The Dark Somnium - "Come Live in The Ashes of My Heart" Scary Stories from The Internet | Creepypasta

Episode Date: November 4, 2023

This Creepypasta scary Story is from the nosleep subreddit, written by Brandon Faircloth, Make sure to check out the original story here:"Come live in the ashes of my heart" https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/8uj33q/come_live_in_the_ashes_of_my_heart_part_1_of_4/This is part of a 4 Part series called "The Ghost tree" Which you can see here:https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PL3o9RgvGoFK2-SE7LncZz1ipIZg6sfUMG&si=LtsQpVolpHpDvmwb Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Journal Entry 1 So I just found a strange note in the basement It is just one sentence And it says Come live in the ashes of my heart Weird, right? It's a bit of strange excitement But I don't think it's enough to get me out of this funk

I moved into this house two days ago And already I regret it I'm tired and filthy But that's not the problem and the house itself, while very old and sometimes creepy, is also very beautiful in a lot of ways. It's certainly nicer than anywhere I've ever lived before, even if that isn't saying much. And what I just found in the basement is the most interesting thing I've run across in a long time. The problem is that I never should have moved here with Phil.

After being with him for two years, I knew in the back of my head that there were problems that went beyond. the normal growing pains of a relationship. I think Phil knows it too. And that's why he suggested the move to a new state, as though the stress of moving and the isolation of a new town was going to somehow bond us closer together rather than driving us apart. But let me be clear,

Phil is a good guy. He drinks too much at times, and he doesn't always have the best judgment. But he's generally responsible, kind and loyal. I just don't think he's the right person for me. I knew it before I agreed to move. I knew it when we closed on the house.

And I certainly know it now. Sitting in a room packed with boxes stuffed full of reminders of our lives. But still, I can't put all the blame on him. I was fool enough to go along with it, both of us playing relationship chicken, revving our engines and careening towards each other faster and faster, daring the other to be the one that says, no, that's enough, this isn't working anymore.

And I think I'm just about there. I started keeping this journal based on a self-help book I read once that said when you have a difficult decision to make, journaling to keep track of your thoughts and feelings over time can help you see the objective reality of your inner self better than relying purely on memory and your subjective thoughts and feelings at any given time. So that's what I'm going to do for the next few days. And when I look back at it, if I'm still feeling like I do right now,

I'm going to tell Phil it's over. But back to what I just found in the basement. First, you need to understand that when I say this house is old, I mean, it is old. I don't know a ton about styles of houses, but the real, said that it was Victorian style and may have been built during the Victorian era, as the land records for the area's first account for the house in 1884. But that's also how far back the local records go for anything, and the house was already here, so it's hard to say when it was actually built. In any case, like I said, the house is beautiful. It's made out of light gray

brick with dark gray fans of shingles draping the various peaks and curves of its roof, like the feathers of some large, wintry bird. And the rooms inside are a strange mix of large open spaces, tight alcoves, and hallways. And while the entire house has a certain weight to it, I kind of chalk it up to it being so old. And most of the weird feelings I get come from when I'm in the basement anyway. The basement is surprisingly clean. being compromised of two large rooms devoid of any furnishings, except for a row of empty gun racks that are built into one wall. My initial thought was to replace them with bookshelves at some point, but now I'm starting to wonder if I'll be here long enough for it to matter.

Anyway, enough about that. It's time to talk about the note I found. So I was moving some of the boxes down here when I noticed something sticking out of one of the walls. It was a piece of it. It was a piece of of folded paper, so yellowed with age that I was afraid it was going to crumble when I opened it. It held, however, and I saw written inside that single line and beautiful handwriting. Come live in the ashes of my heart. I checked the place in the brick I had pulled it from and saw there was a gap in the mortar. I didn't look closely at the time because of the lighting, but I think I'm going back down there with a flashlight to check it out again. Something is weird about that room anyway. I haven't measured it, but I would swear that it is several feet shorter than

the other room. And while there are reasons that could be the case, I almost feel like the brick wall with the note was built later than the rest to divide the basement. The brick looks slightly different than the rest. Or at least I think it does. Who knows? I'll write more when I'm done checking it out. If I'm going to write this stuff down, I would like it to be more than just my complaining about my boyfriend problems. Shit, I'm so lonely out here. And my job doesn't start for two weeks. Anyway, signing off for now. Journal entry, too.

There's something behind that wall. I went back down there, shined a flashlight into the gap in the mortar. And it goes all the way through. The hole was too small for me to see. and shine the light at the same time. So I got a screwdriver and poked out some more of the mortar until I could remove the brick. I couldn't see much, but there's definitely another room over there, and I thought I saw a part of a bed frame.

About that time is when I heard Phil coming in upstairs. For some reason, I didn't want him to know about it yet, didn't want to share my discovery. I had the uncharitable thought that I didn't want him to fill all over it, which is a general phrase I sometimes think of when he gets involved in some conversation or activity and just lessens it somehow. I sound like a bitch right now. I don't mean it like that. I just mean that he can't just enjoy something strange like this.

He has an almost hostile reaction to things he doesn't understand. And he would immediately want to either dismiss it or come up with some rational explanation. I just want to savor the mystery of it, even if just for a little while. I put the brick back quickly and went upstairs, managing to avoid mentioning the note or the hidden room I had just found without strictly lying to him. I'm writing this before heading to bed, and I already have plans to go by a sledgehammer in the morning. I'm going to see what's in that room.

Journal Entry 3 So breaking down a brick wall, even an old and slightly crumbly one, is harder than I thought it would be. I kind of assumed that since I had so little trouble getting the one brick-free, the rest would crumble in pretty easily, but not so much. I went to a local hardware store and bought a small sledgehammer, avoiding the cashier's chipper questions about what a little lady like myself was going to use such a big hammer for. And when I got back to the house, I went to work on the wall immediately. The biggest problem wasn't swinging. it. It's heavy, but I'm in good shape, and I made sure I could swing it well before I bought it.

The problem is the vibration. Every time it hit the bricks, shock waves went up my arms all the way to my shoulders. I put on some gardening gloves I rooted out of a box in the garage, and it helped a little, but my hands were still buzzing and numb by the time I was done. Still, after a little over an hour. The wall was about a third gone, which was more than enough to let me in and allow in more light. I'd also picked up a small electric lantern at the store, and when I turned it on, it sent a wash of cold, white light out across the dark contours of the hidden room. What I had seen before was a bed, a rusty ironed frame bed with a thin mattress that was half black with rot. Next to the bed was a wooden nightstand that contained a few.

candle stubs and holders on small plates, and against one wall was a cedar chest with what looked like some kind of leather-bound notebook sitting on top of it. My heart was in my throat at this point. I'd either found an old bedroom that had been walled up without ever being cleaned out, or I had found where someone had been imprisoned at some point. I consider calling the police, but there was no sign of a body, and there was such a sense of age and musty dissoning. use here, that I felt sure that any victims, if there were any, would be long gone by now anyway. I was doing another sweep of the room with the lantern and my flashlight. When I saw the shape of a man, I screamed, dropping the lantern and backing toward the opening

in the wall. Then I realized what I was seeing wasn't an actual man. It was the silhouette of a man painted or burned into the far wall. my breathing's still quick and painful. I looked around for several moments to make sure that I wasn't mistaken, and there wasn't some stranger in that abandoned room with me, but I saw nothing. Bending down, I got the lantern and gave a quick peek to the empty space underneath the bed and nightstand table, before standing and walking to the silhouette.

Up close, I could see that it looked less like paint or burning, and more like a form of mold or rot. though it was still undeniably in the shape of a man, half a foot taller than myself and half again as broad. When I reached out to touch the black area where its chest would be, the wall had a slight sponginess to it that made me pull back my finger quickly. Wiping my hand on my pants, I went over to the chest and sat the leather book aside. Inside the chest were clothes, most the size for a man. though some towards the bottom did look somewhat smaller. All of them were in surprisingly good condition,

particularly given how old-fashioned they looked. I felt a strange kind of guilt going through those clothes, as though I was prying into the private world of a stranger. I guess in some ways I was. But time had made the point moot all the same. There was nothing left but this dark room and a handful of belongings left behind. And of course,

that book. I picked up the book and stepped back into the main part of the basement where the light was better. The book seemed to be pristine, with signs of age, but none of mold or decay. There was a leather cord tying it shut. As I gently unwound the cord and open the book, I could smell not only the leather and the pages, but I imagined I could smell the owner of the book as well, a masculine smell, a good smell that made the experience of holding the book and seeing the words written on the first page more personal more powerful than I can really describe the handwriting was the same as the note I had found stuck in the wall it said the last testament of Justin pairing completed June 12th 1909 may this find its way into kinder hands than I have known I'm about to

to start reading it, and I will try to transcribe it here as soon as possible. This feels so important. I'm going to have to explain the room to Phil when he sees the wall, but for now at least, this book is going to stay a secret. Until next time, Journal, keep my secrets for me. Journal Entry 4. As I write this, I am a 21-year-old man of what I believe to be sound mind and firm spiritual foundation. Despite what I have been told over these last eight years, I am not insane, and I am not possessed by the devil or any of his lesser imps. To the contrary, even now I hold much love in my heart, with no small portion still being afforded to my tormentors. My parents and brother, though many

of their acts would aptly be described as evil, are not bad people. Misguided and fearful, yes, but I do believe that they still have goodness in them. I am given food and water, candles, and occasionally a book to read, or some scraps of paper to write upon. I have developed a persistent cough in the last year, and I fear that lack of sunlight and the pervasive dampness of this sealed-away space are slowly doing damage that time and medicine may not be able to reverse. I know I get sores at times from my infrequent ability to bathe, and the twin stenches

of myself and the waist-bucket in the corner are imperceptible to me now. I try to separate my hate from my situation from those that caused it, and most of the time I think I succeed. My hope is that writing this will help further. I turned 21 two weeks ago, and as a gift, my brother John gave me this notebook and a new set of Waterman safety pens. I didn't know such a thing existed, and it is truly wonderful to have such a convenient writing tool.

I cried at the kindness, and outside my room, John looked in and smiled his saddive. smile as I crouched in the dark, clutching this book and softly weeping as our mother began to close the door for the day. I don't have much dignity left at this point. Dignity is like a plant. Much as a plant needs sunlight and oxygen, dignity needs an audience and hope. When you are completely isolated, when you move past the idea of ever really escaping the black hole you are in, you find yourself quickly shedding things like dignity.

My primary reason for living has been a base animal drive to survive and my internal world. I had always had a powerful imagination, and in this purgatory I have spent many hours far away in some distant land of my own creation. I love to write as well, but since my imprisonment, it has been rare that I had had enough paper to write much at any length. That and the act of kindness behind it is what made the book and pen such a wonderful gift to me. Yet when I got them, I found I had trouble finding things to write about.

After three days of trying, a realization struck me. My imagination was starting to wither and die too. This thought terrified me in a way that losing my liberty and dignity had not. It was the final bulwark I had against abject despair, the last remaining island in a rising sea of insanity and death. If I lost the ability to escape into my mind, I would truly be lost. It was six days ago that I first contemplated taking my life. For some reason, that may seem absurd, as I know many people have considered it or committed

the act long before now. I would like to say that I had abstained because my deep moral reserves or my titanic willpower, but neither would be the truth. In all honesty, the only reason I haven't taken my life before now is because of the ghost tree. I know I need to explain myself, and to do so in a clear fashion, I need to further eluciday how I came to be confined here, a prisoner in the basement of my own home. It all began when I was eleven, the younger of two children and raised by strict but kind

parents. I was still prone to frequent wanderings of thought and flights of fancy. I was a largely obedient child, and I had enough admiration for my brother and fearful respect for my parents that when I was rebuked for daydreaming or telling fantastic tales, I truly did try to curb those tendencies, or at least confine them to my own. thoughts and late-night conversations with John. I suppose that is why the trouble with the ghost tree caught me by surprise. When I woke up the day after Christmas and ran outside to play, I found a giant new tree

near the edge of our yard. It stood out to me, not because of the oddity of a new tree suddenly appearing, but also because it varied so much from any other tree we had, or that I had ever seen. Where most of our trees were pine or oak, with the occasional sweet gum or poplar for a variety's sake, this tree was something else entirely. It had a massive trunk that twisted and warped upon itself before breaking out into at least 12 distinct branches of such girth and height that they all stood as substantial trees of their own. Coming off of these smaller trees were swirls of wood, the color of dark red wine, and sweeping greens that looked more

like storm clouds than the clumps of leaves that I suppose they were. I should be clear that From the start, I had a sense of strangeness of that tree, but I also felt profound feelings of joy and excitement at its discovery and presence, as though some looming giant had settled in our yard, intent on a deep slumber while he guarded our home. This thought was firmly in my mind as I ran to the tree and touched it. Its bark felt strange, but was oddly solid, and under the canopy of its many arms, I could It would smell a warm spice smell, unlike any I'd ever encountered. It made my head swim slightly, but not in an unpleasant way.

The thought suddenly occurred to me that I might be the first one to discover it, and I couldn't wait to show John and my parents my proud accomplishment. Ten minutes later, my parents were walking back into the house, my father shaking his head disgustedly. John was still outside with me, his face stricken with worry. He was two years older than me, but he never seemed like an older brother. except at times like this. It was the look he would get when he was afraid I was going to get in trouble, or when he

couldn't understand something I was talking about, at which times he politely assumed that what I was saying was somehow wrong. I hated that look, but I understood it now. None of them could see the tree. In the two years that followed, I would occasionally bring up the tree to them, and each time I was met with greater anger and rejection. I was told that I was to give up these childish games and fantasies. that my behavior was continuing to deteriorate, and I needed to start showing signs of growing

up and becoming a man. Finally, my father, not the most emotional of men at the best times, struck me across the face one afternoon. He had tears in his eyes when he did it, his voice carrying a note of raw desperation as he gripped my arms and gave me a light shake. He asked why I persisted with this tree story and what they had done wrong for me to become as I was. I care how I upset my mother? Didn't I care what people in town said about my strange ways?

What was I to say? His words would hurt far more when I was eleven, but I was growing thicker skin due to the regular sharp words and scornful looks. Still, it did strike a nerve, him accusing me of not caring, of being so thoughtless, all while they blindly punished me for being able to see something they cannot. So out of frustration and anger, out of need to end the debate and the accusations once and for all, I did one thing I always held off from doing in anyone else's presence. I climbed the tree. I heard my father yelling for me to stop whatever I was doing, but even from his vantage on

the front porch, I was only two feet up before he could tell at a distance that I was no longer touching the ground. His voice died in his chest, but it was too late. I was now four feet up, and the earlier commotion had brought out Mama and John. I was focused on climbing the familiar bark of my special tree, the strangeness of scaling it during the daylight hours, or for an audience not lost on me, but of secondary importance. When I heard my mother let out a scream, I almost lost my grip. I shifted my feet and leaned against the nearest branch for a moment, catching my breath

and my bearings. Turning to glance back at the house, I saw all three of them staring at me with abject horror. I considered going back down, but no, it was time for this to be done. So I continued to climb until I was over 30 feet up and perched like a raccoon on one of the tallest branches that could support my weight. It was strange, but despite my general dislike of heights, I never felt scared climbing that tree. It made me feel invigorated as though I was taking part in some secret ritual of nature that was replenishing my body and soul. At the top, I took a moment to take in the sprawling land around us in the fading afternoon light. It was so beautiful.

With more than a little reluctance, I turned my eyes back to my family, who sat huddled and broken on the front porch steps, my brother and father still watching me while my mother wept softly into her hands. I had always imagined their reaction being something like this. To them, I suppose it looked like I convulsed and leapt my way up a tower of nothing. And now I sat perched in mid-air. I tried to give them a comforting smile, but I couldn't quite manage it, and they likely couldn't have seen it anyway. Instead, I planned to go down and explain to them that I was

not making up the tree and that just because they couldn't see it didn't mean it was imaginary or something to fear. Things went rather differently. As I made my last careful movements back down to the earth, I felt a rope around my neck. I grabbed at it, losing my balance as I was tugged off my feet. It was John and my father. I thought, but it was a short contest. I tried to explain, They would hear nothing more from me. I was locked in the basement that night, and by week's end, this room had been constructed and I was told it would be my new home until I was released from the devil's clutches, as they said.

I found all of this terrifying, of course, and I screamed and cried to be released, but it was no use. In the back of my mind, I also found it all very strange. And upon reflection, I find it even more so. My parents were religious people, as were John and I, but not. not overly so. I'd never known my family to be prone to bouts of overzealous piety or religious hysteria, and while I had no doubt that what they had seen when I climbed the ghost tree was disturbing, I would never have thought them capable of anything approaching this, the abject

abandonment and imprisonment of their own child. Yet I have no clear alternative answer for the past eight years. Their determination has never wavered, and I have never seen any real sign of hope from them that they would reach a point where they would release me. Rather, they move about like corpses or hot air balloons floating on the buoyancy of sad acceptance and insane conviction. They go through the routines and rituals of caring for me, the minimal amount that is required, but I imagine they try their best to forget about me the rest of the time. Just as I can feel my memory of the world and all its colors and smells and sources of joy and imagination fading from me, I can only imagine I have faded away from the world, a ghost haunting the lowest chamber

of this house and my family's minds. And as I have said previously, it was my knowledge and belief in the ghost tree that sustained me through all these dark years, the feeling that it was special, that it had somehow picked me and that the magical connection between myself and it would bear more fruit than me dying in this makeshift cell. But still, I felt the last candle of even this secret hope. guttering low, and then I saw the root poking through the wall. It was a tiny thing, three feet up the back wall of my room. It was impossible to see in the dark and easy to miss in the candlelight.

When I saw it and recognized it as a root from the tree, I felt a thrill of excitement run through me. Reaching out a probing finger, I touched the tip of it gently and gasped at the rush of energy that shot through me of the contact. Images and sounds flooded through my mind, and I felt A vitality returned to me that I hadn't known since my family had first betrayed me. My finger had come away from the root at the shock of that first touch. When I reached towards it again, I saw the root move to meet me. Holding my finger to it the second time was less shocking, but no less profound. I felt my mind drifting as my eyes lost focus and my breath slowed.

I was sitting on the edge of my bed, leaned forward with an index finger touching this strange plant, and as I watched, the wall in front of me seemed to melt away. It was no longer a brick wall, or even the bare earth behind it. Instead, it was a large tunnel, a foot taller than I was, wreathed in roots from the ghost tree and filled with the sweet-smelling breeze. The smell was the most powerful part at the time, as though my body and mind were so starved for air that wasn't rancid and stale that the breeze from the tunnel sent me into a deep state of euphoria. I stood and walked into that tunnel without hesitation, unaware of where I was going, but resolute in my determination that any place had to be better than the one I was leaving behind.

As you might imagine, I had much to learn. Journal Entry 5. I've learned and experienced a lot more since I started transcribing Justin's book, and this record is quickly becoming more of an insurance policy for my safety than an outlet for some kind relationship angst. I think I might be in real trouble here, and I don't understand what's going on. But before I go further into that, I will post the last portion of Justin's writings, and then come back after to explain what has happened since I first read it. When I entered the tunnel the first time, I walked for what seemed like hours. The path would

slant up and down, wind this way and that, but the strangest part was that I never grew tired, whether it was just my exacerbation at finally being free of that room or something suffusing the sweet air I was breathing. I went on until I reached a branching path. I took the right most of three options and went on. Five more decisions later, always taking the rightmost path, and I found myself approaching a wall. I feared that my journey was either at an end or I would have to try to breach the wall to continue. But as I drew closer, it faded away and my passage was clear. I was in a basement much like my own, but different in a variety of ways.

There was no wall and door partitioning part of this basement into a cell, and the space was entirely bare of any possessions or furniture. After glancing around the basement for a moment, I crept slowly up the steps and eased open the door to the kitchen. The room was bereft of any signs of life or habitation. The only noise was some distant sound from outside. the rest of the house, I found much the same. There were no signs of anyone living here. When I looked out the window upstairs, I began to understand why. This version of the house was sitting

on the bedrock of a small island surrounded by Blue Sea as far as the eye could see. That wasn't entirely true, I suppose, as I could see a larger landmass near the edge of the horizon to the west, but that did nothing to change the fact that this house was wholly isolated and remote. In the span of 30 minutes, I had walked the length and breadth of the island twice, and it confirmed my suspicion that I was alone in this corner of whatever strange world this might be. Well, almost alone. Two hundred yards from the house, the ghost tree stood proudly, its leaves blowing gently in the breeze coming off the water.

It couldn't be the same tree, of course, yet at the same time I felt sure it was. The tree was somehow connecting this place and where I was from. like an umbilical cord of some kind. My mind was torn between taking in all the strange and beautiful sights and marveling at the implications of this hidden, alternate world. In the end, the joy of being in fresh air and sunlight won out. I spent an hour walking the small stretch of sandy beach in front of the house, and looking at the exterior of the house itself.

It was strange. The house was like mine, but it wasn't the same. For one thing, it was in far too good a condition. with none of the age or damage that had existed on mine when I last saw its outer walls. For another, there was no sign that a person had ever lived there at all. I saw no screws or nail holes, no faded stains from a piece of furniture or a plant. I had thought that this wasn't the house at all, but rather the idea of the house. The perfect ideal.

The idea was compelling, and for some reason it temporary mollified my need for further explanation. Still, I couldn't stay here indefinitely. I still needed clean water and food, and I wanted to ensure I could find my way back to my world before I stayed too long here or elsewhere, if there were other worlds at the end of those other branching paths. With a heavy heart, I went back inside. Going back down into the basement was the hardest part, but I forced myself down those steps and into that place that served as my hell in another version of the world.

The wall began to dissolve at my approach, and on impulse I bent down and scratched the number two onto the floor in the area where the bed was in my version. I wanted to keep track if there were multiple places too similar to discern, and that seemed the best way on short notice. Then, with a deep breath, I walked back through the wall and into the tunnel. To my surprise, I backtracked rather easily, and within a few minutes I was walking back into my cell. After looking around the room briefly, to ensure it truly was my cell, I scratched a one

into the floor beneath my bed. I then laid down on my bed and began to formulate a plan. I would store up food and water for the next two days and then venture back out on the third. Ideally, I would either find tools in some other world to secure my freedom here, or find a world that would be more accepting of me than this one. Either way, the last two days have been the hardest of all my time here, I think. The anticipation of new places, of more freedom, is so wonderful I can hardly bear it. The fear that it won't work for me a second time, or that my plan will be discovered, fills

me with the deepest dread. But I am at the precipice now. I have made a crude supply bag out of my pillowcase, and the wall, which has been dormant for the last two days, is already fading away like morning midst in a patch of sunlight. It may be that these are the last words I write in this precious book that has been my sole confidante in the darkness and light of these past few days. I hope the end of this story, chronicled or no, finds me well and safe and free." Journal Entry 6.

That was the end of the writing of Justin Paring. When I finished reading it, I went back down to that room and saw the number one scratched onto the floor as he described. But more than that, I saw what looked like a thin, red root sticking out between the bricks on the far wall. It was just outside the edge of the black, spongy man-shape on the wall, and when I stepped back, I saw it was actually close enough to one shadow hand that it looked as though the root and finger were moving to touch each other. I felt a thrill of excitement and fear, and before I knew it, I was reaching out to touch the root myself.

A sudden noise from upstairs brought me up short only inches from contact. It was Phil coming home. still determined to not share what I'd discovered. I hid the book and went up to greet him, trying to spin vague tales of unpacking and home improvements while counting the hours until he was asleep, and I could think what to do next. Ultimately, I decided it was a good thing that Phil had interrupted me. I needed to learn more about all of this before I made any rash decisions.

I started by asking Phil for the name of the real estate agent that had sold us the house. I'd been present for the signing of some paperwork at the end, but I had never dealt with the agent. But Phil told me that there was no agent. He had bought the house from an estate administrator who had listed the house online. That was strange because I felt sure he'd mentioned an agent before, but I couldn't say for sure.

He asked why I was wondering, and I made up the excuse that I wanted to know if the old owners had the names of specific paint colors they'd used in the house. In typical Phil fashion, he accepted this without further argument and finished getting ready for bed. The next day, I went to the library, which, unlike every movie or TV show I've ever seen, was grossly unhelpful in finding out any details about the creepy old house I was living in, or the prior owners. I was running out of ideas when I passed a sign that said historical society. It was apparently a quasi-museum to local history, though its small size and

overwhelming devotion to old farm equipment and pictures of the main street 50 years earlier didn't give the best impression of depth or breadth. Fortunately, the woman that ran the place was very friendly and knowledgeable. She said that her great-grandmother had actually been a distant cousin of the pairing family. They weren't a bunch to be sure. to themselves, especially as the boys got older. Then people started noticing that Justin was nowhere to be found. Never came to town or went to church anymore. But it was a different time back then. People tended to their business more and they weren't going to ask questions if they didn't have to. Rumors were that Justin had run off or died and the parents just couldn't take it. So nobody ever saw,

Justin again? I felt a mixture of sadness and relief welling up inside me. Sadness that Justin's terrible life had been real and relief that he might have finally escaped it to a better place. She shook her head. No, but then the rest of the family didn't last long either. One night, someone came in on them and killed the parents and the brother. Or at least that's what people figured. There was blood and they were all missing, though no bodies were ever found. I couldn't help but feel some grim satisfaction that they were punished for how they treated Justin. Whatever he did to them, it wasn't enough, but the woman was frowning now. I could have sworn I had a picture of them. I know I did. I swear, this is going to drive me crazy

until I find it. She looked up from talking to herself and patted my arm with a smile. I'm sorry, honey, but I tell you what? Give me your number and I'll send you a copy of the picture if I find it. Half an hour later, I was back down in the basement. Enough with being safe. I wanted to see how much of it was real. I reached out and touched the root, feeling a surge of power flood my body as I did so, falling back against the rotten match. my hand punched through the fabric and onto rusty springs. I jerked my hand away, fears of tetanus dancing in my head, but I saw no cut or scratch.

Besides, I had other things to think about, like how the wall in front of me had just dissolved. Still feeling the rush of energy crackling across my skin, I stood up and began walking forward. The tunnel was just as he had described, and I could smell the sweet, glowing air wafting into the dank secret room as I felt my phone buzzed once. Then again, stifling a wave of irritation, I took out my phone and opened it.

There were two new text messages from a number I didn't have a name associated with. When I opened it, I realized it was the woman from the historical society. The first was a message. It said, Found it. This is a picture from Easter of 1901. The Baptist Church took family photos for all the local families that were members. This is the pairing family from left to right, John, Stort, Edna, Justin. The second text was the picture itself. It was black and white, of course, but a surprisingly good quality for its age.

Zooming in on my phone, I filled the screen with the faces of each person in turn. John, his smile friendly but sad. Stuart, his eyes hard and stern. Edna, her face open and warm. Justin, Justin. It was impossible. I texted the woman back, asking her if she was sure, if she was sure that the person in that picture,

the person on the far right, was Justin pairing back in 1901. A moment later she responded that she was certain. Was something wrong? I didn't reply back. I had no response to give that would make any sense. Because the person in that picture, years younger looking but unmistakably him, a person she said was just in pairing.

I knew him. I knew him very well. It was Phil. Just then I heard the front door open upstairs. He was home. I consider going upstairs, trying to make up more half-truths or confronting feelings. Phil slash Justin, but instead I ran into the tunnel. Five feet in, the wall behind me faded back into view. And while I assumed I could still get back out that way, at the moment I didn't care.

I was tired of waiting for something special, tired of being scared when something this magical was right in front of me. I was going to see things for myself instead of just reading about it. The tunnel went on, chamber after chamber of deep red roots and dark, loamy earth. As Justin had described, I eventually came to a branching of paths. Instead of taking the rightmost, I took the center. On and on, I went for what felt like hours, but I was never tired or hungry. And with each branching path, I just felt my urgency to go further growing. center path every time, always leading to another choice farther down the tangle path.

Then I saw I was entering a larger chamber. It was roughly circular in shape. The ceiling and walls made up of an endless cascade of roots woven tightly together, except for several openings every few feet that I assume led to other twisting paths. The roots here weren't red for the most part, but a smoky gray that was almost black. and the flesh of those roots was blistered and scarred in many places, as though there had been a fire here at one point. Looking to the center of the room, I saw a small upgrowth of branches that almost looked like a pedestal of sorts for the black tangle of roots that lay atop it. If I had to guess, I'd say this is where the fire had started. But whatever had happened, the ghost tree, or trees, depending on how you looked at it,

had survived. I could see green shoots and new, unscarred red bark poking through the black ashy residue the flames had left behind. I was reaching out to touch it, felt a strong, compelling need to touch it. But something held me back. Whatever this place was, it was clearly significant, important, and I had a sense that in some ways it was more of a doorway and threshold than even passing into the tunnel had been. So I stepped back, picked a new tunnel, and journeyed on. While my cell phone was useless for phone calls here, I used it to keep track of my choice in the larger chamber, and the couple of times where there was an even number of tunnels with no center path to pick. Finally, after what felt like another hour or more, I saw a wall. When I approached it,

it dissolved away much like the wall in my house had done. But instead of entering a dank, secret cell, I appeared to be entering a large, well-lit room that someone used as a woodworking shop. Entering quietly, I listened for any signs of movement, but there were none. I was still in the basement of the house, of a version of the house, and the combination of similarities and differences made it seem surreal. I paused to look under a workbench occupied by a belt sander, and what I thought might be a tremble of some sort, and there was a faded 43 scratched into the floor where the bed was in my version of the house. Going into the other room, I saw it was some kind of media room, though what I thought must be the television was simply a large pain of

either glass or plastic suspended from the ceiling by two braided wires. I had no idea how something like that would work, but I supposed it didn't matter. It might be the least of the differences in this world. I crept up the stairs and eased open the basement door, and as it swung open, I saw two men sitting at a table eating cereal, or rather they had been eating cereal. Now they were staring at me. What the hell? One of them bellowed as he stood up.

Who the hell are you, lady? His expression had dangerous combination of fear and anger. The other man was trying to calm him down, but he wasn't listening. I slammed the door back shut before he reached it and ran down the stairs two at a time, desperate to reach the wall and terrified that it might not open for me this time. but the tunnel was ready and waiting, and as I passed into it, the wall closed behind me, protecting me. I stood there for a moment, hands on my knees and breathing heavy, more out of fear and adrenaline

than exertion. I had to be more careful. I never knew what I was going to be getting myself into, and I had to be ready. I debated heading back then. I could get proper supplies and then head back out to explore more work. worlds with more than my cell phone and determination. But I finally decided I would give it one more try first. I backtrack two junctions, then took another path. This time, the tunnel went on for quite some time, and after seven more choices, I found myself at another wall. The basement I entered

was pitch black, and I gave a shutter as I crossed over into it with my cell phone's flashlight app acting as my only source of illumination. It was freezing here. I almost turned back, but then I spied a number etched onto the floor. 71. For some reason, that made me want to go on. I needed to see more of what Justin had seen, try to understand more of what he experienced before I confronted him. He had obviously been lying to me, possibly trying to trick me into something, and I didn't want to go into that conversation with nothing but his old writings to guide me. So I went forward very slowly into the rest of the basement, holding up my little phone like a guiding star as I pushed through the cold darkness. I listened at the top of the stairs for a couple of minutes, before deciding

it was probably safe to open it. When I did so, I saw the house was totally empty, much like Justin had described in his trip to the house on the island. I also realized that while the house itself was dark, there was a faint blue glow coming through the windows. My first thought was that I was in a world where it was late twilight or early morning, but when I approached the window over the kitchen sink, I saw I was wrong. I was in a cave. The house, as strange and impossible as it seemed, was sitting in some kind of massive cave. I went to the front door and opened it. The air was even colder outside,

and while there were no distant sources of light, the air was saturated with a soft, blue glow. It reminded me in some ways of the light in the tunnels of the ghost tree, but instead of being comforting, it filled me with a vague and terrible sense of dread. Still, I wanted to see this through. I left the front door open for a quick escape and walked a few steps further into the cave. It was an enormous cavern, and in the distance I could barely make out several dark spots

that I assumed were tunnels, leading to the other parts of the whatever cave system this was on whatever world I found myself in. I turned to my right and saw the ghost tree there, its red branches and green flowing leaves blowing in the currents of some breeze I couldn't feel. I felt a surge of happiness and familiarity at seeing it, as though I had run into an old friend, and I found myself heading toward it. Then I noticed the bodies stacked at its base, perfectly preserved. 20 bodies or more were stacked at the tree's base. And my first thought was that it was some kind of strange offering by whoever or whatever lived here.

Then I saw the black lines of corruption that traced itself from several of the bodies to the trunk of the massive tree. Bodies were poisoning it. I saw the distinted belly of one of the body's shift, or something inside of the bodies was poisoning it. I took a step back, taking in more of the details of the cavern. I had stupidly decided would be good to explore. There were more bodies at different spots.

the floor, some with swollen, shifting stomachs, others looking as though they were simply taking a nap. All told, I saw over a hundred bodies in the dim gloom of that unending indigo light. And among all those bodies were numerous lines cut into the stony floor, almost as though they had been cut with a blade or saw. What do you offer as tribute for your need? A voice echoed in my mind like the high tones of a church bell. Intelligent and feminine. It carried an undercurrent of inhuman emotion

that could have been a cousin of anger or amusement or both. I spun around looking for the source. At first I saw nothing. But then at one of the black tons, in the distance. I saw a pair of blue flames dancing in the air. They were its eyes. I ran into the house, shutting the front and basement door behind me as I ran down the stairs and back to the tunnel. That was enough for me. I wanted to go home and leave all this behind. I'd talk to Justin slash Phil if he wanted, but after that I was packing my shit and never coming back to any version

of that house again. It took what seemed like hours to make it back. I found out. I found the way easily and even when I ran across that central burn chamber with its multitude of paths I picked the right one without hesitation but it still felt like it was taking forever when I finally crossed back into Justin's cell I was so filled with relief that it took me several moments to notice what was different the wall dividing the cell from the rest of the basement was back up I had dismantled a large central portion of the brick wall that had separated Justin's room from the rest of the house, and that had all been replaced with new bricks, except for a small space, two bricks wide and tall. It was just enough space for me to see Phil

looking in at me. Hey there, honey. Been on a little trip, have you? Did you have a good time? I ran up to the wall, realizing and passing that the cell was now lit by a pair of LED lanterns on the nightstand and chest respectively. He was setting me up. in here. The bastard. Phil, Justin, whatever you call yourself, let me out of here. He smiled at me pleasantly. No can-do buttercup, and even if I did, it wouldn't do you any good. You belong to the tree now. I felt it when it passed from me to you. I pushed against the brick angrily, but it didn't budge. Why are you doing this? I paused and added. I love you. His smile grew colder.

That's real cute, you know. You know, you've been gone for an entire day. I only started working on the wall a couple of hours ago. Before that, I did some light reading. Your precious journal. Taking a couple of steps back, he lifted my journal from a dwindled stack of bricks he had brought down for the job. You see, the difference between your journal and mine is that I had actual problems to write

about. Well, that and mine is far better written. Jesus, I had a ninth grade education when I wrote this, and you have a master's degree. The modern education system really is shit. He shook his head before taking a deep breath. But no, I'm mad and hurt, and it's making me petty. Let me start over. He sat the journal back on the bricks and approached the hole in the wall.

When I went into those tunnels, I was so happy and excited. I thought I was about to go on some magical adventure and live a life full of freedom and wonder. Instead, you know what I found? My mind was still racing for some way out of this, but I thought it was. It's best to humor him for now. What's that? He wasn't smiling any longer. After traveling to over 200 different worlds, I figured out three things.

One, many worlds are filled with people much like us. After a few dozen of those, I gave up on finding a world where people aren't largely selfish pieces of shit. Two, some of those worlds are much, much worse. Phil paused, cocking his head. Which ones did you go to? I don't know if you noticed, but I numbered pretty much every one I went to. I stared at him dully, trying not to show how much I wanted to break through that wall and reach him.

Um, 43 and 71, he seemed to ponder for a moment. And then his eyes went wide. 71. Oh, shit, really? You have an awesome sense of direction. Wow. Yeah, I don't advise a return trip there. I shuddered at the memory. Yeah, I don't plan to. Look, I don't want to go anywhere anymore. Please, just let me out and I'll do whatever you want.

Stay, go, I don't care. Just don't leave me in here. He was already shaking his head. And he actually looked sad now. No, I'm sorry, but no. Because the third thing I figured out is that once you touch the route and enter the tunnel, you're bound to the ghost tree. At first, I thought it was a gift.

I aged incredibly slow, I never got hungry or thirsty or tired in the tunnels. I had all these places I could go. Phil shoved my journal off the brick pile onto the floor and sat down. But after a few months of that, I got tired of it. I found a world that seemed to be less terrible than most than I settled down. I built a life there, fell in love. He put his hands in his lap, and I could see they were bald into fists. And then one day I woke up in the tunnels.

in what I call the heart room. I found my way back to my new world, my new life, but the tree wouldn't open the way. Eventually, I figured out that I had to go back and stay with it in the heart room. I couldn't explore any world during that time. What seemed like an eternity passed, and periodically I would go back to the tunnel I needed and still see it walled up until finally it wasn't. I was so happy. I ran through into the basement, up the stairs, and set out to find out to find my girlfriend or any of the friends I had made. And then I realized ten years it passed. He leaned forward, looking at me somberly. What it amounts to is this. You can go and explore, but after two or three years, the tree pulls you back. And after that, you have to stay with it

for five times whatever time you had on the outside. I don't understand if it's lonely, or if it needs us or something, or if it's just mean, but that's the rules. I started to say I was sorry, and he just raised his hand with a glare. Save it. I'm trying to explain as a kindness, so you don't start all this totally in the dark like I was. Don't push it. He waited a second and then went on. After I found out how much time had passed, I gave up on staying in that world.

I went to exploring again, although without the hope of a permanent life somewhere. It didn't mean as much. I figured out what I'm telling you over the years. Staying for different amounts of time in different places and after everything I saw, I've realized something. I wasn't special. None of us are. I've seen multiple older versions of myself. They were all unremarkable. I've met people across scores of worlds, and there aren't more than a handful that stand out. But while that was depressing in some ways, it also gave me hope that I didn't have to be the one to bear this burden forever. I could find a replacement.

As I think you may have figured out by now, I did away with my parents and brother, too. It was during a dark time really early on, before I had found my new world and love, but after I had become despondent in my travels. I came back and killed them in their sleep, dragging their bodies into the tunnels for a reason that made sense at the time, but is lost to me now. Years later, I came back and bought the house from the bank who was left holding it. Oddly enough, people hadn't been lining up to buy the old murder house with the creepy vibes, so I got it cheap.

This was in the 1950s, and I've been sitting it out since. Periodically coming out to try and find a good replacement. But it hasn't been easy. I figured out over time that you can't just knock someone out and pull them into the tunnels. You can't force them to agree to enter either. No. They have to voluntarily touch the route and enter the tunnel for them to be bound in your place. Of course, I didn't know that for sure until now.

It was all guesswork. About 15 years ago, I decided it was no use, and I was better off trying to kill the tree, even if I died with it. So I came out, got a drum of gasoline, and tried to burn down the heart room. Yeah, I saw. He looked up at my words and grinned, giving a nod. It didn't look like it worked too well. His expression darkened, and he stood back up.

No. No, it didn't. I think it heard it, but I don't know if it can die. So I gave up on that and went back to trying to find someone I could get to take my place, if it was even possible. That's when you came along. Well, not you, but another version of you. My eyes widened.

What are you talking about? He quirked an eyebrow. What do you think? Alternate worlds, alternate yous, keep up. I met another version of you and got into a relationship with them. I got them to the house, but they weren't as curious and hardworking. as you are. They didn't take the bait from my subtle hints, or even me discovering the hidden room I had made there. By the time I was getting them interested, I was pulled back into that

damn heart room. You should have given them a mysterious note. I knew I should keep quiet since I just made him angrier, but I couldn't help it. But this time, Phil was looking confused. Note? I didn't ever leave you a note. Oh, wait. What did it say? Come live in the ashes of my heart. You're saying you didn't write that? It was in your, or at least, your old Justin handwriting. Phil shrugged. Honestly, no note for me.

I guess the tree did that. Its attempts at being mysterious and ironic, maybe? I don't know. I wondered how you got on it so quick. I guess the tree was tired of me too, which is understandable. He looked away. His expression strange. Anyway, when I could leave the tunnels again, I came back here and found you.

I saw you out, if I'm being honest. And you know, I actually loved you. I've been really conflicted this entire time if I could even go through with this. Well... He glanced down at my journal on the ground. At least before reading that. He turned around and grabbed up a new brick, scraping mortar into the space it was going to go.

I started screaming for him to stop. But he didn't pause. After a couple of minutes, there was only one brick left out of place. I put those lanterns in there for you, and there's a backpack on the bed with food and water. I'd suggest you travel around, but be careful and mind your time limits. Don't get too attached to any place because you can't stay forever. And I left you a new journal on the chest. Maybe you'll write about this part, too.

If you leave it behind when you're done, I'll keep it safe. Maybe let other people read what you wrote even. It won't matter. He paused. His eyes troubled. I guess I'll be the villain in your story. He started putting mortar around the edges of the final opening. I went to 211 different worlds, and you know what?

There were cells like this in 93 of them, along with 93 corpse versions of me. Living in that room, I'd always wanted to believe that my family had just made a mistake, that they were good people that just picked the wrong way when the path forked. But no. That's just who they are through and through. He put the last brick into position and started pushing it in. I guess everyone is someone's villain.