he became consumed by a single thought: he could not bear to let death win.
The manor itself mirrored its owner—a sprawling, gaudy labyrinth designed to confuse and impress. Every corner seemed to contain some grotesque artifact of Eugene's travels: a gilded manticore’s paw, tapestries woven with scenes of anguish, and sculptures with faces twisted in eternal screams. He’d wander these halls in the twilight hours, mumbling about his grand legacy, his voice tinged with desperation. By the time he reached seventy-four, his paranoia and fear had turned his mind inward, away from all but the one goal he sought: a life unending.
The storm rolled in with ferocity on the evening of his bargain. Rain lashed the windows as howling winds clawed through the estate’s broken shutters. Eugene, hunched in his armchair, muttered to himself as he stared into the fireplace. The flames had long since dwindled, and the room grew colder, though he didn’t seem to notice. He had been pleading to the shadows, to anything that might listen.
And then, she came.
A gust of wind extinguished the final flickers of the fire. The darkness of the room deepened, and a warmth—unsettling and unnatural—filled the air. Eugene sat upright as the figure of a child emerged from the corner of the room, her presence as blinding as the crackling lightning outside.
“You called for me, Mr. Knickerbocker,” the child said, her voice delicate, yet layered with an unsettling resonance.
Eugene blinked. His first thought was how oddly radiant she was. The golden-yellow hair that spilled over her shoulders seemed to pulse with light. Her eyes were even stranger—two yellow orbs that glowed faintly, casting eerie shadows on the wall. She stood before him in a pale sundress, barefoot and angelic, but there was nothing innocent about the sharp grin that crept across her lips.
“Wh-who are you?” Eugene stammered, though his breath had caught in his throat.
“I am the Yellow Queen,” she said, swaying slightly as she spoke. “And I am here to give you what you seek.”
Eugene’s hands trembled against the arms of his chair. “Everlasting life,” he whispered, voice cracking with a mixture of fear and longing. “You can grant it?”
“Oh, yes,” the Yellow Queen cooed, tilting her head like a bird observing prey. “But all gifts come with a cost. Are you willing to pay it?”
Eugene leaned forward, desperation etched into his weathered face. “Anything!” he cried, his sharp voice reverberating against the walls. “Take my treasures, my lands—everything I own, if it means I can escape death.”
The Yellow Queen giggled—a sound more hollow than mirthful. She stepped closer, and though she stood no taller than a child, her presence seemed to tower over him.
“I don’t want your treasures,” she purred. “What I want is far more precious.”
Before Eugene could reply, she pressed her hand to his chest. Heat surged through him, a violent golden light engulfing the room. It felt as though his very soul was being unraveled and re-stitched, his screams swallowed by the storm raging outside.
When Eugene awoke, the storm had passed, leaving an eerie stillness in its wake. At first, he felt confusion; then, he noticed the absence of pain in his chest, the ease with which he breathed. His once-feeble body now moved without strain. He caught sight of himself in the mirror across the room—a younger, healthier version of the man he once was. Tears of joy streamed down his cheeks as he marveled at his rebirth. “I’ve done it,” he whispered. “I’ve conquered death.”
For the first time in decades, Eugene’s laughter filled the manor. The thought of living forever was exhilarating. He threw open the windows to let sunlight into the musty rooms, wandering the halls with a renewed sense of purpose.
But the first sign of something amiss came quickly. That night, as Eugene admired his reflection, he noticed it lingered too long after he’d moved away. He froze, staring into the mirror. His reflection did not mimic him but stood still, its eyes glinting with malice. Eugene staggered backward, but when he looked again, his reflection was normal, as if nothing had happened.
The shadows came next. They moved unnaturally, warping and stretching around corners, even when no light should have cast them. The servants whispered amongst themselves, their patience with Eugene’s increasingly erratic behavior wearing thin. He dismissed them all, preferring solitude in his strange new existence.
The manor, now empty, grew darker still. By the second week, Eugene began hearing faint laughter. It started in the hallways—light, almost melodic. At first, he dismissed it as his imagination. But it followed him, growing louder each night. And each night, the Queen’s voice echoed in his ears: “Eternity is so lonely, Eugene. I hope you’re prepared for the company I’ll bring.”
His servants vanished, one by one. First the butler, then the housekeeper, and finally the groundskeeper. Eugene searched the estate in vain, but they were gone, leaving no trace save for their possessions and an air of decay. The Yellow Queen’s laughter echoed louder now, reverberating through every mirror, every shadow, every corner of his once-grand home.
Time blurred. Eugene began losing himself in madness. He couldn’t tell whether days or years had passed. His shadow twisted grotesquely in his peripheral vision, the mirrors in his halls now outright defying nature. His reflection was no longer his—it stared at him with golden eyes.
The Queen’s presence never left. Her voice taunted him, sharp and sweet like broken honeycomb. “Forever, Eugene,” she said, her laughter trailing behind. “This is what you wanted.”
Decades turned into an endless spiral of torment. Eugene’s voice grew hoarse from his screams, and his mind buckled under the weight of immortality. He could no longer escape her—she was everywhere, in every room, in every flicker of light. And yet, she remained just out of reach, forever haunting his shattered existence.
To this day, the Knickerbocker estate remains empty to the living. Its curtains are always drawn, its gates forever locked. Yet those who venture close swear they hear something—a faint, echoing laughter in the wind, and the feeling of yellow eyes watching from the shadows.
Eugene Knickerbocker sought eternity but paid a price far greater than he could imagine. For the Yellow Queen never gives without taking—and she always takes more.
The Yellow Queen
Fox Smith, fifteen and restless, sat in his family’s colossal library, surrounded by endless tomes, his fingers grazing their worn spines as he hunted for truth. Somewhere within these books—buried beneath ink, myth, and madness—lay the secrets of the Yellow Queen.
He had heard the stories. Half-truths, passed down in hushed voices, tangled in folklore. But he had seen her.
When he stepped through the Gates of Dawn, when he crossed a threshold no mortal should, he met her—and now, her words followed him.
What was the City of Dreams? Why did she need him to stop it?
But more than that—why had she said he was like her?
The Durkham House library was an ocean of knowledge, its towering six floors reaching back through time with their endless volumes. But below—beneath the foundation—lay the true library, a labyrinth of stone and rot, sinking six levels deep into the earth.
No light reached those depths.
No one dared descend.
Not even his sisters, whose fear of the whispering dark kept them far, far away.
But Fox went anyway.
Down where the world forgot itself.
With only a flickering candle lantern, he stepped forward, its trembling glow licking at decaying shelves, illuminating the skeletal remains of books that should have long since crumbled into dust.
Some titles he understood—English, German, Latin, Greek.
Others were older, etched in languages that had long since vanished from human tongues.
And some… some were written in no human tongue at all.
Some of these books shouldn’t exist.
Some of them felt alive.
Fox moved carefully, running his fingers over bindings that crumbled beneath his touch, as if they had waited for him.
Then—his foot struck something.
A book.
Leather-bound, blackened with age, its cover cracked but intact.
The date on its spine—898 AD.
A book of legends.
Fox lifted it carefully, gathering a few others, then settled at a massive wooden table, the silence pressing in around him like a hand at his throat.
He cracked the brittle pages.
The scent of ancient ink and forgotten truths rose to meet him.
And then—he found it.
A story.
One that should have never survived.
One that spoke of her.
He turned the pages slowly, his breath shallow.
The candlelight flickered—too much.
The darkness behind him felt heavier.
A silence that wasn’t just absence—but attention.
Fox swallowed, the weight in the air pressing against his skin. His fingers trembled over the paper.
Somewhere beyond the bookshelves, beyond the towering archives, something was watching him.
Not his sisters.
Not a lingering shadow.
Something else.
Something that had always known he would come here.
In the sleepy town of Willow’s Rest, the name Marianne was never spoken loudly.
It was whispered, carried on the wind like the memory of an old wound, never truly healing.
Her family lived on the outskirts, near the edge of the forest—their home standing alone, pressed beneath the shadow of towering trees that swayed too slowly, as if watching.
They called her golden-haired, golden-eyed, but never just a girl.
She was something else, something that didn’t quite belong.
And the town knew it.
Marianne was strange, though never cruel. She rarely came into town, but when she did, things happened.
One autumn morning, a butcher’s dog, known for its temper, snarled at her in the marketplace. Its teeth bared, a low growl rising from its throat.
Marianne only watched.
She didn’t flinch, didn’t step away.
She simply looked into its dark eyes, unblinking.
And then—it stopped growling.
Its body went rigid.
Its head tilted slightly, like it was listening to something no one else could hear.
That night, the dog vanished.
Only its collar remained, torn and frayed, sitting at the edge of the forest where the path bled into the trees.
No footprints. No blood.
Just… gone.
Then came Miss Hargrove, the schoolteacher.
One afternoon, she had bumped into Marianne, dropping a handful of books at her feet. Marianne knelt, helping her gather them—her fingers brushing against Miss Hargrove’s wrist.
For a moment, the teacher froze, her breath hitching.
Marianne leaned in, whispering something so soft, so gentle, that no one else heard.
And that night—Miss Hargrove was found wandering the empty streets of town, her nightgown trailing across the dirt.
She spoke in riddles, nonsense words tangled in her breath.
"Shadows take shape… shadows take shape…"
No one could calm her.
Her mind was fracturing, something digging beneath her thoughts, twisting them like roots strangling a foundation.
She never taught again.
One autumn evening, as golden leaves scattered like fire, Marianne walked alone toward the forest.
The air was wrong.
A chill clung to the earth—not the crispness of fall, but something else, something alive, wrapping around the bones of anyone foolish enough to linger too long.
A group of children followed her.
Among them was Clara.
The bully.
The loudest. The cruelest.
"Let’s see where the golden-eyed freak goes," Clara sneered.
But for the first time—her voice wavered.
The children watched as Marianne stopped before an ancient oak, its bark so blackened it seemed untouched by time.
A low hum seeped from the tree—deep, slow, knowing.
Marianne turned, her golden eyes catching the dying light.
"Why have you come?"
Clara smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
"We... we wanted to see what you do out here," she stammered.
Marianne stepped forward.
"There are things in the forest that should not be disturbed," she murmured.
"They do not like to be watched."
The bark split open.
Not like wood—like flesh, peeling back slowly, deliberately.
And then—shadows.
They spilled out, folding over themselves, writhing, shifting too fast for the eye to follow.
The children screamed and ran.
But Clara could not move.
She felt them.
They did not pull her into the tree.
That would have been merciful.
They spread her apart.
Her arms jerked outward, joints snapping, skin stretching too tight, too wrong.
Her jaw unhinged, her mouth twisting into a grin she did not intend, her teeth lengthening—hungry.
Her eyes darkened, turning gold.
A perfect match.
The townsfolk avoided the forest after that night.
But Clara was never gone.
She was waiting.
And sometimes, beneath the hum of the trees, the town heard a voice they once knew.
But did not recognize anymore.
Fox continued to dig through the ancient tomes when he came across another version of the same story, just slightly different.
In the quiet town of Willow's Rest, whispers wove through the streets like a ghostly wind. They spoke of the family on the edge of the forest—a family with bright golden hair and unsettling golden eyes. Most peculiar was the youngest daughter, a girl who seemed to exist in a perpetual state of childhood. She had been there for as long as anyone could remember, yet her face remained unchanged, untouched by the passage of time.
What the townsfolk did not know was that this family was not real. They were fabrications, threads spun from the incomprehensible mind of the Yellow Queen, a being from a higher dimension. Marianne, as the girl called herself, was no child. She was ancient, her true form obscured by the shimmering veil of humanity she wore to walk unnoticed among the fragile creatures of this world.
Her "parents" were her sentinels, their smiles practiced and perfect, their eyes scanning for danger. Her "siblings" were extensions of her will, silent and obedient. The house they lived in was no ordinary dwelling—it was a construct of her power, its walls pulsating faintly with the energy of her dimension, visible only to those who dared to look too closely.
Each day, the Yellow Queen watched the townsfolk from behind her golden eyes. They feared her without understanding why, their instincts warning them of the eldritch presence hidden within her human guise. She did not fault them for their fear. It was natural, after all, to recoil from what one could not comprehend.
But her peace was disrupted one fateful autumn, when a group of children ventured into the forest to follow her. Among them was Clara, a bold girl with a sharp tongue and an unyielding curiosity. They had seen Marianne walking toward the ancient oak, the tree that marked the boundary between their world and the Queen’s fractured realm.
As Marianne reached the oak, the forest seemed to still. The air grew heavy, and the golden light in her eyes brightened, casting eerie shadows. She placed her hand on the bark, and the tree responded with a low hum, a resonance that sent shivers down the children’s spines.
“Why have you followed me?” Marianne’s voice echoed through the clearing, soft yet unyielding.
Clara stepped forward, her bravado masking her fear. “We want to know who you are. What you are.”
The Queen's golden gaze fell upon the girl, and for a moment, sadness flickered in her eyes. “You cannot understand what I am.”
The hum from the tree intensified, and shadows began to seep from its gnarled roots. They swirled and coalesced, taking forms that defied logic—forms that whispered promises of knowledge and destruction in voices that scraped against the edges of the children's minds.
“Go,” Marianne commanded the children, her voice laced with both warning and regret. “This is not a place for you.”
Most of the children fled, their screams lost in the cacophony of the shadows. But Clara stood her ground, her curiosity outweighing her terror. “Are you going to hurt me?” she asked.
Marianne shook her head. “Not I. But the forest does not forgive.”
The shadows surged forward, enveloping Clara in their formless embrace. Her scream was brief, and when it ended, she was gone. Marianne's golden eyes dimmed, and she turned back to the tree. “You did not need to take her,” she whispered. The shadows responded with a chorus of indiscernible whispers, their loyalty to her absolute, yet their nature uncontrollable.
The remaining children returned to the town, their wild tales dismissed as childish imagination. But the whispers grew louder, the fear of the golden-haired family intensifying. Marianne stayed in her fabricated home, her heart heavy with the weight of eternity. She had lived countless lives across countless worlds, always seeking something she could never find. A place where she could simply exist without fear, without destruction, without her nature consuming all around her.
And so, the Yellow Queen waited. For what, even she did not know. Perhaps for the day her family would no longer be needed. Perhaps for the day the shadows would find a new Queen. Or perhaps for the moment when she could finally shed her human guise and return to the incomprehensible expanse of her true home—a place of golden light and eternal stillness.
But for now, she remained in Willow’s Rest, a silent guardian, a hidden terror, an eternal enigma.
Fox continued to dig through the ancient tomes when he stumbled upon another version of the tale—one similar yet unnervingly different.
It was older.
Less folklore, more warning.
He turned the brittle pages carefully, the ink faded but still legible, and read the second telling of the legend of Willow’s Rest and the golden-haired family.
In the quiet town of Willow’s Rest, whispers slithered through the streets like dying breaths.
They spoke of the family at the forest’s edge, of their golden hair, their unnatural golden eyes.
But most peculiar was the youngest daughter.
A girl who had always been there, who had been seen by generations, yet never seemed to change, never grew older.
Her face remained untouched by time’s decay.
And that was why the town feared her.
Because they knew, deep in the marrow of their bones, that nothing remains unchanged without reason.
What they did not know—what they could never know—was the truth:
The family was not real.
They were fabrications, spun into existence from the fractured mind of the Yellow Queen, a being born outside of time and space.
Marianne, as she called herself, was no child.
She was ancient, her true form hidden beneath the shimmering veil of humanity she wore like a costume.
Her parents were sentinels—guards, watching, standing with perfect smiles that never faltered, their eyes tracking movement that no human could see.
Her siblings were not people.
They were extensions of her will, their silence absolute, their existence tied to her presence alone.
And the house they lived in?
It was no home.
It was a construct, built from her power, its walls pulsing faintly, vibrating with an energy that did not belong in this world.
Only those who looked too closely could see it—the breathing walls, the shifting shadows, the illusion barely holding.
Marianne waited.
She always waited.
She watched the townsfolk from behind golden eyes, listened to their voices, let their fear ripple through their bones.
She did not blame them for their terror.
It was natural to fear what one could never understand.
One autumn evening, as golden leaves scattered like fire, Marianne walked alone toward the forest.
The air was wrong.
Not the crisp bite of autumn, but something else, something unnatural, something that felt aware.
A group of children followed her.
Among them was Clara.
The bully.
The cruelest. The loudest.
"Let’s see where the golden-eyed freak goes," Clara sneered, though her voice wavered.
They trailed her through the woods, watching as she stopped before an ancient oak, its bark so blackened it seemed untouched by time.
A low hum seeped from the tree—deep, slow, knowing.
Marianne turned.
Her golden eyes met Clara’s.
"You shouldn’t be here," she murmured.
Clara snorted, trying to hide the chill spreading through her spine.
"We just wanted to see what you do out here," she said.
Marianne stepped forward.
"There are things in the forest that do not like to be watched."
The hum shifted, growing deeper, turning into something wet and breathing.
Then—the bark split open.
Not like wood—like flesh, peeling back in deliberate, slow precision.
The shadows spilled forth, writhing, shifting too fast for the eye to follow.
The children screamed.
They ran.
But Clara could not move.
Her body had betrayed her—her muscles locked beneath unseen weight, her skin cold and burning at the same time.
The shadows reached for her.
Wrapped around her ankles, curling up her ribs, tightening.
Marianne watched, unmoving.
"You shouldn’t have followed me," she whispered.
And then—the forest consumed Clara.
Her arms jerked outward, bones snapping, muscle pulling too tight, as if something underneath had begun to push against her skin.
Her mouth tore open, stretching far beyond its limits—her teeth lengthening, twisting inward, sharp enough to bite herself.
Her fingernails liquefied, pooling at her fingertips before reforming, becoming something else—not claws, not fingers, but fractured things that twitched and listened.
Her screams ruptured, breaking mid-breath into static, into something that no longer resembled a voice.
And her eyes—
Her human eyes vanished, swallowed by molten gold.
A perfect match.
Marianne did not react.
She had seen it before.
Would see it again.
The transformation was slow, deliberate—like a body being rewritten by careful hands, each shift meticulously breaking down what Clara had been, replacing it with something that no longer fit within human memory.
When the other children reached town—panting, wailing, trembling with fear—Clara did not return with them.
No body.
No blood.
Just silence.
The townsfolk never found Clara.
But some nights, when the wind was too still, they swore they heard a voice drifting from the forest—
A voice they once knew.
But did not recognize anymore.
Marianne sat within her fabricated home, the illusion holding, but barely.
She had lived countless lives, in countless places, across countless worlds, always searching.
For what?
She did not know.
A place to exist without fear, without destruction, without the weight of being something that could never be just human.
But that place never came.
So she waited.
Perhaps for the day her family would no longer be needed.
Perhaps for the day the shadows would find a new Queen.
Or perhaps—perhaps for the moment when she could finally shed the illusion, discard the human guise, and return to the golden abyss from which she came.
To a place of light.
Of eternity.
Of stillness that did not allow time to exist.
But for now, she remained in Willow’s Rest.
A silent guardian.
A hidden terror.
An eternal enigma.
Fox traced his fingers along the brittle pages of the first book. The ink had faded, but the date remained clear—898 AD.
Then, he turned to the second tome, its leather spine cracked with age. 1432.
His brow furrowed.
"That’s funny," he murmured.
534 years apart—yet the story had changed. Shifted. Warped.
Legends were supposed to evolve over time, details becoming exaggerated, twisted in the hands of storytellers. But this felt different.
This felt intentional.
And then—the strangest part.
After 1608, the records simply… stopped.
No mentions. No whispers.
She was gone.
Fox exhaled, staring into the dim candlelight. The silence pressed in, thick and knowing.
Why had they erased her?
The Condemnation of Chuck Livingston
Chuck Livingston was born in Taylorville, Illinois, in 1907.
From the beginning, his life was not his own.
His father, a coal miner, was violent, drunken, merciless, his fists shaping Chuck’s childhood in ways no child should endure.
His mother, consumed by religious fanaticism, believed beatings could cleanse the sin from her son’s bones.
Together, they destroyed him before the world even had the chance.
When Chuck turned ten, his father died of syphilis—an ugly, undignified death.
His mother withered in his absence, slipping between the cracks of madness, possibly infected by the same disease that took her husband.
By twelve, she had been institutionalized, and Chuck had been abandoned to the foster system.
He ran.
To the streets. To the alleys. To the places where humanity stopped existing.
And that’s where the world finished breaking him.
The streets did not offer him safety.
They took from him.
The homeless—the wanderers, the drifters—were not kind to Chuck.
They used him.
They did what had been done to them.
They made him one of them, but not in friendship—in ownership, in control, in suffocating violation.
And something inside Chuck shattered for good.
Whatever pieces remained of a boy who might have been anything else were lost.
He was no longer a victim.
He was something different now.
Something that would never be afraid again.
Something that would inflict instead of suffer.
By the time Chuck Livingston reached adulthood, he had become exactly what the world had made him—a creature of cruel indulgence, searching for the same thrill he had been forced to experience in childhood.
Each act brought him closer to something unrecognizable, deeper into the void of his own making.
And then—1955 arrived.
His final act.
The one that would seal his fate.
A ten-year-old girl and her seven-year-old brother disappeared into his home.
The town had known for years.
Had whispered for years.
Had never spoken too loudly, for fear that speaking the truth would make it too real.
But now—there was no choice.
Now, they could no longer pretend they didn’t know.
The police surrounded his house, weapons drawn.
But something had arrived before them.
Something that was never part of their laws, their understanding, their justice.
Something older.
Something that had always been watching.
She stepped from the shadows, her golden hair too bright, her golden eyes too deep.
She did not blink.
She did not breathe.
She simply watched.
Chuck felt something shift inside him, something he had never felt before.
Not fear.
Something worse.
Something like recognition.
He had made choices all his life—choices born from suffering, choices that had turned him into something monstrous, choices that had allowed him to indulge in his own madness.
And now—the Yellow Queen was offering him one more.
Her voice did not come from her lips.
It arrived inside his thoughts, slow, deliberate, wrapping around his mind like silk suffocating the throat.
"You have a choice."
His breath hitched.
"You can leave with them. You can die in their hands, in their chair, beneath their judgment."
She stepped closer.
"Or you can come with me. You can indulge forever. Without punishment. Without consequence."
The air pressed against his skin, bending around him, dragging him toward her like a thing being claimed.
Chuck did not ask where she would take him.
He did not ask what it meant.
He only nodded.
He chose.
And the Yellow Queen smiled.
The officers kicked down the door.
The house was silent.
Chuck Livingston was dead—his skull cracked open, his brain entirely missing, as if something had peeled him away from existence, had taken the essence of his mind and left the rest behind.
No blood.
No signs of struggle.
Just emptiness—a body that had only recently stopped being alive.
And the police would never find his mind.
Because it was not lost.
It was simply relocated.
Chuck awoke.
But he did not move.
His limbs were gone.
His body was gone.
His vision was blurred through something cold, fragile, trembling with golden light.
Then—the truth settled into him.
He was not in his house.
He was not in his body.
He was in the jar.
Suspended in golden light, preserved in the endless echoes of his own fantasies, replaying forever inside the prison of his mind, unable to touch, unable to take, unable to do anything but watch.
Watch as his desires played out endlessly before him—
But they were never real.
And they never would be again.
He had chosen eternity.
But eternity did not mean living.
It meant existing.
Trapped within the space between thoughts.
Unable to hurt.
Unable to indulge.
Unable to be anything more than what he had always been—
A mind unchained from flesh.
A predator who would never hunt again.
Decades later, beneath the suffocating dark of the library’s sub-basement, Fox Smith found the article.
The case of Chuck Livingston.
His crimes.
His unexplained death.
And the whispered theories surrounding his missing brain—
How it had never been found.
How the case had been buried, ignored, left to rot in silence.
How some believed Chuck’s consciousness still existed, trapped somewhere else, somewhere unnamed, somewhere only one figure had ever truly known—
The Yellow Queen.
Fox exhaled, his pulse steady, too steady.
A pattern was forming.
And suddenly—
He was no longer sure that his research was his own choice at all.
Chapter Three: The Case of Charles Collins
Days passed in the suffocating depths of the library’s sub-basement, where time felt suspended, swallowed by dust and silence.
Fox pushed deeper, hunting through crumbling pages and forgotten texts, desperate for anything more—anything that could break through the centuries of whispers surrounding the Yellow Queen.
But something gnawed at him.
The stories were old. Too old.
Marianne had once been spoken of in fear, in hushed warnings—yet after 1608, it was as if she had been scrubbed from history entirely.
Erased.
Fox’s pulse quickened. There had to be more—there had to be something recent.
Something that proved she hadn’t disappeared.
And if the records had chosen to forget her—
then he would find the places that couldn’t.
Fox climbed to the upper levels of the library, stepping away from the dust-choked depths of the sub-basement, his mind still restless, still hunting.
If the ancient books had been stripped of any trace of the Yellow Queen, then perhaps the answer lay somewhere more recent—somewhere forgotten, yet recorded in ink.
The archives stretched back to the 1900s, every brittle page steeped in time, each article a fragment of strange events that had been allowed to exist only in whispers.
Days passed.
The hours blurred into the scratch of paper, the flicker of candlelight, the weight of too many names and too many missing faces.
Then—something caught his eye.
A clipping from 1923, its edges yellowed with age.
Fox ran his fingers over the faded ink.
A name.
Charles Collins.
A man and his family—gone, without a trace.
His pulse quickened as he read the short article:
Collins Family Missing
The Sheriff’s Office is urgently seeking any information regarding the whereabouts of Mr. Charles Collins and his family:
- Mrs. Harriet Collins (wife)
- Charles Jr. (15)
- Elizabeth (13)
- Joy (11)
- Freddy (9)
- Ashley (7)
- Joseph (5)
- Nathaniel (3)
- Sandra (1)
Their vehicle was discovered abandoned along N 750 East Road, near the area locals refer to as Shadow Hill.
No footprints.
No signs of struggle.
No bodies.
Nothing.
Any information regarding their disappearance would be greatly appreciated.
Fox exhaled, staring at the words, his heartbeat steady—too steady, as if his body had not yet decided whether to feel fear.
Something was wrong.
Shadow Hill.
The name clung to the edge of his mind like a whisper left behind in a dream.
He had heard it before.
But where?
And more importantly—why had they vanished so completely?
Fox grabbed the phone, the cord twisting in his fingers as he dialed Nathan’s number.
After a few rings, Nathan picked up.
"Hey, man—what's up?"
"You and Andrew wanna check out the countryside near my place? Thought we could do some digging."
There was a pause.
Then, a sigh.
"We can’t. Our parents caught on to our last escapade—we’re grounded."
Fox exhaled, rolling his eyes.
"Figures. Alright, catch you later."
He hung up the receiver, tapping his fingers against the counter, thinking.
Fine. He’d go alone.
Fox grabbed his backpack, shoved his notebook inside, and swung it over his shoulder.
He was halfway to the door when—
"Fox honey, where are you going?"
He stopped short.
His mother’s voice—warm, familiar, observant.
Fox turned, forcing a casual smile.
"Nowhere real, Mom—just riding my bike around the grounds."
Her eyes flickered with motherly suspicion, but she let out a soft sigh.
"Alright, but don’t go too far—dinner is at five."
She waved him off, and Fox didn’t waste a second.
The door swung shut behind him.
The bike wheels hit the pavement.
And the mansion loomed in the distance—waiting.
Fox sped past endless stretches of cornfields, plunging into the hollows where the South Fork of the Sangamon River lay silent, twisting through the land like an ancient vein. He climbed back up, weaving through another sea of corn until he finally reached the road—his road—the path leading to his destination.
The country road was a dead end, swallowed at its farthest point by the towering mass of Shadow Hill, a forest so dense it seemed to absorb the very light around it. As he pedaled down the long stretch, the thought settled in his mind like a quiet promise: One more year, and I’ll be behind the wheel of my parents' 1982 Ford Granada.
At last, Fox reached the road’s abrupt conclusion, met by the imposing wall of thick, untamed greenery. The only visible entry—a narrow path disappearing into the woods—was marked by a weathered sign, its bold letters slashed across the surface:
KEEP OUT!!!!! Private Property.
But Fox had no hesitation, no fear. The land belonged to his family, and that meant Shadow Hill was his to explore. Though he had traveled far, riding deeper and deeper into the countryside, in truth, he had been following a path that would always lead right back home.
Fox stepped into the woods, the towering trees closing in around him as a chorus of unseen creatures stirred in the underbrush. Birds called from the dense canopy, their cries sharp and fleeting, while something larger—something hidden—rustled through the foliage, just out of sight.
The ground beneath him sloped steeply, forcing him downward, each step kicking loose soil and scattered leaves. As he descended, the well-worn path suddenly vanished, swallowed by the tangled wilderness.
At the bottom, surrounded by towering stalks of weeds that swayed like living sentinels, Fox pushed forward, the air growing heavier, the forest watching, waiting.
Fox ventured deeper into the woods, the towering trees pressing in as the world around him grew unnervingly silent. The rustling leaves stilled, the chirping of birds faded, and an unnatural heaviness settled in the air, thick as fog.
Then, in the clearing, it stood—the ancient oak, gnarled and massive, its bark warped with age and secrets. As Fox stepped closer, he felt it watching, waiting. When his hand met the rough surface, the tree responded.
A low hum shivered through the wood, vibrating into his palm, creeping up his arm. The sound intensified, deep and resonant, shaking something loose in the back of his mind. Shadows seeped from its twisted roots, pooling like ink, and as the hum swelled, Fox’s vision blurred—his eyes flashed yellow.
Then came the visions.
The Yellow Queen stood before the tree, her presence commanding, spectral. A group of children scattered in terror, fleeing into the trees—except for one, the unlucky one, who froze just a second too long. The darkness swallowed them whole.
The Collins family, cheerful, unsuspecting, sat beneath the oak for a picnic. One by one, the shadows reached, stretched, pulled—until nothing remained but their abandoned blanket.
More came. More victims. More disappearances. Each drawn to this cursed spot, each consumed in the same relentless manner. The tree was speaking, feeding him its truths, downloading decades of horror directly into his mind.
Then he heard her—Marianne.
The Yellow Queen, whispering, urgent, her voice in his head:
"Run!"
Fox ripped his hand away from the tree, breath ragged, terror spiking through his veins. He turned and sprinted, feet pounding against the forest floor, shadows twisting and surging behind him, reaching, hungry.
He burst from the woods, flung himself onto his bike, and pedaled hard, racing down the country road. His pulse hammered, his thoughts a chaotic blur. Only when he glanced back did he realize—the shadow had stopped, lingering at the forest’s edge, unable to cross.
Still, Fox didn’t dare slow down. He rode until the trees shrank into the distance, until the familiar stretch of the main road came into view. As he reached it, his breath steadying, he felt the change—his eyes, once yellow, shifted back to their normal blue-green.
Fox knew one thing—he wasn’t going back to that tree.
But Shadow Hill still called to him. Somewhere in its depths stood an old farmhouse, hiding secrets he couldn’t ignore.
For now, though, the manor awaited. It was late, dinner would be soon, and if he didn’t make it back on time, well—he’d never hear the end of it.
Chapter Four: The Mystery Of Chuck Livingston’s House
Fox Smith stood with his three friends—Nathan Brook, Andrew Brook, and Michael King—before a forgotten stretch of land, swallowed by tall weeds and twisted trees, its presence marked by an unsettling stillness. At its center, a dilapidated, one-story house of cracked cinder blocks loomed, heavy with history.
A place once owned by Chuck Livingston.
The name alone carried a weight that sent shivers down their spines—a monster in human skin, a predator, a killer. The house was more than abandoned—it was tainted, steeped in the echoes of the unspeakable horrors he left behind.
Andrew exhaled sharply, folding his arms. "Great. We’re back here again."
Fox smirked. "Hey, at least we don’t have to worry about bank robbers this time. Or the cops."
Michael narrowed his eyes. "Remind me why we’re here?"
Fox hesitated, then said, "Research."
Andrew groaned. "And why do we have to get involved?"
"Yeah, seriously," Michael added.
Fox shot them both a glance. "Because I really don’t want to be in there by myself."
Nathan, quiet until now, finally chimed in. "What are you afraid of? I thought your family bought this land. This house is yours now."
Fox’s expression darkened. "Yeah, but it’s better with numbers."
Nathan crossed his arms. "So, what exactly are you researching? Is this about the inter-dimensional hub?"
Fox shook his head. "No. It’s about her."
He pulled a weathered photograph from his jacket and held it out for them to see—the image of a girl, unnervingly still, her hair the color of sunlit decay, her eyes yellow as burning embers.
Andrew’s breath hitched. "HEY! I’ve seen her before!"
Michael scoffed. "No, you haven’t."
Andrew’s expression tightened. "Yeah, I have. Remember when we were stuck in the hub? Fox was trapped in the 1800s, and we had to find that replacement bracelet for him."
Nathan nodded slowly. "Yeah, I remember."
Andrew continued, voice thick with certainty. "We found that room—stacked with diamonds and gold, piles of coins, gold bars lined against the walls. But in that room, there was a painting. And in that painting… that girl."
Michael frowned. "You must have been dreaming."
"No," Andrew snapped. "I remember it. I asked Michael what he was looking at, and it was her. The girl with yellow hair and yellow eyes."
Nathan turned to Fox, voice edged with urgency. "Who is she?"
Fox exhaled slowly. "She’s called the Yellow Queen. And I’ve met her before."
Michael’s eyes narrowed. "Where?"
Fox’s gaze darkened. "In a pocket dimension, behind the Gates of Dawn."
Andrew snorted. "So what, Fox? You into little girls now?" His laughter cut through the tension, mocking, careless.
Fox ignored him, his voice colder now. "There’s more. She told me—she planned all of this."
Nathan stiffened. "What do you mean?"
Fox swallowed. "She said everything was her design—me coming to Taylorville, us finding the inter-dimensional hub, and everything else."
Andrew scoffed. "Ha! She can’t do that—she’s just a kid."
Fox’s gaze sharpened, his voice low, unwavering. "No. She is a trans-dimensional being—with god-like powers. She is the Yellow Queen. The God of Choice and Decisions."
A silence settled between them, thick with unspoken thoughts.
Michael finally broke it. "What’s her endgame?"
Fox inhaled, then spoke. "She wants us to find something. Something called the City of Dreams. She said it’s our destiny."
Andrew’s voice was laced with sarcasm. "You guys seriously gonna believe him?"
Nathan exhaled. "We’ve seen weird things in the past four or five years."
Andrew scoffed but said nothing.
Nathan glanced at his younger brother. "Remember when we first came here? To research Chuck Livingston?" His voice lowered. "We got chased by bank robbers. Found the inter-dimensional hub. We saw things we weren’t meant to see. So if Fox says this is true… it probably is."
Andrew shook his head. "Fine, but what does this have to do with this place?"
Fox’s voice was almost a whisper now. "I believe Chuck Livingston met the Yellow Queen."
Michael narrowed his eyes. "And that’s why he disappeared?"
Fox nodded.
Silence hung between them once more. The dilapidated house loomed behind them, watching, as if it, too, held secrets waiting to be unearthed.
After a lengthy debate, the four boys crossed the threshold, stepping into the abandoned house through its open doorway.
The kitchen was the first room they entered, the air thick with dust and neglect. Three large, black duffel bags sat ominously in the corner, their bulky forms betraying the weight of something dangerous inside.
Andrew’s voice cut through the silence. "Hey, there’s those guys’ bags."
Nathan eyed them warily. "Yeah, they left them behind while they were chasing us."
Fox smirked. "Well, they won’t be needing them now—not while they’re stuck in 1868."
Michael shot him a sharp look. "You might want to get rid of that stuff before the law comes sniffing around."
Fox shrugged. "Yeah, yeah—I’ll deal with it soon."
Andrew clapped his hands together, impatient. "Well, let’s look around." He was already moving deeper into the house, curiosity overriding caution.
Michael hesitated, rummaging through a half-collapsed stack of boxes. "What exactly are we looking for?"
Fox’s gaze drifted across the room, eyes scanning the decay. "I don’t know. But when I see it—I’ll know."
They spent hours picking through forgotten belongings, sifting through memories that had long been left behind. Dust settled on their shoulders, time dragging them through room after room—until at last, they reached the garage.
Fox hesitated in the doorway, his breath catching in his throat.
There, among the scattered debris, lay a lone beer can—the same can he had tripped over the last time they were here. The memory flooded back—how they had barely escaped the four bank robbers, how desperation had sent them running for cover, how they had hidden inside an old outhouse sitting in a drainage ditch, only to discover—
It wasn’t an outhouse at all.
It was an inter-dimensional hub.
Fox kicked the rusted can across the floor, the clatter echoing through the decaying house as the boys tore through the stacks of forgotten boxes.
"Hey, this time I can actually help—I don’t have to sit by the window and keep watch," Fox muttered.
"Yeah, yeah—let’s just hurry up," Nathan said, rifling through a crate.
But as the minutes stretched on, frustration settled like dust in the air. They found nothing—no clues, no answers, just junk and disappointment.
Fox sighed and collapsed onto the floor, arms resting on his knees. Defeat etched itself into his expression.
"There’s nothing here," Andrew grumbled. "This place isn’t helping your case at all."
"Total waste of time," Michael groaned. "Let’s just go back to Fox’s place and play Nintendo."
Nathan smirked. "Now that I can get behind. What do you say, Fox?"
Fox was about to agree—until his gaze caught something beneath the workbench.
A door.
Small. Hidden. Something he’d never noticed before.
His breath hitched, and he leaned forward on his hands and knees, eyes narrowing. "Hey, guys—look at this."
Nathan stepped closer, brow furrowed. "I never saw that before."
Fox reached for the latch and pulled. The door creaked open, revealing a stairwell descending into darkness.
Nathan didn’t hesitate. "I’ll go first," he said, squeezing through the small opening.
On the other side, the space widened—enough for him to stand upright. Fox followed, then Michael, then Andrew, their footsteps echoing down the tight stairwell.
They stepped into a cold, dark room, the air thick with dust, the walls painted black. Cobwebs clung to every corner, swaying like ghostly threads.
Then they saw it.
Across the room, on a shelf, sat something impossible—a long spheroid container, its surface sealed and slick with green slime. A glass slit ran down its side, revealing something beneath the murky liquid within.
Fox raised his flashlight and peered inside.
The beam cut through the darkness.
And he saw it.
A horror unlike any he had ever imagined.
Fox’s breath stilled, his pulse hammering against his ribs.
"Guys," he said, voice barely above a whisper.
"What?" they all replied, stepping closer.
Fox lifted a shaking finger, pointing at the thing in the container.
"I think we found Chuck Livingston."
The boys took turns peering into the murky liquid, their breath shallow as the grotesque form came into view—a brain, suspended in the slime, its presence impossible to ignore.
Andrew recoiled, voice sharp. "DUDE!"
Michael swallowed hard. "Maybe we should call the cops."
Fox exhaled, shaking his head. "Why? He’s been down here since 1955—people have long since forgotten about him." He gave a bitter laugh. "Besides, what are we gonna tell them? ‘Oh hey, officer, we were searching for evidence of a godlike entity called the Yellow Queen, and happened to stumble onto one of her victims’? Yeah, that’ll go over well."
Nathan hesitated. "Fox... actually makes a decent point."
Fox crossed his arms. "Knowing these cops, they’d probably think we killed someone and stuck their brain in a jar."
Silence settled over the group—the weight of the discovery pressing down on them.
Andrew shuffled uneasily. "So, what do we do?"
Fox’s gaze lingered on the container, the glass slick with slime, shadows shifting beyond its edges. His voice dropped. "We leave it. It’s here for a reason. And if it’s a trap set by the Yellow Queen, then whoever takes it… she might come for them."
Andrew frowned. "Isn’t that what we want?"
Fox turned to him, expression dead serious. "No. She’s powerful, Andrew. If she cut the brain out of a grown adult, what do you think she could do to us? I’ve read stories—there’s something watching for her. Something dark. It’s part of her power."
Michael stiffened. "Wait—you said ‘dark force’—like black?"
Fox narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, why?"
Michael pointed at the walls. "Tell me… why would someone paint the inside of a small basement completely black?"
Nathan’s gaze swept the room, unease crawling into his voice. "I see your point."
Fox’s voice lowered to a whisper. "I suggest we walk out of here as quickly as possible."
No one argued.
The boys scattered, bolting toward the stairs, scrambling out through the small door. Fox, the last to leave, turned back—and froze.
She was there.
Standing next to the container, her yellow eyes glowing in the harsh beam of his flashlight.
The Yellow Queen. Watching him. Waiting.
Fox slammed the door shut behind him, heart hammering in his chest.
Nathan, Andrew, and Michael shoved a heavy crate beneath the bench, barricading the entrance in frantic urgency.
Nathan’s voice was sharp, decisive. "No one moves that box. Ever."
The boys exchanged nods, silent in their unspoken understanding.
Then they left—away from the house, away from the brain, away from her.
Heading to Fox’s place, they buried themselves in the distraction of video games, but Fox’s thoughts never left the basement.
He was getting close.
And his research into the Yellow Queen was far from over.
It was the summer of ‘74, when bell-bottoms dragged through the dirt and Led Zeppelin crackled through cheap car speakers, when six teenagers—young, reckless, untouchable—laughed beneath the looming trees of Shadow Hill, the scent of cigarette smoke curling into the thick humid air.
The woods had been calling them all week, whispered about behind school lockers and late-night phone calls—the abandoned farmhouse at its center, waiting like a dare no one had quite been bold enough to take.
Mark flicked his Zippo lighter, watching the flame twist against the breeze. “We seriously doing this?”
Cindy adjusted the strap of her halter top, smiling. “Obviously.”
Tommy grinned, kicking up loose gravel. “What, you scared?”
Beth stayed quiet, rubbing her hands against her frayed jeans, eyes fixed on the narrow path ahead. The others weren’t paying attention, but she was. Something about the trees felt too still, the air too thick—like the forest was waiting for them.
The farmhouse appeared between the trees, its silhouette too perfect, untouched by decay despite decades of neglect. The windows were not shattered, not even dusty—just black, soulless glass, reflecting nothing.
Tommy exhaled sharply, stepping onto the porch. “Hell yeah. This place is a trip.”
Beth hesitated, her stomach turning. Don’t go inside.
She ignored the thought.
The front door creaked open, revealing a cavernous interior lit only by melted candle wax pooled across the floor like dried blood.
The air felt wrong.
Mark stepped forward, dragging off his joint, inhaling deep. “Perfect place to get high.”
The others followed.
Beth swallowed hard, stepping inside.
Then the whispers began.
"Can't you see?"
The voice didn’t come from the room. It came from inside them, curling against their ribs like a cold thread pulling tighter with every breath.
Beth squeezed her eyes shut, heartbeat hammering. Go back. Run.
She blinked—
Dave saw her.
At the top of the staircase, a small girl stood, her yellow hair falling over her shoulders, her gold eyes fixed unblinking on them.
The candlelight did not touch her. The shadows did not cling to her.
The house bent toward her, as though struggling to contain what she truly was.
Beth shook violently, stepping backward.
Then the girl was gone.
The house groaned.
Beth disappeared first.
Cindy had reached for her—and grasped nothing.
Her voice broke—“Beth?”
Nothing.
The door was gone.
The farmhouse had closed its mouth.
Angela grabbed Mark’s arm, nails digging into his skin. “She was just here.”
Mark nodded numbly, his breath uneven. Cindy turned in circles, scanning the room, voice tight with denial.
“She’s messing with us.” She forced a laugh, shaky. “Come on. She’s hiding.”
But Beth’s bag was still here. Her shoes. Her cigarette. Her jacket.
And she would never leave them behind.
“She’s still here,” Angela whispered, eyes darting to the dark hallway ahead.
Mark inhaled sharply, shaking his head. “We find her. Then we get the hell out of here.”
They ran. Upstairs. Into dark corridors. Through twisting hallways that should not exist.
The candlelight flickered, revealing shapes moving in the shadows.
Then—
Tommy disappeared.
One blink. One breath. Gone.
Angela screamed, stumbling backward, her face pale, panic clawing up her throat.
“This is wrong. This is—”
Cindy disappeared.
Angela’s breath hitched, her body trembling. “They’re— They’re gone.”
Mark grabbed her wrist. “Don’t run off. We stay together.”
Angela nodded quickly, forcing herself to breathe, trying to ignore the way the walls felt closer than before.
A sound clicked through the darkness—not a voice. Not footsteps. Something else.
Then Dave vanished.
Mark turned, eyes wild, calling out his name—but what answered was not his friends.
Beth crawled into view, her limbs stretched impossibly long, her bones folded like paper, her skin slick, her pupils widened into black pits, ink dripping from her mouth as if her body was rejecting the transformation but unable to stop it.
From the farthest doorway, Tommy dragged himself into the candlelight, his face split into something too wide, his grin stretching past the natural curve of his skull, his jaw unhinged but still forming something resembling a smile.
Mark froze, horror crashing into his chest.
Angela clutched his arm, shaking violently, eyes locked on the creatures.
Then Cindy pulled herself into view, her hair twisting like rope, her fingers too long, her ribs stretching outward as she dragged herself toward them, movements unnatural.
And Dave—his skin peeling, slipping, his body bending into a shape that should not exist, his mouth splitting open into something resembling teeth but no longer human.
At the top of the stairs, she stood again, watching.
The Yellow Queen.
Angela choked back a sob. “She’s doing this.”
She had not hunted them. She had never touched them.
She had simply let the house do what it was meant to do.
Mark never screamed—his body bent, his ribs widened, his arms folded backward, his skin stretched until it wasn’t skin anymore.
Angela felt her body pull apart, skin unraveling, bones cracking into something new.
Final Silence
The house was still again.
It breathed, satisfied.
And its new creatures crawled back into the dark.
The Collins Farmhouse
Days had passed since Fox and his friends had stumbled upon the horror buried beneath Chuck Livingston’s house. The secret basement, the grotesque brain sealed within its container, and the haunting presence of The Yellow Queen still clung to his thoughts—an ever-present shadow at the edge of his mind.
And so, Fox did exactly what he had promised.
Deep within his family manor—in a section long abandoned, sealed off from daily life—he carried the metal container, its weight feeling more ominous than physical.
Dust thickened the air, silence pressing against him as he entered a room untouched by time—a place no one ever dared to enter.
He stepped inside, placed the container on the cold floor, and left it there.
Buried within the depths of the manor, sealed away from prying eyes, the brain of Chuck Livingston remained.
Waiting.
Watching.
And Fox couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere, somehow… it wasn’t truly dead.
The sun hung low, bleeding orange light through the thinning trees as Fox, Nathan, Andrew, and Michael pedaled toward Shadow Hill.
They took the farthest road, steering clear of the twisted tree Fox had warned them about.
And yet—even miles away, Fox could still feel it.
Watching.
Waiting.
Something unnatural thrived in these woods.
A half-hour later, they reached the Collins Farmhouse.
The house loomed before them—shrouded in vines, its wooden frame bowing under years of decay.
Fox slowed his bike, staring up at it.
“This place looks kinda… familiar,” he murmured.
Michael wiped sweat from his brow. “How the hell would you remember some abandoned house?”
“I don’t know,” Fox admitted. But something gnawed at his memory.
Nathan kicked at a loose stone. “Alright, so what’s the plan? We go in, snoop around, and hope nothing eats us?”
Andrew shot him a glare. “Real encouraging.”
Fox didn’t answer. He was already moving toward the entrance.
The door released—a long, groaning sigh as wood bent inward, welcoming them into its maw.
Michael shuddered. “This place should be wrecked by now.”
But it wasn’t.
The furniture stood, intact. Dust lay undisturbed, the armchairs worn but firm, the table set as if dinner had been waiting—for decades.
Nathan whispered, his voice tight. “This place isn’t abandoned.”
Fox felt it—a pulse beneath the floorboards, a hush behind the walls.
Something remained alive.
Not human.
Not ghost.
Something worse.
The stairs felt too long beneath their feet—stretching, shifting, the house breathing as they climbed.
And at the end of the hallway, silhouetted against the dim glow of the window—
Figures stood waiting.
Children.
But not.
Their bodies jerked, limbs elongated, heads tilting too far, mouths stretching into something that wasn’t speech—just wet movement.
Their skin rippled, translucent, as if something inside still fought to surface.
Fox’s breath hitched.
Michael stepped back, his voice barely a whisper—
“We need to run.”
They turned, racing down the stairs, but the air thickened, the walls closed, the space warped.
Fox felt fingers graze his back—not grabbing, not stopping.
Just reminding him.
The house knew him.
It had waited for him.
Nathan burst out onto the porch first, gasping for breath.
Andrew and Michael followed, scrambling onto their bikes.
Fox paused—just for a second.
He stared up at the house—at the children watching from the windows, their faces pressing too close against the glass.
Not pleading.
Not afraid.
Just waiting.
His fingers shook around the handlebars.
And then, in a voice barely above a whisper—
“…I’m done looking for the Yellow Queen. For now.”
And the house—Collins Manor—stood in the darkness, its hollow eyes never blinking, never closing.
Just watching.
The Third Floor
Fox Smith had heard the stories—whispers of missing students, rumors of the hidden floor that shouldn’t exist. It was the kind of urban legend that lived in abandoned schools, passed between hushed voices during late-night dares.
But no one could ever prove it was real.
Tonight, that changed.
Fox stood outside the decaying school, his flashlight beam cutting through the dust-heavy air. The building had been condemned for years, yet the front doors opened for him effortlessly, as if inviting him inside.
The silence pressed against his ears as he stepped through the threshold. His heart pounded. This was supposed to be just another ghost hunt, just another stupid dare—but something about the darkness in these halls felt… hungry.
And then he saw it.
A door at the end of the corridor. Unmarked. It hadn’t been there before.
Against every instinct screaming in his head, Fox reached for the knob and turned it. The moment the door swung open, he was no longer in the abandoned school.
He was on The Third Floor.
The corridor stretched endlessly, shifting with each uncertain step. Doors lined the walls, some hanging loose on rusted hinges, others sealed shut as if they had never been meant to open. The air was thick, stagnant—like it had been trapped here for too long.
Fox moved cautiously, feeling something watching him from the shadows. The silence was oppressive, heavier than it should be, as if every sound had been swallowed by the very walls.
Then came the whispers.
Soft, silk-like voices, skimming just past his ears, teasing him with words he couldn’t quite understand.
He wasn’t alone.
The shadows rippled.
Something shifted down the hallway—elongated, unnatural, limbs moving in a slow, deliberate manner. It was him.
The Candyman.
Fox ran.
The corridor warped, stretching farther and farther, the doors blurring into a seamless wall of despair. The whispers followed him, crawling beneath his skin. The air grew thick, suffocating.
And then, he tripped.
Fox hit the floor hard, his flashlight skidding away, plunging him into the abyss of darkness. A long, twisted hand wrapped around his ankle.
He screamed.
The Candyman loomed over him—his body a grotesque parody of humanity, his face stretched and obscured beneath a veil of silk. His fingers—too many fingers—brushed against Fox’s throat, testing, measuring.
Fox could feel his own bones shifting.
The Candyman did not kill.
He remade.
Long before he was a nightmare lurking in The In-Between, before The Third Floor became his hunting ground, he was a man. A man with a name, a face, a life.
But those details no longer mattered—because the person he once was had long since been erased.
Years ago, there was a school unlike any other—a place that was never meant to exist for long. It appeared suddenly, without records, without history, and for a brief moment, it was real.
Students walked its halls, teachers taught their lessons, and yet none of them truly belonged to the world outside.
And then, one day—it was gone. The school vanished overnight. No wreckage, no signs of abandonment. Just an empty plot of land where something once stood.
No one remembered it. No one could recall ever seeing it.
Except for him.
He had been a janitor—or at least, that’s what the records claimed. But those records no longer exist.
On the final night before the school disappeared, he wandered beyond the locked doors, into a part of the building no one was meant to enter—an unfinished corridor, stretching too far, the walls breathing as if they had a pulse.
And there, something waited for him.
Something ancient. Something hungry.
It whispered promises—offering him a place beyond time, beyond limits. It spoke of immortality, of transformation.
Terrified, yet unable to turn away, he accepted.
And in that moment, he ceased to be human.
His body twisted, bones stretched, his flesh unraveled and reformed, his fingers elongated into tools of remaking.
No longer did he exist within reality. He had become something else—something that belonged to The In-Between.
The school had served its purpose; it dissolved into the void, leaving behind only one thing—The Third Floor, his domain, his nest.
He did not hunt out of necessity.
He hunted because he had been made to.
Fox closed his eyes, waiting for the end. But then, something changed.
The air shifted. The whispers stopped.
A golden light seeped through the cracks, swallowing the corridor in an overwhelming glow.
The Yellow Queen had found him.
The Candyman shrank back, twisting in frustration, unable to touch Fox now, unable to mold him into something else. He watched, unreadable, as the light swallowed the corridor.
And then—Fox was free.
Fox woke outside the school, gasping for air, his limbs trembling. He was whole. He was human.
But something still lingered.
The whispers remained.
And late at night, when the world was quiet, he swore he could hear something scraping against his walls.
Because once The Candyman has seen you…
You are never truly forgotten.
Eleanor had loved James since the moment she first saw him—the kind of love that sank deep into her bones, the kind that made the world feel lighter in his presence.
For years, they had been inseparable. Their laughter wove through the quiet streets, their whispered dreams carried by the wind. They had promised each other the future—held hands beneath the stars and sworn they would never let go.
But promises could not stop fate.
James had always believed in chasing life’s greatest adventures, and when opportunity knocked—a chance to travel, to photograph the world—he left.
“Just a year,” he’d promised. “Then I’ll be back, and we’ll start our life together.”
Eleanor smiled through her heartbreak and kissed him goodbye at the train station.
But he never came back.
The news arrived in the form of a single phone call. A car crash. A terrible storm. James had been somewhere far away, lost to a fate neither of them had foreseen.
Eleanor’s world collapsed.
She spent days rereading his old letters, tracing the ink with shaking fingers, searching for remnants of the warmth he had left behind.
But there was one letter—one she had never sent.
It sat on her desk, untouched, sealed in an envelope that carried words of devotion, words she had written the night before he left.
I’ll wait for you forever. I don’t need the stars, or the perfect ending—just you.
And now, he would never read it.
Eleanor never stopped loving him. She grew older, but her heart remained tethered to a love that had been stolen too soon.
She never married, never filled the empty space beside her in bed.
Yet, every morning, she placed fresh flowers beside his old letters. Every night, she whispered his name like a prayer to the wind, hoping—just once—it would carry back a reply.
She never sent the letter.
And in time, the ink faded, the paper yellowed, but the words—the words remained.
When Eleanor was finally ready to leave the world behind, she asked for just one thing.
She wanted the letter placed with her.
And so, when the earth cradled her for eternity, the letter lay folded in her hands—never read, never answered, but forever hers.
Because some loves don’t end.
They linger, just beyond reach, waiting in the echoes of time.
The Sound of Rain
Daniel always loved the rain.
To him, it was music—the soft percussion against rooftops, the gentle rhythm of droplets hitting pavement, the hum of water pooling beneath streetlights.
And then there was her—Anna, who never understood his fascination with storms but loved him enough to pretend she did.
She would sit beside him at the window, watching the rainfall with him, fingers laced through his.
“You and your rain,” she’d tease.
And he would just smile, because she was his favorite melody in the downpour.
For years, they talked about growing old together—about chasing the kind of life that stretched beyond fleeting moments.
They spoke of sun-drenched mornings and quiet evenings, of raising children, of filling their home with laughter.
They never imagined a world where one of them wouldn’t be there.
But Anna got sick.
It was sudden, cruel—an unraveling that stole her from him in pieces, too fast and too slow all at once.
Daniel held her through every sleepless night, whispered promises into her trembling hands.
“I’ll stay with you. Always.”
And she tried to believe him.
On the final night, when the world already felt empty without her, it rained.
Daniel sat at her bedside, the sound of the storm wrapping around them like a whispered farewell.
Her breaths were shallow, weaker by the second, and yet, she still managed a smile.
“I get it now,” she murmured.
He frowned.
“The rain,” she said. “It sounds like you.”
And then she was gone.
The house was quieter after that.
Daniel stopped playing music.
Stopped dreaming about the future.
But the rain—it never left him.
Every storm reminded him of her, every drop carried echoes of her laughter, her voice, the warmth of her hand in his.
And sometimes, when the downpour was heavy enough, he could swear he heard her whisper.
Not in sadness.
Just in love.
The Hollowing
Aboard the derelict research vessel Erebus, adrift beyond the orbit of Neptune, the crew of the salvage ship Absolution finds only silence.
The vessel looms in the blackness, its hull scarred, its beacon pulsing weakly against the void. No distress signals, no calls for help—just the cold hum of a ship that should not still be alive.
The logs end abruptly.
Life support systems remain operational. The oxygen is stale, heavy with something they cannot name.
But there are no bodies.
Not at first.
They find remnants of them pressed against the walls, dripping onto the grated floors.
The scientists are not dead.
Not entirely.
They slump in unnatural shapes, moving with slow, agonized effort—fingers stretching too far, muscles thinning into translucent sheets. Skin hangs loose, slipping from skeletal frames like melted wax.
And beneath the shifting folds, something pulses. Something aware.
When Captain Rho kneels beside one—one that still breathes—she hears it whisper.
Not words.
Not pleading.
Just a low, wet sound, like cartilage shifting where it shouldn’t.
She steps back, heart hammering.
And then it laughs.
As the crew navigates the corridors, they feel it—the walls breathing, listening. The metal is not metal anymore. It hums, pulses, guides them.
The ship is alive.
Engineer Malik runs his hands along the bulkheads, trying to make sense of the warping interior.
“This metal shouldn’t—”
Then he stops.
His fingers sink into the surface.
The wall retracts as he jerks away, strands of glistening fluid stretching from his skin.
Something is absorbing him.
Something knows him.
The crew realizes too late.
It is inside them now.
Not a virus. Not a parasite.
It is Erebus.
They stumble toward the engine room, desperate to activate emergency thrusters, to flee before the change becomes permanent.
But their bodies betray them.
Malik’s legs bend where they shouldn’t, the bones sliding within
Where the Lighthouse Fades
The lighthouse stood on the edge of the world, its beacon slicing through mist and midnight like a desperate call to the lost. It had witnessed decades of tides swallowing the shore, yet it had never seen heartbreak like his.
Elias had built his life around that tower—its creaking stairs, its salt-stained windows, the rhythmic pulse of the lantern. It was more than duty. More than routine.
It was a promise.
A promise to Camille.
She had arrived with the summer winds, stepping onto the rocky shore with sand clinging to her boots, laughter curling at the edges of her lips.
Elias had never believed in fate—not until her.
They met beneath the golden glow, stolen hours shared beneath the endless waltz of the waves. She would rest her head against his shoulder, tracing invisible patterns on his arm as she whispered dreams of leaving, of chasing sunrises in places neither of them had seen.
“One day,” she said. “I’ll return, and we’ll leave this place. Together.”
He had believed her.
Of course, he had believed her.
But time was a quiet thief.
First came distance, then silence. Letters dwindled to echoes of what once was, ink smudging like tears unshed.
Still, Elias waited.
Every night, he climbed the tower, lit the lantern, and searched the horizon for her.
She would come back. She had promised.
Years passed.
The sea roared. The winds screamed. But no shadow of her returned.
And then, one evening, as the fog swallowed the shore, he saw her.
Or something like her.
She stood at the water’s edge, hair wild against the wind, her dress flowing like mist over the waves.
Elias ran.
Heart pounding. Breath stolen.
But as he neared, he saw the truth.
The waves lapped at her feet, retreating with each pulse of the tide, erasing her presence piece by piece.
It wasn’t Camille.
It was memory—just a lingering ghost of her promise, a cruel mirage shaped by longing.
The lighthouse flickered.
For the first time in twenty years, Elias let the beacon die.
And with it, his hope.
In the months that followed, the lighthouse darkened. The lantern remained cold. The rocky shore stood silent, undisturbed.
No ships passed. No footsteps echoed.
Elias remained.
Not waiting. Not hoping.
Just existing, like a specter bound to his own sorrow.
One morning, long after his name had faded from memory, they found him at the base of the tower.
His body still. His face peaceful.
And beneath his fingers—a letter, worn with age, ink faded by time:
"Camille, I kept the light burning. But I think—it's time I leave now."
Galloway Manor stood like a rotting carcass on the edge of the forest, its silhouette twisted and skeletal against the pale moonlight. The three-story structure had once been a grand estate, boasting sprawling verandas and stained-glass windows that shimmered like captured fire. But time had turned beauty to decay—the paint peeled in long, curling strips like dead skin, and the ivy strangled the brick as if reclaiming what man had stolen from nature.
The team of five arrived just as the sun dipped beneath the trees, casting elongated shadows that stretched unnaturally, twitching as if alive. The night was thick with impending storm, the air charged with electricity that prickled against the skin like unseen fingers. The sky, once sprawling and endless, had turned into a suffocating canopy of churning black clouds, pressing down on the earth as if trying to smother it.
Mitchell, the leader, gripped his flashlight tightly, his knuckles pale. Olivia, the psychic, shivered despite the oppressive humidity. Darren, the cameraman, muttered about how the footage would look eerie under this lighting, unaware of how eerily perfect his words were. Sophie and Grant, the technical experts, set up their sound equipment, eager to capture spectral voices in the walls—though none dared admit how deeply they feared what they might actually hear.
The team set up their base in what had once been the manor’s grand dining room. The long banquet table was warped and cracked, its surface littered with dust and forgotten remnants of feasts long past. Sophie booted up her laptop, scrolling through archived reports of Galloway Manor’s history while the others unloaded their gear.
“This place has a reputation,” Sophie murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper. “They say no one who stays longer than three nights ever leaves the same. Some say they don’t leave at all.”
Mitchell leaned in, intrigued. “Anything specific?”
“There’s a mix of stories,” she continued. “The original owner, Richard Galloway, was known for his obsession with séances. Some say he tried to summon his dead wife, but what came through wasn’t her. After that, the servants started disappearing. Then his daughter—she was found wandering the halls, babbling incoherently. She died a week later.”
“And the manor itself?” Olivia asked, her tone edged with unease.
Sophie exhaled, scanning deeper into the records. “It’s like the house is sentient. Every group that’s ever stayed here describes feeling watched, touched by something unseen. Some claim they heard voices whispering their names. And a few—well, the reports say they went completely insane.”
Darren scoffed. “You mean they imagined it?”
“I mean they were found clawing at the walls, tearing their own skin, begging to be let go,” Sophie corrected. “One man was found in the basement, curled into a ball, his nails ripped out. When they tried to talk to him, all he kept repeating was: ‘It’s inside me. It’s inside me.’”
A chill settled over the group. The wind outside howled, rattling the broken shutters, as if trying to warn them.
Mitchell pulled a map of the manor from his bag and spread it across the table. “We should explore before we jump to conclusions. There has to be a logical explanation for all this.”
The team split up, moving carefully through the decaying halls. The wallpaper, barely clinging to the walls, seemed to shift when they passed, curling as if recoiling from their presence. Darren documented everything, filming the corridors, the portraits with hollow-eyed figures whose gazes seemed to follow them. The house was silent, yet alive—a presence lurking beneath its stillness.
In one room, Olivia stopped abruptly. She ran her fingers over the rotted remains of a crib, her pulse hammering. “This was the nursery…” she murmured. “Galloway’s daughter slept here.”
Mitchell observed the tiny handprint smudged into the dust-covered glass of a nearby window—too fresh to be decades old.
They continued deeper into the house, moving toward the basement. As they descended, the air thickened, heavy with damp rot and something else—something rancid, something breathing.
Sophie hesitated at the threshold. “This is where they found him.”
Grant chuckled nervously, stepping forward. “Oh, come on. It’s just a basement—”
The door slammed shut behind them.
A gasp caught in Olivia’s throat. The walls seemed to pulse. The whispers began—soft, slithering, familiar.
Then, slowly, one by one, they realized—
The whispers were calling them by name.
Father Elias knew the truth too late. He had spent years preaching the mercy of a god whose presence loomed like a silent witness over his crumbling cathedral. The stained-glass saints watched, fractured light spilling onto the altar where Elias knelt, whispering his doubts.
Then, on the eve of the Blood Harvest, the sky split open. Not with fire, nor with thunder—but with a soundless shattering of reality itself. The stars did not fade; they moved, rearranging themselves into sigils that had no earthly translation.
Brother Matthias, his closest confidant, stood beside him in the nave. "It is as we feared, Elias," Matthias murmured, his voice thick with dread. "The prayers we offered… they were never heard by the divine. They were answered by something else."
Elias turned to him, the weight of realization pressing into his spine. "You knew?"
Matthias’ lips curled into something resembling pity. "I guided you to them, Elias. You never spoke to God. You spoke to the thing beneath the firmament."
The cathedral trembled. The relics in the holy vault began to hum, their gold and bone vibrating with an unseen force. The congregation outside wailed, their voices becoming a single lamentation, echoing through the corridors of the damned.
And then, Elias heard the voice—not in his ears, but in his bones.
"There was never salvation, child. Only invitation."
The sigils in the sky began to unfurl. And the stars screamed.
Elias stumbled backward, his breath catching in his throat. The cathedral’s walls began to twist, the stained glass warping as though unseen hands pressed against it from the other side. The saints depicted within—figures he had revered his whole life—writhed, their painted forms stretching into grotesque mockeries of human shape.
Matthias remained still, watching Elias with an eerie calm. "You have been chosen," he whispered.
Elias shook his head violently. "Chosen for what? Damnation?" He could barely hear his own voice over the hum vibrating through the floorboards, the sound rising from the depths beneath the cathedral, from below the catacombs where no man had dared to venture.
Matthias sighed, a priest weary of his flock. "Not damnation," he said. "Understanding. You of all people should know the scripture was never meant to save us—it was a map, a guide, a warning etched by trembling hands."
The relics in the holy vault burst open one by one. Golden crucifixes splintered into curling black filaments, shrouds of saints dissolved like wet paper. The carved jawbone of Saint Enoch, the holiest artifact of their order, trembled violently before cracking in two.
A voice, vast and ancient, spoke from nowhere and everywhere. It was not heard—it was felt.
"Your offering is accepted."
Elias fell to his knees, clutching his head as something massive brushed against his mind, its presence pressing into him like cold fingers curling around his thoughts. His memories splintered, fragments slipping away into the void—his childhood, his faith, his certainty.
The congregation outside screamed as the heavens opened—not with light, but with a yawning abyss. The stars peeled away, their false glow revealed as nothing more than brittle veils over the truth.
Matthias reached out a hand. "Come, Elias. There is no God. Only what comes after."
Elias pressed his palms against his temples, but it did nothing to block out the voice worming its way through his thoughts. It was ancient—older than the stars, older than the notion of creation itself. It spoke in a language without words, in a pressure of presence, in a weight of inevitability.
And yet, he understood.
"You were never meant to serve. You were meant to listen. And now, you will see."
The air inside the cathedral thickened, turning leaden, pressing against his chest as though unseen hands gripped his lungs. Matthias stepped forward, his silhouette stretching unnaturally, bending at angles impossible for human limbs.
Outside, the congregation writhed in fits of ecstasy and terror. Some fell to their knees in prayer, uttering desperate pleas to gods that had long abandoned them. Others screamed—shrill, guttural cries of realization—before the shifting stars pulled them apart, dissecting their forms into ribbons of flesh and thought.
Elias forced his gaze upward and saw.
The abyss was not empty—it was watching. And in the endless void beyond the stars, something vast unfurled.
It had no true form, no name that mortal tongues could shape. Its presence pressed against Elias’ mind, unraveling the delicate weave of human understanding. The scriptures had lied. The saints had never spoken to divinity—they had merely screamed into the dark, and something had answered.
The altar cracked beneath Elias as shadows slithered across the floor. He could feel himself fading, dissolving into thought without form, into reverence without reason.
Matthias knelt beside him, whispering, "You fought the truth all your life. Let it take you."
And Elias understood the greatest betrayal—that faith itself had been the lie.
The stars above blinked out, one by one, like closing eyes. And beneath the ruins of the cathedral, something awoke.
The cathedral groaned, its very foundation buckling under the weight of something vast, something unseen. The great oaken doors burst inward, flung open by a force that was neither wind nor hand. The congregation—those who remained—clawed at the marble floor, their prayers turning into shrieks, their voices blending into a single wail of despair.
Elias felt it coursing through his veins. Not blood. Recognition.
"You were never meant to build temples. You were meant to open doors."
The voice slithered inside him, threading through his ribs like sinew being woven anew. He gripped the pulpit, shaking violently, his mind splintering under the weight of its revelation.
Matthias smiled, watching the unraveling with serene acceptance.
"You feared betrayal," he murmured. "But what is betrayal except clarity through pain?"
The relics continued their violent metamorphosis. The shattered jawbone of Saint Enoch reassembled itself—not into the shape of a man, but into something crawling, something reaching. It opened—not a mouth, but an orifice without limit. The symbols carved into its surface bent, flickering through languages unknown to mortal tongues.
And from the abyss beyond the stars, something stepped forward.
It did not emerge. It had always been there—waiting, watching, pressing against the veil until the faithful tore it wide enough to pass through.
Elias collapsed, his hands clawing at his face, at his flesh, at the remnants of his understanding.
Matthias knelt beside him, placing a hand upon his shoulder.
"You see now, don’t you?" he whispered.
Elias did.
The scriptures had never been prophecy.
They had been warning.
Elias’ breath came in ragged gasps, but his body no longer felt like his own. His fingers trembled, his veins pulsed with something thicker than blood—something old, something unwelcome.
Beyond the cathedral’s shattered walls, the congregation had ceased their screams. Those who remained stood motionless beneath the unraveling heavens, their eyes turned upward to the ever-widening void. The thing beyond the veil stretched, its form slipping through the cracks in reality, curling around the ruins like unseen tendrils.
Elias felt its touch—not upon his skin, but upon his thoughts.
"You are no longer flesh, but conduit."
His knees buckled, his body convulsing as something whispered into his bones, carving sigils into marrow. His memories—his devotion, his prayers, his fears—bled away like ink spilled into an endless ocean.
Matthias’ voice came soft, reverent. "You were chosen, Elias. You will become what the faithful feared." He placed a hand upon Elias’ chest, over his heart. "You will be the doorway."
A sound—low, resonant, vibrating through the ruins—rose from deep beneath the cathedral. The scriptures had warned of this, yet the warnings had been mistaken for prophecy. The relics had whispered of this, yet their words had been twisted into false hope.
Elias' lips parted, though he no longer controlled them. His voice was not his own.
"I see now."
Matthias smiled, stepping back.
"The door must open."
The stars blinked—folding inward, collapsing into themselves.
And the abyss stepped forward.
Elias was no longer Elias.
The remnants of his mind clung desperately to the last fibers of identity, but they were unraveling, dissolving, transforming into something beyond thought. He was no longer a man of faith, no longer a servant of a forgotten god. He was becoming.
The cathedral walls groaned, bending as though drawn toward an unseen center. The air shimmered, vibrating with a resonance beyond mortal comprehension. The last survivors of the congregation lay on the floor, their mouths agape, their voices stolen by the presence that pressed against reality itself.
Matthias stood unmoved, watching the transformation with reverence.
Elias’ flesh cracked. Not broken—not wounded—but reshaped. His veins pulsed, thickening into something deeper than blood, something that carried the whispers of the thing beyond the veil. His bones stretched, his form bending into the angles of a forgotten scripture—letters that had never been meant for human eyes.
The abyss pressed against him, pouring into the vessel it had chosen.
And then, the world folded.
Not a rupture, not destruction—something worse. A slow, deliberate bending of space, of time, of meaning itself.
Matthias stepped forward, placing a hand upon Elias’ chest. The heart within no longer beat—it echoed.
"You are the door."
The stars flickered, their light betraying the truth. They had never been distant suns—they had been watchers. Silent sentinels holding the veil in place. And now, they blinked out, one by one, accepting the inevitable.
Elias did not scream. He could not.
There was no need.
The last thought that remained within him—before thought itself became something else—was that humanity had never prayed to God.
It had prayed to the wrong silence.
And now, silence had answered.
The cathedral ceased to exist in any form recognizable to man.
Where once there had been stone, there was now absence, a void carved from the fabric of reality itself. The air shimmered, bending inward, folding into depths unseen. The congregation—those who remained—were no longer men. They had not died. They had become.
Elias no longer possessed flesh, nor thought in the way humans understood. He was open—a conduit, a passage, a fragment of understanding peeled back to reveal the truth beneath. His form pulsed, stretched beyond dimension, his presence no longer his own but belonging to something vast, something ancient, something that had waited behind the veil for eons.
Matthias knelt before him, watching with reverence. His voice was nothing more than breath against the silence.
"You have done what needed to be done."
The abyss pressed forward. It was neither form nor void—it was awareness. A tide of perception, bleeding across space, unfurling across thought. The universe had been a question for too long. And now, finally, it had received an answer.
The stars blinked out, not in death, but in knowing.
The veil collapsed.
And humanity—fragile, blind, trembling beneath the weight of its false gods—was forced to see.
Elias was the door.
The door had opened.
And the thing behind the stars stepped through.
There was no aftermath. There was only transition.
The cathedral had been the first to unravel. The congregation had been the first to see, to understand, to become. But what came through the threshold did not stop there. It did not pause to acknowledge its arrival—it had always been present, waiting behind the veil, pressing against the fragile illusion of existence until the moment was right.
And now, the moment had passed.
Elias was no longer Elias. His form had dissolved into the fabric of something greater, his flesh stretched across unseen dimensions, his thoughts no longer linear but woven into the vast tapestry of perception that sprawled across the abyss. He had been the door, the final act of surrender, the last false prophet guiding humanity into the place beyond prayer.
The stars continued to blink out, not in destruction, but in consent.
The watchers—those distant burning lights that humanity had mistaken for celestial bodies—had completed their duty. They had held the veil for as long as they could, for as long as the lie could sustain itself. But now, the door was open.
They no longer had reason to remain.
The sky, once endless and filled with familiar constellations, peeled away. Not erased—not consumed—but corrected. The false image of the heavens was torn, revealing a void so vast, so intricate in its writhing, that no human mind could hold it without breaking. The universe had never been infinite—it had been contained, sealed away by those who had known what lay beyond.
But Elias had undone their work.
And what lay beyond was stepping through.
Matthias remained standing amidst the ruin, watching as the world trembled. He had never fought against this. He had never feared it. He had always known that faith had been a mistaken construct—a whispered deception to keep men from understanding their true place in the vastness of all things.
The congregation melted into the abyss. Their forms twisted, reshaped into something beyond comprehension, their prayers turned to laughter, then to silence.
And beneath the remnants of the cathedral, beneath the shattered altar and fractured vaults of relics, something laughed—not with joy, but with recognition.
The lie was gone.
And the truth had arrived.
There was no longer a world, no longer a sky, no longer the false promise of salvation. There was only recognition—a quiet, consuming understanding that had spread through the bones of those who remained.
Matthias did not resist the change. He watched as the veil collapsed entirely, as the last remnants of structured existence folded inward. What had been solid became fluid, what had been certain became undone.
The thing that had waited beyond—the thing that had pressed against the stars, the thing Elias had called forth—was not a deity. It was not judgment. It was correction.
The scriptures had not lied. They had warned. And humanity had ignored them.
Now, they would know.
Elias no longer stood, no longer breathed, no longer existed in the manner that had once been familiar. He was open, fully consumed, fully rewritten into the design of what lay beyond. His presence pulsed through the shattered remains of what had once been the cathedral, weaving itself into the absence, into the return.
Matthias stepped forward, letting the waves of shifting perception wash over him. His flesh melted into something beyond skin, his thoughts stretched into something beyond understanding.
He had prepared for this moment.
And now, as the last remnants of humanity dissolved into the infinite truth, he finally saw.
There had never been a god.
There had only been the waiting hunger.
And it had always been listening.
The Yellow Queen’s Arrival
The sky split open, a wound in the fabric of reality stretching wide across the heavens. It did not bleed, nor did it scream—yet every living thing felt the rupture, a silent shudder through their bones, a deep knowing in the pit of their stomachs.
Something was stepping through.
In the streets of Grey Hollow, people stopped. Breathless. Frozen.
And then they saw her.
She did not arrive with the grandeur of a god. She did not descend from the sky. She was simply there, standing at the center of town, her feet pressing into the earth as if she had always been.
She was small, almost delicate—golden hair cascading over her shoulders, a pale dress billowing though there was no wind. Her eyes, twin suns, gleamed too bright, their golden depths too vast, revealing something that did not belong to this world.
No one spoke.
No one could.
The moment they looked into her gaze, they felt it—time unraveling, thoughts fracturing, their names slipping from their minds as though they had never existed.
One man collapsed, gasping. Another screamed and tore at his own skin, sobbing as if trying to rip himself free from whatever force had now claimed him.
The air changed.
Not just the atmosphere—the very concept of air itself.
And then—the whispers began.
"You are like me."
The words seeped into the minds of those who remained standing, laced with something gentle and unforgiving all at once.
They did not hear her speak.
They felt her speak.
And then the town began to change.
Children laughed, unaware that their laughter did not belong to them anymore. The sky churned, turning gold, then black, then a color no one had a name for. The houses stretched, breathing—soft, slow exhales, as if the wood and brick had never been material at all, only ideas that had now begun to shift.
Those who tried to flee found themselves somewhere else entirely, stepping forward only to discover that the streets behind them were gone, that the paths ahead led deeper into the unknown, into a place that had never existed before this night.
Some fell to their knees. Some worshipped her.
Some simply disappeared, erased in the space between seconds.
And still she stood, smiling.
Not in joy. Not in cruelty.
Simply because it was inevitable.
She did not destroy.
She did not command.
She simply was.
And because she was, the world could never be the same again.
The Forgotten Ones
There were no maps of Hollow’s End.
It had no history. No founding date, no newspaper records, no archives tucked away in state libraries.
It sat in the valley of ancient hills, surrounded by groves that never changed, roads that twisted into themselves like veins beneath thinning skin.
Its people lived as if nothing was strange, as if waking up each morning with no memory of arriving, no recollection of before was just another part of life.
And though no one spoke of it, each resident carried a hollow place in their mind.
An absence where something should have been.
Something they had once known.
Something that had been taken.
They never questioned it.
Never asked why.
Until Isaac Holt arrived.
Isaac was a traveler—not the kind who sought adventure, but the kind who chased unanswered whispers, stories with no origin, and towns that shouldn’t exist but did anyway.
The moment he stepped onto Hollow’s End’s cracked pavement, something inside him shifted.
The air thickened, pressing against his ribs as if breathing was no longer instinct, but a choice.
The town square sat empty, storefronts gleaming with no dust, no decay, yet they felt too old, as if time had touched them but refused to leave a mark.
Then he saw them—the people.
They moved like echoes, like forgotten memories still trying to replay themselves, their bodies caught in a rhythm that wasn’t entirely theirs.
Their faces were not hollow.
They were vacant.
Alive, but not living.
Isaac stepped forward, his boots scraping against the pavement, and a woman looked up.
Her eyes flickered with something—recognition? Warning?—but then she blinked, and whatever had passed through her expression was gone.
She smiled politely.
“Good evening.”
Isaac hesitated. “What’s this town’s history?”
The woman’s smile faltered.
For the first time, Hollow’s End felt still.
Then, as if something had decided the moment was over, she blinked again, and her smile returned—bright, empty, wrong.
“Oh, I wouldn’t know,” she said cheerfully. “I’ve always lived here.”
Isaac’s pulse quickened.
That was the first sign.
The warning he should have understood.
But he pressed forward anyway.
A breeze slipped between the buildings.
It did not feel natural.
It was too intentional—curling at his ears, tracing down his spine, settling into his lungs like it had been waiting to enter his body all along.
Then—
A whisper.
Soft, delicate, stretching from nowhere.
"Can't you see?"
Isaac whirled, scanning the street.
No one had spoken.
The people moved just as they had before, strolling down sidewalks, opening shop doors, greeting neighbors.
But something had shifted.
He could feel it in his bones, in the way the air pressed closer, in the way the buildings seemed to lean inward, watching.
And then, beneath the lamplight at the center of the square, he saw her.
She stood perfectly still, a girl no older than eight, her lace-trimmed yellow dress untouched by dust, by movement, by time.
Her golden hair cascaded over her shoulders, glowing faintly beneath the dim streetlamps.
Her eyes—piercing, all-consuming gold—were fixed on him.
And as he stared, something inside him trembled.
His mind raced.
Who was she?
Why did every instinct scream that he had seen her before—that he had known her name—that he had, at some point in time, made a choice he could no longer remember?
Isaac opened his mouth—
And she smiled.
The moment her lips curved, the moment her expression shifted, the world around him changed.
The buildings warped, their windows stretched wide like gaping mouths.
The streets cracked underfoot, pulling apart in ways they shouldn’t have.
The sky above shuddered, its color flickering between gold and black and something he had no name for.
And the people.
The people stopped.
Every single resident of Hollow’s End turned toward him, their eyes shifting—gold, bright, brilliant, terrifying.
He stumbled back.
But there was nowhere to run.
Because the moment her smile reached him—
He remembered.
Isaac Holt had been here before.
Not once.
Not twice.
Countless times.
He had stood before The Yellow Queen.
He had spoken to her.
And he had made a choice.
A choice he could not recall, because that was the price—the curse of Hollow’s End.
Every resident had stood before her once.
Every resident had decided their fate.
And every resident had forgotten the choice they had made, left only with the remnants of whatever horror their decision had caused.
The people here were not trapped by chains, nor locked doors.
They were prisoners of their own forgotten mistakes.
And now, as The Yellow Queen tilted her head, as her golden gaze locked onto his, he knew
She was waiting for him to choose again.
He opened his mouth.
And Hollow’s End swallowed him whole.
Isaac disappears. His memory erased, his body warped into something no longer human, another resident wandering Hollow’s End without knowing why.
The train groaned as it pulled into Dunholt Station, brakes sighing like something ancient roused from uneasy slumber. Marta Kirke stepped off, her coat drawn tight against the dry wind that carried a faint taste of rust and memory. There were no greeters, no taxis—just the leaning silhouettes of old telephone poles and the whisper of crows wheeling overhead.
Dunholt wasn’t a town so much as a held breath. It had been left behind by maps and mercy alike. Windows were boarded, mailboxes rusted shut. Marta scanned the stillness and recognized it from another life—not because she had visited, but because it felt circular. Like her return had been predestined.
She wasn’t there for the legal matter. Not really. The paperwork said she was to settle an inheritance dispute—her late aunt’s cottage on Crossline Road. But the truth, nested like a rot in her chest, had little to do with documents.
It had everything to do with her sister. And a fire that didn’t make sense.
Marta Kirke was not born in Dunholt. She was forged in a city of soot and verdicts—steel mills coughing smoke into gray skies, courtrooms where justice came with strings. Her mother was a court stenographer who typed confessions she never listened to. Her father was a defense lawyer who lost more than he won—except when it came to his silence.
By five, Marta could mimic legalese with eerie precision. By eleven, she understood perjury.
But her sister Janie… Janie didn’t belong in that world. She chased shadows and painted dreams. She once told Marta there were things in the walls that whispered to her. Marta laughed. Later, she would wonder if Janie had heard the Queen long before either of them knew her name.
The fire happened in their mother’s old house. Gas leak. A basement dare. Marta told the inquest she remembered nothing. That was technically true. She remembered the intention, not the act.
Afterwards, Marta ascended. She rose through legal ranks like ivy through stone. Her courtroom victories became legend. They called her The Kind Executioner, because she never raised her voice when she dismantled you. But at night, her dreams split open.
Yellow hair.
Laughter echoing through ash.
A child’s voice offering doors she couldn’t close.
The letter arrived six days before the train: a plain envelope with a child’s scrawl—“The Queen waits at the end of every choice.”
Dunholt whispered as she walked its hollow streets. Locals averted their eyes. Mirrors in her aunt’s house were turned to face the walls. The wind spoke like it had forgotten language but still remembered pain.
By the fifth night, Marta found herself at the edge of a cul-de-sac, unnamed and unmapped. The street coiled like a serpent biting its tail.
She waited.
And the Yellow Queen came.
Eight years old. Maybe forever. Yellow hair that shimmered like a fall of dying leaves. Eyes like coins minted in another cosmos. Barefoot. Unblinking.
“I am the Yellow Queen,” she said.
Her voice was soft—but inside it were dozens of others, threading and weaving like bones inside silk.
Marta stepped forward.
“I want the truth,” she said, unable to keep the tremble from her voice. “About Janie. About what I did.”
The Queen lifted one hand and made a sigil with her fingers.
“Then choose.”
Two glyphs blazed into the earth:
- One: Truth unmasked. You will remember. But you will speak no more. Your voice will be severed, your screams unborn.
- Two: Peace. Your sister’s laughter returned to you in dreams. You will never know what truly happened. But you will sleep.
Marta hesitated. Just once.
Then she stepped into the flame of the first.
The world broke.
She fell through memories with edges: Janie crying in the dark. The hiss of gas. The flick of a match. Her own voice, cold and cruel: “Maybe now you’ll shut up about your dreams.”
Marta saw everything she had buried. Her knees buckled. She clawed at her throat—but it was already empty. Her voice gone, devoured by her choice.
She awoke before dawn, seated cross-legged at the center of the cul-de-sac. Her lips were sewn shut with golden threads. Her hair had turned the same hue as the Queen’s. Her eyes now flickered yellow.
She did not weep.
There were no tears in Dunholt anymore.
She stands now beside the Yellow Queen at dusk. A second harbinger. A twin shadow. When strangers enter the town, they are met by two figures: one who offers the choice, and another who bears its cost.
The Queen is no trickster.
She does not punish.
She offers the truth that ruins you.
And the silence you choose instead.
In Dunholt, they say only one person ever chose the second door.
No one remembers their name.
And that, too, was a choice.
The city was called Viatrax once, but its true name had long since been forgotten—smothered beneath a century of failed revivals and burned record halls. What remained was a husk clinging to relevance, its spires cracked, its cathedrals hollow, and its memory… rewritten.
In the northern quadrant of the old city, beneath the decaying monorail track, stood the Archive of Hollow Mercy—a building made of stone and impossible geometry. It was not on any official registry, yet scholars found themselves drawn there like birds to invisible thermals. Some left shaken. Others never did.
The archivist, known only as Geyra, was one of them.
She had not always been a priest of memory. Once, she was a linguist of considerable acclaim—her thesis on semiotic recursion cited across arcane disciplines. But like many who delved too deep, she made the mistake of parsing untranslated fragments found beneath a cathedral that never showed up on satellite scans.
Within those glyphs, she found the same repeated structure:
“She offers the mercy of knowing. And the mercy of not.”
After that, Geyra began to dream. Yellow spiral eyes in her windowpane. A child tapping rhythmically against the glass, humming in a key no scale had room for.
Eventually, she stopped writing papers. She started writing only requests.
Because in the Archive, books didn’t just rest. They whispered. And at the heart of the stacks was a chamber with no lighting fixtures, only a single pedestal where visitors found letters sealed with yellow wax.
Those who opened them faced a decision. Each contained two pages: one held forbidden knowledge—true names, forgotten origins, choices others had made but denied. The other held erasure. A chance to forget one’s own deepest wrong.
You could only read one.
You could never unread it.
The Yellow Queen never appeared in person. But the children of the city began to hum odd songs. Candles burned longer than physics allowed. And every so often, a new book appeared on the shelf behind Geyra’s desk, bound in yellow cloth.
They always had her handwriting.
One night, while cataloging the newly emerged “Book of the Unchosen Door,” Geyra found her own name listed inside. A final entry. Two choices beneath it. One in ink. One in ash.
The next morning, the archive’s doors were gone. Its entrance bricked over from the inside. And in the city center, someone had carved a new phrase into the statue of the founder:
“She does not punish. She witnesses what you choose to become.”