Dark Dreams

He awoke to the sight of a full moon. It was not white tonight, but orange. The moon was enormous, dominating the cloudless night-sky and glowing with an unnatural beauty more brightly than he’d ever seen.

He rose immediately.

The Dreamer remembered nothing. He couldn’t even recall his name. As he surveyed the area, he realised that his surroundings were unrecognisable. He had been sleeping on a wooden chair overlooking a vast sea of dark water that twinkled orange in the moonlight. To his right and left he could see jagged headlands poking out into the water like deformed, twisted fingers. Turning around, the Dreamer could see that he was standing upon the top of a tower that belonged to a castle. The tip marked the highest point of the castle, and from here he could see the entirety of the building and its large expanse of grounds. In the distance, he thought he could make out a collection of small wooden houses that appeared to belong to a lonely village. Peering over the battlements in the direction of the fortress, he realised that the tower he was stood atop was perched upon a stump of rock that lay a short distance away from the coastline. A long tunnelled bridge connected the isolated landmass to the mainland.

Perplexed by his current situation, the Dreamer fumbled around in the pocket of his coat to see if anything had been left on his person, anything that could explain his absence of thought. As he explored the pocket, something sharp pricked the tip of his finger. Grunting in pain, the Dreamer groped the item to find the handle of whatever had jabbed him, and withdrew a peculiar object.

It was approximately twice the length of his palm and was scattered with strange, alien symbols that the darkest recesses of his mind could not recognise. The handle appeared to be crystalline, its cylindrical transparent surface revealing the remnants of some strange, orange ooze inside. Attached to one end of the handle was a sharp needle that made the Dreamer feel extremely uneasy.

The Dreamer couldn’t help but notice that the object looked vaguely like a syringe, like the ones doctors used to inject medicine into the sick. But what was left of the ooze inside looked nothing like any of the remedies the Dreamer had seen before. The more he analysed the mysterious symbols on the handle, the less sense they made to him. The Dreamer had the feeling that whatever he held was alien of some sort, completely out of human comprehension. As he studied the strange instrument, he started to feel more and more conscious of the moon. He looked up and saw that it still hung in the sky the same way, seeping an abnormal orange light into the night. He could feel its presence much more now though, as if it was watching him, studying his every move.

I need to hide.

He gazed back towards the castle and knew that there was the only place he could take refuge. The Dreamer returned the object to his pocket and walked over to the trapdoor that lay at the centre of the tower’s tip. A letter E was engraved upon its surface. He heaved it open with some struggle, revealing a ladder that descended into darkness. Without a second thought, the Dreamer mounted the ladder and began his descent, praying that at the bottom he would find the tunnel to the mainland. After what felt like hours, the Dreamer reached the final step and gazed along the tunnelled bridge that stretched out before him. The tunnel was extremely dark, illuminated only by the strange orange moonlight that seeped in through the loopholes. Several candles that lit the way to the exit caused the tunnel roof to shimmer, producing a façade of homely warmth. The Dreamer felt nothing but cold.

He squinted down the passageway and saw an archway that he presumed led out of the tunnel. All he knew was that he could not turn back. Shivering, he began to pace through the tunnel, occasionally peeking through the slits that littered the walls. Outside, all he could see was the enormous black lake that stretched into the distance, only to be cracked by the horizon. Sat in the middle was the reflection of the moon, watching him.

Wherever I go it sees me.

Turning back to face the rest of the tunnel, The Dreamer stopped immediately. Something about the exit looked peculiar. He could still see it, although the archway had become slightly distorted, as if he was seeing it through some mist or a dirty looking glass. He took another step forward, and suddenly, not ten yards away, something began to manifest. He realised that the exit was being blurred by some kind apparition that lay between them. He began to approach it, slowly.

The Dreamer crept closer and closer to whatever was appearing, beginning to recognise the figure of a woman. She was wearing a beautiful white dress that had been ruined by a long, jagged rip at the sleeve. Creeping closer still, The Dreamer saw that the woman’s bare feet were slightly elevated from the ground, and her face, hidden by a hood, looking down towards the floor as though she was fixated in a deep sleep.

As The Dreamer slowly approached the woman, her form began to appear more thoroughly. He could see the curve of her body, her nimble fingers and her ghostly pale hair that dangled from her hood like a beautifully woven spider web.

It wasn’t until he was close enough to hear her wispy breaths that he saw the blood. It began to appear slowly at first, oozing through her garb to stain it with a dark, ghastly red. The woman’s breathing stopped. She lifted her head and stared at the Dreamer with pale eyes. Her eyes were entirely white without a single trace of an iris to be seen. The Dreamer stared back, unable to look away. The world was silent.

They remind me of the moon…

Although he did not know the woman, he couldn’t help but feel connected to her, as if he’d once known her in another lifetime. He immediately forgot about the blood, losing himself in the pale sea of her eyes. The blood began to stain the dress more quickly and it wasn’t long before the silence was broken by droplets of red on the cold stone floor.

His trance was broken as soon as the blackness entered her eye. The Dreamer shifted his gaze down towards her body and saw that the whiteness of her dress had been entirely consumed by a dim, ugly red. Something bit his chest, a feeling he did not want nor could control. Fear. He moved his eyes up again to meet hers, but saw that her pupils were swiftly expanding, consuming her eyes and transforming them into pits of darkness. It took seconds her the sclera to completely vanish.

The woman screamed. It was long and agonizingly loud, shooting shivers and pain through the Dreamer’s body. It was a scream of misery, agony and grief, feelings that the Dreamer had forgotten existed. All he wanted to do was run but his legs would not respond. The Dreamer quickly turned his head to peer outside, where the moon had suddenly began to glow ever brighter. On the water, the moon’s reflection started to shake violently as ripples shook the lake’s surface. The wind had picked it up, flying in through the loopholes of the tunnel and extinguishing the candles. It swirled through the tunnel with an unnatural force, piercing the walls as though they were non-existent and buffeting the Dreamer so violently that he could’ve been on a mountaintop.

The world vanished before his eyes.

He could still hear the scream of the woman and could feel the wind battering his face. The wind had begun to materialise, representing a thick smoke or fog rather than a gale. The substance consumed the world before him and replaced it with a swirling whiteness. Then he was falling, to where he did not know, but all he could see in every direction was the white vortex of smoke. He couldn’t hear the woman now, but instead could hear the wind shrieking that told him he was falling at an immense speed.

You did this.

He heard the voice clearly in his head, so clearly that it felt like someone was whispering in his ear. Whenever the voice spoke it muffled out the wind, but the Dreamer continued to fall. You told them to do it. It’s your fault. The voice sounded familiar, but the Dreamer had forgotten all the faces he ever knew. It was a gruff whisper, as though it belonged to an elderly man who was short of breath and out of time.

The Dreamer landed on his back with a thump and the silence returned immediately. He was unharmed, though landed with a thud that sent his head pounding. Fear pulsed through his body, a feeling that he had all but forgotten until the encounter with the ghostly woman. He opened his eyes to see that everything was still white.

The Dreamer stood and began to calm. Here in this white abyss it was peaceful, free of the woman’s shrieks and more importantly, the moon. By the time his breathing returned to normal, something had appeared in the distance. He couldn’t tell how far it was away, for the endless white background gave no clue of scale. The silence broke again.

This time it was another voice, but it was like nothing the dreamer had ever heard before. It sounded neither male nor female and spoke in some foreign sounding gibberish that would’ve been impossible to repeat with the human tongue. As it spoke, a shadow started to loom over the Dreamer, growing larger by the second until the peaceful whiteness of the world had been stained by an orange tint.

The Dreamer turned around and his heart began to batter the inside of his chest again. The moon had found him, except this time it hovered directly behind him, appearing to grow larger by the second. It didn’t take long for the Dreamer to realise that the moon was not growing, but coming closer.

It was coming for him.

The Dreamer turned around and ran. The only thing he could run to was whatever had appeared just moments ago in the distance, for the rest of the orangey-white background was completely absent of any scenery. He spun his head around to see that the moon was still chasing him, gaining distance second by second. To the Dreamer’s horror, the gigantic orange monolith had begun to pulsate uncontrollably, as though its surface was made of jelly and something inside was attempting to break free.

The Dreamer returned his gaze to his destination that he was now close enough to recognise as a tombstone. A grave had been conveniently dug in front of it. As the Dreamer ran towards it, he knew his only hope was to dive into that grave. He took one last look at the moon before he leaped and swore that it had blinked. As he jumped, he glimpsed the engraving on the headstone:

William Elton

Seven Years Later

Sweat poured from Henry Cimsok’s brow as he stared down at the collection of letters before him. They had been delivered in the middle of the night by some unknown carrier, written and signed by his brother.

John Cimsok had been a respected scholar of psychology, but had been presumed dead for the last seven years after disappearing from the face of the Earth. The last time Henry had been in contact with his brother, he had started to become obsessed with the secrets of dreams and the afterlife. He had attempted to share his fantasies with his friends and family, Henry included, but as time went on they sounded more and more like the ravings of a madman. Henry took a deep breath and began to read:

3rd June 1808 Dear Brother, I believe that I have finally found what I have been looking for. I have obtained an item that appears to be the next step in uncovering the truth. My travels took me north to a small coastal village in Cumbria, the name of which I am ignorant. At first I thought the place to be deserted, but as I explored the area I saw an inn that looked to be open. I decided that if it was, I should stay there the night in hopes of rejuvenating my strength for another days travel.

Surly enough it was open, and I approached the innkeeper to inquire about a room and something to drink. The inn was not busy by any stretch of the imagination. The few I saw in there sat in corners and drank alone, and I presumed them to be locals. Both the lack of activity and general well-being of the area combined with the many nights I had spent on the road since my last encounter with civilisation led me to believe that the village lay miles and miles away from any other forms of human life. This greatly aroused my interest. The innkeeper was pleasant enough. He was happy to grant me a room for as long as I needed, no doubt grateful for some business. He poured me a drink and disappeared into the back room to collect the room key. In his absence, I glanced out of the window and noticed something that managed to pass me by during my former exploration of the village.

I approached the window to get a better view of the monumental structure that stood before me. The castle was large, its several towers pointing menacingly up toward the sky. It appeared to be built on a headland poking out into the sea and the full moon bathed its rooftops in an eerie white light that did not fail to give me goose bumps. When the innkeeper returned with the key I asked him about the castle and its inhabitants. He told me a remarkable story that in turn led me to come into possession of this truly remarkable item.

The castle was hundreds of years old and had belonged to the Elton family since its erection. Until recently, it had been occupied by William Elton, who had a wife and a young child that was not too far out of infancy. Only one week prior to my visit, the family butler had stumbled down to the village in a half delirious state and informed them that the Elton family were all dead. He was suffering from some sort of puncture wound and collapsed. He awoke a few hours later, and apparently after a few days of rambling like a madman he succumbed to the wound. The innkeeper himself had written to the nearest authority, but the closest station was so far away that they had still not arrived to investigate. The Elton family did not seem to be well-loved by the village, and thus far no one had ventured up to the castle to inspect the grisly scene.

Out of interest, I probed the innkeeper for any detail about what the butler had said in the days before his death. Most of it had been gibberish, but he had spoken about his master’s obsession with a strange item in the weeks before his demise. He described the item as having extraordinary symbols calved into its handle, with a strange orange liquid inside. I took the key and slammed my drink down on the table, leaving before the innkeeper could question my behaviour. As you have probably realised yourself, brother, the object sounded remarkably familiar to the one I found below the church in France.

It did not take me long to reach the castle gate, and to my satisfaction it creaked open with little resistance. It opened up into a large courtyard that offered nothing in the form of hospitality. It was completely barren, except for a couple of barrels here and there, and many of the doors that seemed to lead to the different wings of the castle had been padlocked numerous times. I spotted a large black door on the other side of the courtyard that was slightly a jar, so I proceeded to enter.

Words cannot describe the fear I experienced when I entered the great hall and observed the scene before me. The first thing that hit me was the unmistakable odour of death. Across the walls were a number of disturbing paintings that seemed to portray odd rituals and black magic. They certainly did not seem appropriate for the walls of an English gentlemen.

The room was so large that at first I did not see the corpses. It wasn’t long before I noticed the body of a man slouched on the grand seat of the dais that looked over the room. I could not help but notice a moonbeam that had bathed the seat in a sparkling white light. I observed for the first time the large circular window in the roof that allowed the moonlight to penetrate the room.

As I crossed the hall I saw a dead woman lying on the floor in a pool of blood. A child lay at her breast, also deceased. The way the mother still grasped the cushion that lay beside them told me that something horrifying had happened here. My heartbeat quickened significantly, both out of fear and uncontrollable anticipation.

I approached the corpse of Mr. Elton who looked to be the victim of a self-inflicted stab wound to the stomach. The way his two hands still grasped the knife inside his body made the scene look almost sacrificial. To my overwhelming excitement I saw something at the foot of his chair and I hastily swept it up. It only took a couple of seconds of rolling it over in my hands to be certain of its importance. Eager to leave such a ghastly abode, I returned to the inn immediately for a closer inspection of my newly obtained item.

The item itself is almost identical to the one I found at France. The symbols and craftsmanship clearly follow the same theme and inside I found a similar substance. But the reason my hand shakes with such excitement is because the liquid inside is not green but orange. Yes, orange! I do not know what supernatural force has led me to this treasure, but for doing so I am eternally grateful. As you know, my visions in the green dream told me the path to enlightenment lies beneath an orange moon. I believe this substance will present me with the orange dream and finally reveal the secrets of life.

I know you are cautious brother, and if it keeps your mind at peace I am only going to administer myself a small dose at first. The demise of the Elton family is indeed unsettling news, but I believe that their deaths were the result of ignorant and inexperienced use. My anticipation will let me wait no longer, the truth awaits!

4th June 1808 Dear Brother, I saw the orange moon! The dream itself was not much different, but even with such a minimal dose I was able to detect the presence of something almighty. I can still vaguely feel the effects of the substance, and it is encouraging me return to the dream immediately.

There is a small amount of liquid left and I intend to inject it all for the next dream. I fear that if I halve the remaining dose it will not produce the desired effect. I know that the orange liquid is infinitely stronger than its green brother, but I believe this to be the only way of reaching fulfilment. This is the only chance I’ll have!

5th June 1808 In the orange dream I lost myself. I know now there is no going back. Know this brother, you are irrelevant. The world we walk upon, the things we feel and the people we love are all insignificant when we know the truth. My only hope is if that I end my life now I will not witness the horrors to come. But even of that I am not certain. I implore you to the same, it comes for us all. Fear the moon.