Alora’s words echoed in John’s mind: “Remember, John, when you come across an open door, it doesn’t hurt to look inside.” At the time, they had sounded so simple, so innocent. But standing now before this door—with the handprint scorched into its frame—John realized this was not a door he wanted to open.

  He glanced back at Alora before stepping closer, and his gaze shifted upward. His breath caught.

  “Look, Alora,” he whispered, pointing toward the sky.

  She turned, scanning the heavens. “Is it the floating island?” Her voice trailed off as her eyes settled on something strange—two moons, suspended impossibly close, their silvery light stark against the pale sky.

  “Two moons? How is that even possible?” she marvelled, awe threading her words.

  A cold gust of wind swept from the house, sending a shiver down John’s spine and pulling them both back to the present. Their attention returned to the door, the handprint still dark and ominous.

  “Do we go in?” John asked, though he already knew her answer.

  “Well, we might as well see what’s inside,” Alora replied too quickly, as if she had been expecting him to ask.

  John pushed onward through the open doorway. The musty, earthy smell that filled the air mingled with a faint scent of decay. Floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he stepped in, and the weight of the silence pressed against him. Plants had taken root in the cracks, their green tendrils snaking up the walls and through the shattered floorboards.

  The place felt abandoned, but not in the usual sense. There was a quiet presence here—as if someone, or something, had once lived in this space and left in a hurry.

  Alora’s voice broke the silence. “Whoever lived here really needs to clean up. It’s like a nature preserve in here.”

  John gave her a side-eye, lifting an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Relax, Mr. Grumpy,” she teased, though her tone held a layer of unease. “It’s still cleaner than your apartment.”

  He fought back a grin, but the words did little to lift the gnawing discomfort. “How long do you think it’s been since someone’s been here?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said, walking into the next room, “but my guess... more than six years.”

  John nodded absently, still scanning the abandoned furniture. A bookshelf lay on its side, its contents scattered across the floor. A glass of water rested on an end table, half full, and a blanket seemed untouched, as if someone had been there recently.

  John walked to the bookshelf, fingers trailing along the spines of old, dusty books. One of them caught his attention—number 1 crossed out, a 4 scrawled above it. He pulled it off the shelf and cracked it open.

  "This world is everything I have dreamt of. I am not sure how I got here, but I can't seem to get back, nor do I want to. There is a magic to this world that makes me feel in control. It is hard to explain now, but I plan to document what I learn and understand how this world works."

  The words pulled him back to the same question he had when they first arrived: how had they gotten here? And more importantly… how could they leave?

  “Alora, can you come back here?” His voice trembled slightly.

  From another room, she shouted, “Over 100!”

  John blinked. “Over 100?”

  She appeared in the doorway, a skeptical look on her face. “I mean… this place has been abandoned for at least a hundred years. Look at the dust.”

  John’s stomach twisted. “That’s interesting, but it doesn’t help us get out of here, does it? We need a way back.”

  Her expression softened, but before she could speak, he held up the journal. “I think we’re not the first ones brought here,” he murmured, eyes scanning the pages.

  Alora stepped closer, peering over his shoulder. “Hopefully, it has something about that handprint. That was… strange.”

  As John flipped through the journal, he noticed something odd. Entries numbered 2 and 3 were crossed out, but above them, new numbers—5 and 6—had been added hastily, as if someone had been in a rush.

  “Maybe these are meant to guide us,” he muttered, piecing it together.

  Alora moved across the room and froze. She pulled a painting from behind the bookshelf, brow furrowed as she studied it. The air grew heavier, colder, as she slowly lowered it. “Four moons,” she whispered. “Do you think there are more?”

  John glanced at her, but did not answer. The chill seeped into his bones. “Who knows.”

  Alora dropped the painting on the floor and turned toward the hallway. “I think we’ve seen enough of this room.”

  John followed, his urgency growing. At the end of the hallway was a bathroom, but it was the three doors on the left that drew his attention. Two were close together, one stood alone across the hall.

  The first door on the left led to an office. A large chair faced the door, its wood worn smooth from years of use. A desk sat beneath the window, the curtains fluttering slightly, but the window was… empty. John shivered, feeling the weight of unseen eyes.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  On the desk rested a satchel and a pen, untouched by time. John picked up the satchel, thinking it might come in handy—perhaps to carry the journals if they decided to leave.

  Alora’s footsteps echoed from across the hall, but John lingered in the office, staring at the empty window. The silence pressed down, suffocating.

  He sat in the chair behind the desk and opened the journal again.

  "I can’t believe my eyes. This world is building itself as my imagination runs rampant. A cottage appears out of thin air, just like the one I grew up in as a child."

  Closing the journal, John’s heart hammered. One thing was clear—they were not the first to get trapped here.

  Alora entered the room, more impatient than curious. “Mr. No-time-for-reading,” she mock-scolded. “Let’s get moving.”

  They moved through the next door—a bedroom, surprisingly neat. Alora flopped onto the bed, sighing dramatically. “I envy whoever lived here. I bet it was peaceful.”

  “Peaceful?” John joked. “That doorframe didn’t look too peaceful to me.”

  She laughed lightly, but there was a nervous edge. “Does it say who wrote this journal?”

  “No,” John replied, searching the room. “I’m sure the name will show up somewhere in the journals. But I’m missing at least three.”

  “That’s… odd,” she muttered, rising from the bed.

  John closed the journal, the rough cover under his fingertips, and noticed the satchel at his feet felt oddly familiar—too familiar. He picked it up. The leather was warm, pliable, as if recently used. As if it had once belonged to him.

  Alora’s footsteps echoed in the hallway, but something in the room held John. His eyes wandered across the space, landing on a tall mirror in the far corner, partially hidden behind the door. It hadn’t been there before. The glass was clean, unclouded by dust.

  John stepped closer, drawn in. His reflection stared back—tired eyes, a faint smudge of dirt along his jaw—but something was off. In the mirror, Alora stood behind him.

  He spun around. The room was empty.

  Footsteps approached—the real ones—and Alora appeared in the doorway. “You good?”

  John nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just… weird mirror.”

  She stepped inside, giving the mirror a passing glance, but something in her posture shifted. Her hand rubbed at her arm as if cold, though the room had not changed.

  “You okay?” he asked, voice low.

  “Yeah,” she said, voice lacking its usual bite. “This place is just getting under my skin a little.”

  John turned back to the journal. The air shifted—the temperature dropped sharply, and a cold wind whispered through the open doorway. Alora froze, eyes wide, as a faint, unmistakable voice floated in the air:

  “Go away.”

  He rushed to her side, but the whisper did not return. Only silence.

  “Did you hear that?” he asked, hoarse.

  She nodded, pale. “What was that?”

  John suggested, trying to sound calm, though his voice trembled, “Let’s head back to the fountain. I’ll bring the journals; maybe we’ll understand more once we get out of here.”

  Alora’s face hardened. “What if we can’t get back?”

  He had no answer. “Then I don’t know.”

  The air grew colder. Silence thickened around them like fog. A soft rustling—almost a whisper—slipped through the stillness.

  “Go away…”

  John’s heart jolted. The voice was not Alora’s. Something was wrong.

  A figure appeared at the far end of the corridor, half-swathed in shadow. Tall. Lean. Unnaturally poised. Its details blurred, but the presence was unmistakable.

  And its eyes—locked on John. Only him. Not once did it glance at Alora.

  A strange pressure built behind John’s eyes. He knew this person, though he couldn’t place from where. Recognition clawed at him, undeniable, suffocating, like a memory just out of reach.

  Alora breathed out shakily. “Who is that?”

  He did not answer. The figure tilted its head slowly, analyzing him. A quiet intensity burned in its gaze, and for a moment, John felt exposed, raw.

  Then, in a blink, it was gone. The shadow empty, as if never there.

  Alora didn’t wait. “Nope. I’m done.” She bolted.

  “Alora!” John called, hesitating just long enough to glance at the empty space. His stomach twisted with something he could not name. Then he ran after her.

  The house groaned behind them, exhaling whatever it had been holding.

  They did not stop until they reached the fountain.

  They burst into the clearing, feet pounding over the shifting path, breath ragged, hearts hammering. The fountain was no longer running. The once-roaring cascade had gone still—silent, dry, like it was never alive.

  Alora stumbled to a stop, hands trembling, backing away as if the fountain might bite. “It was working. You saw it. It was flowing—it was alive.”

  John said nothing, too focused on steadying his breathing.

  She spun toward him suddenly, eyes wide, panicked. “Why was it looking at you, John? It didn’t even see me. What the hell was that thing? What did it want with you?”

  Her words hit him because he had been asking himself the same thing. He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Bullshit,” she snapped. “That thing—whatever it was—knew you. You saw it too. I saw your face. You recognized it.”

  “I… it just felt familiar,” John admitted, jaw clenched. “I don’t know why.”

  Alora looked around the clearing, searching for a door that wasn’t there before. “We need to leave. Wake up, or find a way out. This place isn’t right, John. It’s wrong.”

  Just as she said it, the shadows shifted. Almost imperceptibly, the darkness beyond the trees inched closer. The night deepened, thickened, warped.

  Then the first one appeared.

  It was not a solid shape—more like smoke and shadow, crawling low then rising, stretching in impossible ways. No face, only impressions that no human should wear.

  Another followed. Then another. Figures formed from the air, curling at the edges of their vision, feeding on the fear leaking from them.

  Alora screamed—not in pain, but panic. “What the fuck are those?”

  John grabbed her arm, pulling her close. “I don’t know. Don’t look too long.”

  The nightmares—they were born from them, feeding on fear. And they circled.

  Alora’s grip was iron. “What do we do, John?” Her voice was thin, broken.

  John forced a reply, voice trembling. “We don’t give them anything else to feed on.”

  The darkness thickened, pressing in like a living thing.

  Then they stepped into the moonlight—five of them.

  The first, a towering mass of muscle and bone, half-human, half-beast, jaw unhinged, teeth cracked, bloodstained, moving with jerky impatience. Built to kill.

  The second slinked forward like liquid shadow, serpentine, voided face, reality corroding under its glide. Hunger without soul.

  John stepped back, shielding Alora.

  The first lunged. Time slowed. Then—a blur. A ripple.

  A sound. Wet, sickening crack. The beast collapsed.

  Standing in its place: someone. Or something.

  They held a strange, curved hasta, sleek, dark as oil, humming with restrained energy. Their stance relaxed, graceful. Moonlight caught only a glimpse of angular, otherworldly features, eyes like still water, locked on John. Not once on Alora.

  The second nightmare glided forward, but the stranger’s strikes were precise, instantaneous. Limbs fell, the body unraveling before touching the ground.

  The remaining nightmares hesitated. Too late. The stranger moved like wind—one strike after another, exact, fatal, elegant.

  The last nightmare, larger, heavier, rippling with muscle beneath pale, stretched skin, growled, charged.

  The mysterious man didn’t flinch. He stepped forward, blade spinning, slashing low across its legs. The creature writhed, dragging itself forward.

  The stranger didn’t rush. Observed. Then deliberately ended it.

  Silence returned.

  He turned to them, eyes meeting John’s. Not Alora’s.

  “They won’t be a problem anymore,” he said, calm, as if John had been mildly inconvenienced. “I apologize for earlier. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. But his gaze pressed into John like a memory not ready to be recalled.

  “I am Asani,” he introduced himself. “Welcome home, Brennan.”