The Dark Somnium - "There Is Only Embers, At The end" Creepypasta

Episode Date: September 30, 2021

This Creepypasta scary story is from the nosleep subreddit, written by T.J Lea--- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/darksomnium/message Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Would you mind telling me what happened? Are you sure? It's a little long-winded. I know how you hate things that go on and on. Well, the way I see it, we have all the time in the world, given the unique place, run. The unique place? Where are you referring to? You smiled.

Everywhere. Never underestimate the lengths someone will go to to fulfill a lifelong desire. As I sat in my room with my list of essential items, as dictated by the book, I contemplated how I'd even gotten here some months prior. It's astounding how just one piece of information, one decision, one solitary but powerful emotion, can push a person to places that they'd never thought they'd go to. But here I am, wrapping up the head of a deer and delicate parchment paper, careful to ensure that it's folded 47 times, not 48, not 50, 47, the blood soaking through the bottom

and giving it a crimson hue that paired well with the beige. Beside it sat a serrated hunting knife, the bone of an elk, the skull of an owl, two incisors from a bear and a small mixing bowl with various herbs, all given without resistance or pain, as the book dictated. I carefully placed them into a burlap sack, tightened it, and placed it in my hiker's backpack, before donning my winter gear and getting my dog, Bastion, before heading out the door. I knew I may not ever come back again. The doorway, said to be guarded by the mythical Lord Janice, has been referenced in many cultures

and across the millennia by scholars. What lay beyond it, of course, differs from person to person. treasures, curses, God itself, you can take your pick. Some say the door manifests to wandering travelers when they least expected, offering them whatever their heart desires at the cost of something unseen. Likely their sanity or an empirical value they would have no way of knowing about at the present moment in time, like an unborn sun. Others postulate that it appears to only those chosen by the gods, with the right blood

and belief system in place. But the most scintillating of practices and rumors are the ones found in the Book of Nomes, that, after a decade of tireless searching, had finally come into my possession at an auction. They gave the most likely of answers to the location of the door, one stooped in ancient human culture, offerings. Written sometime in the eighth century and translated largely in secret during the Dark Ages, It contains the secret of England's woods and the ancient creatures that dwell within it. To my benefit, an entire section was focused on anomalous entities and locations, like the doorway.

Before we go any further, I feel I should be forthright with my reasoning for spending ten years of my life looking for ways to access this possibly fictitious door in human folklore. I feel I owe you that explanation before taking any more of your time, though for the sake of what is going to unfold, I'm going to keep it simple and ask that you trust me. I believe there is something beyond the doorway that houses a treasure greater than any riches, something that would change my life irrevocably, and I'm determined to find it. I traveled some one hundred miles south until I got to what we call the new forest. The name belays the ancient nature of the land. It's been there for well over 12,000 years, even as recently as the

Iron Age some two millennia ago, these forests were there, watching and proliferating as man grew and expanded, becoming the resting place of royalty who died in battle. Now, if you visit it, it's regarded as a national treasure. Great swaths of trees tower against the sky, the deeper in you go, blotting out much of the sun's rays, hiding its greater secrets. The darker places of the forest were where I had to traverse. My golden retriever bastion bounding on ahead, eager to be in such a large space, and likely excited to run after any donkeys, horses, cows, or even deer that he might spot. Your paces must exceed 700 as you travel into the heart of the new forest, following its

great veins to the hidden source. Eventually, we will come upon a rock face that has been untouched for untold millennia, the moss growing across its left side. Upon the light of a new moon, this is where your offering must begin." Beneath a small phrase etched in a scratchy black font that stood apart from the rest. All is well, but a blackened seed has taken root. We must unearth it. Sure enough, my Fitbit indicated I was at eight hundred and thirty-six paces, and following

a large trunk barely hidden by the underbrush when the great rock face came. into view. Grade and towering, the moss only growing on the left side like a birthmark. I knew I'd found what I was looking for. I put a bookmark on the page, setting down my bag and knowing I had another hour until the sun would fully set. I decided to check the area with Bastion before sitting down and preparing myself for what was to come.

They say you can't exercise your demons, but you can sure as hell learn to make peace with them. The first time I caught sight of the other was when I was a child of about five, sat playing in front of the mirror and chanting away to my reflection. I suppose in a child's mind those kind of irregularities are met less with immediate horror and instead with curiosity. As I looked closely, I noticed my reflection tilting its head ever so slightly more than I was. The eyes widening and understanding as it perceived me while I perceived it.

I stopped blinking, taking in more of its features as the skin tightened and stretched across the jawline, causing deep crevices in the sides as it became gaunt. The hair once matching my own brown curls, fraying and thinning out as the skull expanded. My mirror was set in a way so that the door to my bedroom could be seen and as my heart began to beat faster, the door opened up, and a figure stood in the archway, blinded by the light. I had no perception of who it was. My mind simply went to parent, and I watched as it pointed to my reflection, to the other me, whose head was still tilting down at a horrifying angle, practically snapping under

the weight of its own insistence to keep turning. Then, without warning, it smacked against the glass, a horrible cracking sound that I can still here to this day. That action finally broke my stare, and the haze faded away as I screamed, turning to my door and expecting my mom or dad to ask what was wrong, but the door was still shut. Mom came in soon after, soothing me as I talked about the bad man in the mirror, and assured me it was just a dream. But from that day forward, on certain occasions, I would catch glimpses of the other changeling

in the mirror, always watching, always wanting out, and the doorway behind him permanently opened. The sun had to set, and I unzip my backpack, unfurled the burlap sack, and took out the book again, Bastion sleeping by my side and still gently gnawing on his favorite stuffed animal. Once you're in front of the rock face, you must apply the power of man, starting with that which provides us all life. Next to it, the image of a door and another inscription. There's something amiss, but you can't quite place it. Something is burning.

Can you hear the crackling? I took out the hunting knife and sliced my palm, letting the blood flow freely as I drew the outline of a door as instructed and bandaged my hand up when the job was done. Next, the strength of the wanderer with which to provide balance and sustainability. How much have these bones seen? I have fixed the elk bone at the side, acting as the hinges. Follow with the incisors of the bear, the constant force of nature always seeking to grow stronger. Now his strength is your own.

The incisors acted as decorations for the door, a macabre but poignant accessory to make it stand out. Then the wisdom and foresight of the owl, a great predator who sees all, what did they see when they gazed upon you? Will they provide you a handle with which to grasp your truth? Your destiny? The owl skull. I placed it to the right, acting as a door handle. My access. Your offering must be left in the center. Janice's beast beyond the door must be placated, for while it is blind, it is not dumb. Show it respect, and do not gaze upon its entry. Turn

your back and wait until the light of the moon shines on you. This will be your sign. to proceed. I unwrapped the deer's head and did as instructed, leaving it in front of my macabre door of bone and blood before taking Bastion and going for a walk. If this didn't work, you could classify me as a psychopath and lock me up for all I cared. After all, I had no plan forward if this failed. There are many moments in even the most mundane person's life that they can point to as the best, the worst, and life-changing.

I certainly have a few that stick out. The difference is, all of mine are linked to the other. The first time I made the connection was at the age of seven. The playroom mirror long since relegated to the attic, and a built-in wardrobe mirror in its place, not that it mattered. In the middle of the night, on a hot summer's eve, I awoke to the sound of soft tapping against glass. Even with these occasional bizarre experiences, I was terrified by the notion of some

untangible outside my bedroom window, some stranger danger situation. It took me a few minutes to finally open my bedroom curtains, only to show nothing there. Before I could breathe a sigh of relief, I caught sight of my mirror in the moonlight reflection. The other was sitting there, cross-legged, and tapping away with a bony, dirty fingernail. I don't know why I always succumbed to its whims in the first instance. Maybe there was something mesmerizing about the way it lured me in. Maybe these things have the innate ability to suppress our fears long enough to strike, but all I know is I obeyed the tap and walked over, sitting down in my Buzz Lightyear pajamas

and observing the other me. His were of woody, tattered and frayed in places, large bags under his eyes and sallow skin, but a far more humane appearance about him. he wasn't trying to scare me? He took his nail away and simply observed me, yellowed eyes taking in every inch of me and frowning as he saw my pajamas did not match his own. But no sooner had he expressed his disappointment, he switched to something akin to joy, smiling with rotten teeth as he pointed to the bedroom door.

That sinking feeling you get when you miss a step on the stairs immediately hit me as my Nana walked through the doorway. Great light still rippling through it. She stumbled in an awkward manner as if she'd hurt her leg. It was only when she bent down to look at me that I realized why. Tears in my eyes and screaming as I backed away from the mirror like a cornered animal and ran to my parent's bedroom. Nanna's eyes were rolled into the back of her head. The left half of her once jovial face dropped as if pulled down by tenterhooks, tongue lulling out of her mouth and blood and pouring from her eyes, nose, and ears. The very next day, we got the call.

Nana had died from a burst aneurysm in her brain on the way to the bathroom in the middle of the night, roughly around 4 a.m., instantaneous and without suffering. In layman's terms, she died from a stroke. I avoided my mirror for years after that. Bastion nudged me out of my medication, his soft nose getting under my arm and demanding headpets. Can't say I blame him. He is downright adorable. I don't think I'd have made this journey without him by my side.

We sat there for a little while, enjoying the calm serenity of nature and the enjoyment of each other's company as my mind idly wandered while he wagged his tail, grateful to get his best friend's full attention. But the quiet serenity of the woods was not to last, broken by three things in quick succession. The low hum of something stirring underneath the ground, something large, the birds, insects, reptiles, and mammals all scattering from our area as if knowing something was coming. The sounds of a great oaken door being opened after a long absence, hinges creaking under the strain, and the low hum turning into a drone, not dissimilar to the growl of a great beast that stocked the lands long ago.

From my position, sitting behind a log and facing away from the doorway I'd created, I saw the ugly light shine out from its archway and bathe the surrounding land in its corruption. I wish I could equate it to something within our color spectrum, but words fail me. It was alluring and revolting all at once, something I would struggle to put into any arbitrary box we had. Bastion, to his credit, tried to keep his whimpered noises to a minimum, and instead buried his head in my lap, seemingly knowing to keep quiet and stay away from whatever the hell was there. Every cell in my body screamed to flee to get away from this imminent threat. A dense fog joined the ugly light, and a fetid stench hit my nostrils, making my eyes water

and my gag reflex kick in. I wanted to vomit, to scream, but I had to held my nerve. I'd spent ten years waiting for this moment, this occurrence that most would simply laugh off and relegate to the land of the fantastical. I would not waste it here. Hand shaking and heart lodged in my throat. I closed my eyes, steeled my resolve as this beast looked around for its offering and tried to tune out the smells and sounds, going back into my mind and reminding myself of how I got here, why I took this journey in the first place. The other me would only pop up a handful of times from that day forward, partly because I avoided standing in front of any mirror too long and kept the damn thing covered in my room

at all times. But you cannot stop a force that you do not fully understand. It lay dormant for so long that as I grew into adulthood, my mature mind simply rationalized away the experiences as that of an overactive imagination from an only child largely isolated from others. But that was impossible to accept once I turned 19. My first few months away from home and in my own dorm should have, by all accounts, been the time of my life. I had freedom unrestricted, several great dorm mates, and a course I was passionate about. University is, after all, the time you're supposed to always look back on fondly.

For me, that first year was nothing short of hell. The mirror in my dorm, was at the far end of my small room. Our dorms were individual bedrooms, and each flat housed seven rooms. They weren't bespoke by today's standards, but eleven years ago, it was seen as well worth the money. I'd been on a boozy night out, as the first week or so of term is collectively known as Freshers' Week, a time to acclimate to your new surroundings, make friends, get laid, and generally get the mess around part of your energy out of your system. I remember laying there, embracing the drunken high and enjoying the room spinning, whilst ensuring I didn't move too much and enact the not-so-fun projectile vomit part of having too much.

I knew I'd struggled to make it to my bathroom. I'd had my eyes closed for maybe ten minutes when I heard the sounds of familiar footsteps. Any anxious child growing up would get used to the various cadences of family members' feet would make, slow and plodding for mom, thudding and powerful for dad, fast and energetic for the family dog. So when I heard the ladder traipsing into my room, I was beset with confusion and apprehension, knowing full well my golden Barney was two hundred miles away at our family home. I sat up carefully, looking around and noticing a glimpse of light coming from my mirror,

but unable to see much without my glasses. I clumsily reached for them before stumbling over. I sobered up immediately as I became transfixed by the sight in front of me. The other stood there, relishing in its horrifying frame, standing far taller than I and barely resembling me in form. The dead eyes bulging out of large sockets, black veins visible underneath translucent skin, and a cone-like skull stretching upwards with barely any hair. It was the fact he was petting my dog that scared me the most.

Barney looked fine. Thankfully, no deformities or damage to him. But the thing that gave me pause was how youthful he looked. Our Barney was 13 years old, barely able to stand up and couldn't even say goodbye to me when I'd left for university. This one looked to be maybe four or five, just how I remembered him as a child. The other didn't take his eyes off me as he pet Barney. as if he knew something I didn't.

He looked up and down my body, and disgust filled his eyes, taking a step toward me. Then he spoke, a voice not dissimilar to mine, but steeped in damage and sorrow, like I'd been wailing for a decade and my vocal cords were long since fried. You are ungrateful. You. As I took one more look at Barney, I recoiled in horror. His familiar happy face was an unrecognizable mess, like someone had scrubbed away any features of it that were distinctive to me.

Now he barely looked like a dog. I couldn't even tell what he was supposed to be, save for the form he took. It was horrible. I want. It croaked, reaching a malformed hand out toward me. I take. The doorway swung open, and two shrouded figures stood in the archway. Beckoning to him, he recoiled and reluctantly pulled back, smirking as my own door burst open

to the sound of partying from my housemates. Come party, man, I know you got more in you. One of them chimed, blasting music from the living room, but their smiles faded as the light shone on my face. Dude, why are you crying? The next morning, my mom called me to tell me that, based on Barney's age and difficulties, the vet had to put him down in our kitchen, and he'd gone peacefully. Though I was angry and devastated that I couldn't be there, he was my best friend growing

up, and I should have been there to say goodbye. You know what they say, though? When it rains, it pours. The noises by the doorway grew in intensity and ferocity as this thing hungered for sustenance. The closest thing I can equate to it is a bear foraging for food after a long hibernation, primal, fierce, unrelenting. As it stumbled over, my offering, it gave way to some of the most disgusting sounds of consumption I've ever heard, a muck bang directly in my ear canal that I desperately wanted to mute. If you're into that stuff, more power to you.

To me, it is simply grotesque to hear anything masticating up against my eardrums. Soon, the noise is faded, and the unseen beast retreated back behind the door, taking the stench, the color, and the fog with it. But the low hum remained. I opened the Book of Gnomes and continued reading, not content enough with the silence to move just yet. If the beast accepts your offering, you may pass through the doorway and find what you seek. But be aware of pitfalls when traversing an unknown place.

This cavernous maw houses many ways to ensnare you, trick you, and keep you within its bowels for an eternity. Take your light with you. your memento close and do not stray from the path. All the ends are out." I took a deep breath and got up from my spot, grabbing my flashlight in the chosen memento, taking the mixed bowl of herbs and pouring them into a small bottle of water, pouring that over my arms, legs, and face. There's something to do with warding off anything nefarious. I did the same with Bastion, though he admittedly tried to eat the mixture. I can't blame him.

The doorway was gargantuan, built in a way as if it'd always been part of the rock face and the sort of thing you'd see featured on a documentary about ancient civilizations and how the hell they could build such a thing. A singular grand oaken door with a handle the size of my head, still made out of the owl's skull but amplified. Various sigils and shapes were carved into the frame, interweaving across the huge span of wood, Before coalescing and forming a strange central sign in the center where a peephole sat. If someone was looking through it, I couldn't tell.

I looked at the memento I'd chosen, a broken watch from the 80s I'd strapped around my wrist. It shimmered in the moonlight, and I could faintly see something stirring in the reflection. But I dared not stare too long, not when I was so close. licked my hand, sensing my apprehension. I knelt down and gave his forehead a kiss of gratitude. He was a good boy. All right, buddy. Are you ready?

You gotta stick close to me. I don't know what we'll find in there. I breathed. He licked his nose and put a paw on my knee, his way of confirming. With everything in hand, I left my backpack by the doorway and placed a shuddering hand on the handle before pushing down and opening it, stepping into the darkness. I remember the last time the other me appeared, or at least the part of me that isn't bogged down by the aftermath remembers.

Looking back, it's as if my worst moments are simply on repeat. A tragic event I will recount another day, but one that left me a broken shell of a person, desperate to release myself from the world I was doomed to wander in. I recall getting into my car, shirt and jeans still soaked with blood, and driving down the motorway on autopilot. My sole thought, drowning in my skull like an incantation, how can I crash this car without hurting anyone else? It was almost normal in that moment of psychosis to see the other me staring in the rearview mirror, perched on my back seat and punching itself in the face. Nothing about it resembled me anymore, not in skin tone, eyes, smile,

or even form. It was a jumbled mess, like someone pushed random. in an RPG character creation and stretched the proportions until they went beyond comical and became downright uncomfortable to look at. I barely recognized it for a moment, confused at its appearance until it leaned forward and whispered in my ear, a distorted voice with barely any formality to it slithering into my ear. Where are you going? I kept my hands gripped onto the steering wheel as my heart beat faster, short glances in the mirror while the night road unfurled in front of me.

I don't know. I replied, voice barely above a whisper. I'd spent the last six hours sobbing and screaming. There simply wasn't much left. Did you ever know? I did. It clutched at something in its free arm out of sight. Look at the cars passing by.

Every one of them knows where they are going. But not you. Not anymore. I don't know if it was the same. psychosis, the lack of self-preservation, or the desire to have something bad happened to me, but my fear gave way just enough to face this monstrosity head on. What are you? All my life you've shown up at the worst moments.

I'm no closer to understanding you now than I was 20 years ago, so tell me. You owe me that much. It laughed, a coarse, dry bees that felt like it was splitting my skin. Would giving you one of the many names affixed to me help in any way, would naming me bring you some comfort? No, there is no point in that, so instead I will show you. It raised up its free hand, something swaddled in its arm from head to toe. I knew immediately what it was, and had to do everything in my power not to slam on the brakes. I'm what you wish to be.

the possessor of that which you crave more than all other things. I watched as the lifeless shape dwindled in its palm before nothing but soil, insects, and flowers remained. For a brief moment, someone's face flashed upon the others, and I recognized it in that instant. It melted away and was replaced with the unfamiliar once more. Do you hear something burning? It asked, a mixture of mockery and bitterness. in its voice. I am not one thing, but two.

I don't understand. What are you? I began, but its voice overpowered my own as a torrent of sounds filled my ears. Do you see that which flashes in front of you? The light of a door opening behind it blinded me as my car swerved. I slammed on the brakes the counter, hearing the screaming blare of a horn as something smashed into my vehicle and sent me into darkness. I kept the light close to me as we walked through the car.

cavern. I expected the natural sounds of dripping moisture, rocks moving under my feet, and maybe even a bat or two, skittering around. Instead, I felt as if I were walking down a sterile hallway made of obsidian. No discernible life, sentient or otherwise, beyond me and Bastion, who refused to walk further ahead than myself. I thought about everything that led to this moment, to the magnitude of this discovery. The more I ruminated on it, the harder it was to believe I'd gotten here so quickly, and with such a little issue, had it really been ten years? It almost felt like.

Bastion barked and licked my hand for comfort as he sent something up ahead. I stopped and unfurled the book for the next instruction. Your medal shall be tested now that you have appeased the Lord's beast and stepped into the tunnel between your home and his. Once you reach the sea of doors, trust your memento to pick the right one. Do not be swayed by the other doors of alluring light and familiarity. They harbor nothing of worth or joy behind them. Another inscription beneath it.

The roots are black and they blot out the sun. The day is blurred together. Why? The burning grows every day. I continued on. Roughly ten more minutes of walking in this tunnel that often felt as if I were walking on air. Eventually, the light shone on a side. small archway that looked eerily similar to the same one I'd seen in my mirror constantly

throughout my life, albeit absent of any spectre or doorway lord. Stepping through it, I realized how vast this cavern was. With my flashlight above me, I could see tens of thousands of archways, just like the one I stood on, littered across the walls of this endless cave. Floating around them, like fireflies, were an equally innumerable amount of doors, seemingly drawn to the archways like moths to a flame, before swiftly moving on to the next. As I stood there, with Bastion loyally by my side, multiple doors flew down to get my attention, a bright red mahogany door that looked eerily similar to that of my first love's home,

my university dorm room where some of my best times were spent, a hospital room I wish to never see again. and on they went, many I knew, and some that had long since faded from memory. Eventually, the door I was inexorably drawn to was the one I knew I'd been seeking all along. A black-and-white oak and wood door, a small vertical window pane in the center, and a thick black knocker on the front, with the number 47 across the front. This was it, my childhood home. It stopped in front of me, then hummed softly as I grabbed the handle and pulled it back with me until it fit into the archway, a soft piano tune emanating from the other side, lilting and familiar, but not quite

able to place. I checked the book again. Your door has been chosen. Now it is up to you to take the final steps forward. This is uncharted territory for each pilgrim, but we must caution you about overstaying your welcome. Do not linger and do not interact. You will awaken something that seeks to keep you here. And another inscription beneath it. Anger, confusion, fog, flashing, embers. The sound of something burning ripped through the cavern, faint popping and crackling sounds intersplicing with the

gentle hum of the door and the delicate piano keys from behind it, I gripped the handle tightly and stepped through. The road to recovery is one rife with pitfalls, difficulties of a physical, mental, and emotional form that can cripple the strongest and most fastidious of rehabilitators. But what men's the body cannot always mend the mind. Trauma is a wound that doesn't heal correctly. It is a fire burning through kindling at an expedient pace, and eventually the holes it leaves behind grow until the burn has spread like a cancer, infecting your everyday life and

turning bright skies black and all forms of enjoyment mute and mundane. Eventually, when the grief and struggle become too much to bear, all you want to do is see the journey end. But a journey full of intrigue and mystique is often one we don't ruminate over. We forget that our feet hurt, our eyes sting from tiredness, and our stomachs, and our stomachs ache from hunger. Instead, we relish in the beauty of our surroundings, the serenity of the quiet moments on our travels, and the sanctity of mindfulness when able to think with clarity. Alas, once the journey is over, much of that can fall to the wayside as the end comes into

view, and the melancholy of the aftermath rears its ugly head. And we are reminded, with the same crushing weight from the first time it was relayed to us that all things must eventually end. All flames turn to embers, and everything returns to the soil. What is left is nothing short of blissful silence, ambling its way to the finish line. To where I was the moment I stepped through the doorway, the smell of a summer's barbecue wafting in from the garden. I can't explain how, but it felt like the early 2000s, a staple of bygone days when

Everything made sense. I was in my childhood home. The doorway had brought me where I wanted to go. It brought me home. I stepped through the porch as Bastion bounded off ahead of me, excited to explore and seemingly right at home in a place he'd never been to before. Perhaps he sensed my own comfort. Walking through the living room, I noticed all the curtains were drawn and no daylight shone

through. A nighttime barbecue certainly wasn't out of the question. but it was certainly odd. I traversed through the home until I came to the conservatory connecting my kitchen to the garden. I have never seen a spectacle such as what I gazed upon at that moment. The garden, localized in its own cosmic biodome, the sky above littered with fireflies and a gentle breeze. But beneath my feet stood a cosmic dance of unquantifiable proportions, stars dancing with one another,

cradled in nebulas that stretched on forever and burst into beautiful colors. It was creation itself. It was beautiful. You like the view? It rarely ever gets dull. I looked up to see my dad, sat in a deck chair with a glass of brandy and a smile on his face. No injuries, no vacant stare, just the man my dad used to be. I'm sure you have questions, but it'll be best if you sat down first.

It'll make the problem. process easier. I obliged and caught sight of a shooting star underneath our feet, rushing across the cosmos to get to an unknown destination. On its path to somewhere great, no doubt. Looking at my dad properly, I couldn't believe my luck that the book had been right. Where are we? I mean, I know it's home, but...

I gestured around me, trying and failing to find the words. Dad smiled. No dent in his skull or droop in his lip. Well, you might call it a halfway home. I know it's referred to by many things amongst many people. My neighbors here call it perdition, for example. But it's just where we all wait. He looked up and marveled that the fireflies overhead,

softly twinking as unseen crickets clicked away. It isn't so bad, you know. Barney helps pass the time. He smiled wistfully, looking at our two dogs getting acquainted. I could barely see their features in a little. a ball of yellow fluff. I blinked, realizing I'd not seen him since I came in. Dad seemed to register my confusion and leaned forward, that knowing look in his eyes.

Something on my face, Dad? I joked, but he didn't laugh. Where did you get Bastion, son? I thought for a moment, trying to make sense of the rush of emotions. Oh, some rescue shelter. It was—I can't remember anything anymore, but they were nice. Why? Dad stared ahead, eyes glistening.

How old is he? I... My mind went blank. Why couldn't I remember? I heard the pitter-patter of his footsteps and turned as if to confirm I wasn't going mad, that by somehow looking at him, I'd activate that part of my brain and confirm his age. Instead, I was looking at my childhood dog, Barney. No mistaking it, his goofy smile, slightly overweight build, constantly messy mane.

from nervously chewing on it whenever he got scared. Where are you living now, son? Dad pressed, turning my attention back to him as the sky overhead grew red, a feeling of foreboding growing within me. A little cabin somewhere, I think. I don't understand why you're asking. I felt uneasy, as if something was pushing its way to the surface of my mind. An image rippled into my head of a slew of pills on my nightstand, soft lilting music and

the feeling of floating. Lad, you're not supposed to be here. This is not a place for someone like you. If the other catches you... His lip quivered and my eyes widened in shock. They are always looking for more prisoners, more bodies to snatch. They want your life and they'll do anything to have it. But worse still, if it finds out you're here.

What finds me? What are you talking about? Is there no treasure beyond this? I stood up, heart pounding in my chest as the last ten years of searching for the book, Time with Bastion, living in the log cabin and everything in between began to flash in my mind, burning my skull. Then he hugged me, the sort that you give after a long-awaited reunion, the sort that softens the unbearable pain of loss.

I'm giving you the greatest treasure of all, lad. I'm giving you another chance at life. I remembered, like a lightning bolt rushing up my spine, I saw the sky match the crimson red of my blood boiling as images of grief, rage, and self-loathing ripped across my mind. The decision to end it all with meds and soft music seeming like a lifetime ago. How long had it been? Every memory, every look back and jump in time or logic, my life had been flashing before my eyes.

I realized I was crying, Barney nuzzling my hand and softly whimpering. What happens now? Will I forget? I don't want to forget. I could barely contain my sobs. I just got here. I just got to see you as you. It's the one thing I've wanted above all else.

He chuckled softly. Maybe that's why your journey ended here. It's your treasure. Well, what happens now? You're going to wake up. It's gonna hurt like nothing else. Your body will resent you. Give it time to understand and love it like you never have before the best I can do.

I felt a crackling noise and a shaking beneath my feet. But in that moment, I didn't care as I hugged him back. You made your journey here for a reason. It isn't over yet. I swear I will keep your memory alive. I will never let it fade no matter what happens. I sobbed into his shoulder as something. Something rippled in the room and we broke away.

The book's proclamation rang out in my mind like an alarm bell as something unspeakable tore its way into Dad's personal prison, reaching for me with a hand the size of an oak tree. Do not linger and do not interact. You will awaken something that seeks to keep you here. If this was death or Janice himself, I didn't want to stay and find out. I had just enough time to kiss Barney on the forehead before bolting for the door, taking One last glimpse at my dad's face before reality again crushed me with the ugly truth. He was smiling from ear to ear.

Vascular dementia has another name affixed to it and its sibling afflictions, the cruel disease. My father had bounced back from brain injury after brain injury for 11 years. Every time the end was in sight, he proved them wrong. He defeated death itself and came back with a smile on his face. But death is nothing if not a vengeful beast that dislikes being cheated. One too many injuries and father time caught up and his diagnosis was finalized not too long ago. His decline went from steady to rapid in the last few months, now reaching a point where

he is a shell of his former self, often confused and rarely present. When the memory begins to burn away, it's merely embers that are left, occasionally kindled by a bout of lucidity, but largely fading away as the days go on. Do you hear something burning? Can you hear the crackling? To say it's heartbreaking to watch and care for is a severe understatement, and if there was one thing I desperately wish was relegated to the world of fantasy, it is this. The more burdens got affixed to my already weary shoulders, the harder it got to even get out of bed with the crushing weight, let alone commit the routine tasks.

Do you understand what I'm saying? I don't know why my mind conjured such a place. There's been documented cases of people living out entire lives in what they call comaverse, completely unable to discern fiction from reality. In my case, my mind rushed through several years of experience and made its own way to the one place I'd been desperate to get to since everything went wrong. Home. I'll say little of my recovery following the wake-up, but...

For it was as all unsuccessful attempts at ending one's life are. Painful, embarrassing, and with a painful road to recovery and eventual self-love, even if that feels like a mountain to traverse. Instead, I want to tell you about my dad, about the man affectionately known as Switch because of his short stature. I don't get it either, but it's endearing. My dad was a voracious reader. He always loved the hero's journey.

the struggle and the eventual overcoming of obstacles to get the coveted prize. Perhaps that's why it left such an indelible mark on me the way my brain worked while I was stuck in that other place. I want to believe so badly that there was something more to that experience, that somehow our individual consciousness found their way to that safe zone between the living and the dead, a realm protected by Janice and his beast presided over by death, a place where I could get a second chance. I visited him recently.

He was sitting in his chair and idly watching television. The damage his mind had gone through now visible on his face. His frame shrunk and largely vacant stairs. He is now between stages five and six. Hey, Dad, I hope you're doing okay. Nothing initially. Sometimes his bouts of confusion and non-communication could go on for a while, so while While it hurt, it wasn't unexpected.

I sat down and watched him for a while, wondering what was going on in his head. After some time, I broke the silence. I wrote about a journey I went on. You know, it was pretty exciting. I'm sure you'd have loved it. Something in him lit up, his eyes bright and a childlike glee on his face as he turned to me expectantly. Would you mind telling me what happened?

Are you sure? It's a little long-winded. I know how you have. You hate things that go on and on. Well, the way I see it, we have all the time in the world, given the unique place, run. The unique place? Where are you referring to? He smiled, almost knowingly.

The fog of confusion lifted and the man he once was shone through. Everywhere. He breathed. The excitement of a new experience plastered all over his face as I began to tell him what had happened all over again. At the end of our time, we are everywhere.