I’m beginning to think pantsers are not real people. By “pantser” I of course mean one who writes “by the seat of his pants,” as opposed to a plotter who actually plans out his novel. When I first heard these terms, I quickly identified with the latter. I love plotting. Plotting is fun. Actually writing is hard. In 2021 and 2022 I spent untold hours planning for a creative endeavor that never left the outlining phase. I’ve been dreaming up endless story ideas since I was young, and now I have a graveyard of rotting brainstorming documents.

Doors of the Dreamer was an attempt to cure myself of this disease. I challenged myself to write and post one chapter every day for the month, came up with the general plot a few days before, and launched right into it on July 1st and attempted to channel my inner pantser. Four days in I realized I had bit off way more than I could chew and amended the challenge to one chapter every two days, targeting 1000 words a day. I surprised myself and managed to stick with it, at least until I stalled out a bit near the end. I had made a blind guess that the plot (the outline of which was only a vague ordering of ideas that never left the confines of my brain) would require something like 20-30 chapters to complete. With 15 chapters done by the end of July, my estimate still seemed accurate, but because I had halved my output speed I would need more time to complete the remaining 10-15 chapters. I told myself I’d be able to write them at a much more leisurely pace in August and September and took a much-needed break. This was the furthest I had made it on a novel before, after all.

It is now October, and I have not written a word since July 31st. You might assume that this is because of laziness or burnout. There is probably truth in that. But let me be clear—Doors of the Dreamer does have an ending. 10-15 chapters is not a blind guess. It would’ve gone something like this:

• David and Lance take on the raid, called “Cathedral of the Profane,” and face their toughest battles yet.

• During the battle with the boss, a giant snake I probably would’ve called Jörmungandr or something, Lance would be forced to use a power he had kept secret from David. It would later be revealed that Lance obtained this power from the fiend he calls Faust in exchange for some of his lifespan every time he uses it, which is why he is in such a hurry to get home.

• After clearing the raid, celebration would turn to despair as our protagonists realized that all they got out of it was some cool loot. No clues as to how to get home.

• After some depression and suicidal thoughts from Lance, David would eventually discover the detailed lore section in the Doors of the Dreamer app. This was added to the game after Lance entered the alternate world, so only David has access to this information.

• The lore mentions “heroes of legend” who “faced their demons” in a place known as the Pit. Basically, this is the dark sun/black hole thing in the sky. Once our protagonists figure this out, they decide to try going into it because they have no other ideas.

• To do so, they decide to go to a aerospace musuem and hope they can find materials to use the game’s systems to craft a vehicle capable of flight. This involves returning to their world via the doors and using a car to travel a few hours away. I had a few fun ideas here involving a monster/police chase on the highway.

• They eventually get to the museum and use model rockets to craft jetpacks, then fly into the Pit. The Pit was going to consist of three layers—essentially three tests. A dullahan or two would show up, Lance would get pushed to the limit and be forced to use his “demonic form” again, the protagonists would get split up in the second layer, and finally David would face off with the Dreamer, who would disguise himself as Lance.

• The whole idea for the Dreamer was a malevolent, eldritch entity trapped in this world trying to get into our world. He would attempt to trick David into letting him out through the white door, and David, scared out of his wits, would invoke the name of Christ and essentially exorcise the thing.

• Through some plot contrivance I never worked out, Lance would end up here as well, fighting off a huge Lovecraftian monstrosity (another form of the Dreamer, perhaps his true body). To prevent the monster from exiting through the door into our world, Lance would have to stay behind to allow David to escape. Faust would show up one more time to try to tempt David with an offer that would allow Lance to live. David escapes, finally home. Alive, but traumatized. He still has faith that his friend will somehow survive.

• Some months later, David gets a call from a hospital. Lance is alive, and just woke up from a coma. According to him, he fought against the monster for thirty days without using his demonic ability. When he was about to die of exhaustion, something like an angelic host descended and saved him. Emotional reunion, catharsis. The end.

Not a terrible ending, by any means. The problem is what came before it. The foundations were bad. I found myself unmotivated to write this ending because I found the first fifteen chapters boring. I wouldn’t have described them as such while I was writing, but that’s because I was up to my eyeballs just trying to get a chapter out the door every other day. By skipping most of the planning in an attempt to force myself to write, I had completely neglected the middle of my story’s beginning-middle-end structure. I hadn’t properly justified or built up to the ending I conceived. Anyway, that’s how I came to the conclusion that pantsers aren’t real people.

Lesson learned: Plan your story, but plan it smart. Problem is, you have no idea what or how to plan if you’ve never written a long-form story before. It’s one of those “entry-level job, requires five years of experience” sort of situations. It wasn’t until I got past the first few chapters of Doors of the Dreamer that I finally understood what a scene was and how to structure one. Planning my next story is going to be so much easier.

Character arcs are not composed of vibes

When I say boring, I’m not referring to the ideas that drove me to write Doors of the Dreamer in the first place. If I had found those ideas boring, I would have written something different. So why did the story turn out so much worse than how I conceived of it? Story ideas often correlate to points on a graph—moments, not even scenes. Refer to the bulleted list above; notice how I included very little detail about the raid? That’s because I had no idea what would or should happen during those scenes, or even how many scenes I needed. I only had a point A and B. But a story is not two points, it’s the line between them. The substance was lacking, and I tried to fill it in as best I could as I went along, but it wasn’t enough.

This shows up most clearly in David and Lance’s character arcs. Before I started writing, I could tell you what a character arc was. I could draw the shape and explain the basic concepts. I thought that as long as I gave my characters flaws and continuously escalated conflict until they overcome their weaknesses, everything else would fall into place.

David’s arc is supposed to be about turning weakness to strength. His flaw is that he doesn’t take relationships seriously. Despite this, he is optimistic and good-natured and searching for a “truly selfless act.” It’s a bit scatterbrained, but a skilled author could probably make it work. The arc these traits imply would involve some sort of sacrifice from David at the end—putting his life on the line for a friend would be a reversal of his flaw and a fulfillment of his desire in a transcendent display of strength. But that’s not the ending I wrote the first fifteen chapters for. In fact, I was working toward the exact opposite. Lance makes the sacrifice play, and David leaves his friend behind. The original intent was to show that David’s pure heart had allowed him to pass through hell (symbolically) and come out unscathed, while Lance would be unable to defeat the demons of his own making. What a mess.

Lance’s arc is even more of a mess. His character was less defined than David’s when I started writing, and it shows. Lance is a being of pure reason who has cut himself off from his emotions. He solves every problem with logic and rules. He is a foil to David in that he takes things too seriously. I think I got this part right. If anything, I needed to have more conflict between these two. Without the presence of an obvious antagonist, David and Lance’s relationship and disagreements needed to be the driving force in the plot. The other problem with Lance was I had no idea what to do with him once he hit his limit. What happens when logic and rules cannot solve the problem in front of him? It was a question that obviously needed answered in his arc, and what I came up with was “David has access to a piece of information that Lance doesn’t that can solve the problem.” How does that fit into either of their arcs?

Lesson learned: Actually plan your character arcs. Even if you skip outlining, you need to have a clear path of conflict and growth for each of your characters that fit together into the bigger picture. Don’t get too attached to ideas during the brainstorming process and throw things together haphazardly.

Web novels and readership

The readership for Doors of the Dreamer was approximately zero. I’m not too torn up about that, considering a) I did almost nothing to promote its existence and b) I wrote it primarily as a challenge to myself. Still, the reason I’m able to pull the plug so easily is because I don’t think anyone is sitting around waiting for chapter sixteen, for better or worse.

I’ve been thinking about novels and the internet as a medium recently. I don’t think limiting my fiction to posts on a personal blog is a good idea if I actually want to reach an audience. But there’s also the question of the physical (or non-physical) dimension. There seems to be a preference for physical writing over digital, which I understand, but that’s not really an option for me at the moment. One angle I haven’t explored is audio, which is apparently a popular medium for consuming fiction these days. I’ve considered even less traditional storytelling mediums like interactive fiction and visual novels.

Lesson learned: If I want someone to actually find and read my work (which is not exactly my primary goal but it is important) I need to change something that I’m doing. Maybe I just need to stop being a chronic lurker.

Anyway, I wrote all this because I have two ideas for potential new projects I want to explore, and I don’t want Doors of the Dreamer hanging around in limbo any longer. I’m feeling confident that my next work will blow everything I’ve done before out of the water. I just hope I actually finish it.

Author’s note: This is the last chapter for July. More to come in August and September.

David’s uneasiness never fully dissipated, but things were quiet for the next two weeks. Unnervingly so. During that time, David and Lance cleared fourteen dungeons. David leveled up several times, unlocking two new spells.

By the second week, David found he had become completely accustomed to this new lifestyle. In the mornings he would do body weight exercises, middays and afternoons would be spent in the dungeon, evenings were for sleep, and at night he had two ways to pass time during his watch.

The first was brainstorming. He had realized that despite Lance’s three years of experience and encyclopedic knowledge of this world, there might have been something he missed. Sometimes having a fresh pair of eyes could make a big difference. David knew that in the world of games and reality there were always loopholes. Things that an ordinary person, especially one with a strong belief in rules, would never notice. With this in mind, David devised several experiments.

He started by testing the limits of the strange doors that dotted the city—or at least he wanted to, but Lance wouldn’t let him and already had answers to most of his questions. In short, anything or anyone brought from this world to theirs was imperceptible but tangible. That lead to the question of whether something could be brought back through the door. In other words, could David or Lance take food or even a person back into this world? Apparently Lance had tried that too, and the answer was no.

Next he turned to the inventory system.

“What’s the difference between retrieving and equipping an item?” he asked Lance.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“It is until you start asking questions like, ‘What happens if I retrieve my wand and cast a spell?’”

“Well, did you try?”

“I did, and it didn’t work.”

“Right. Skills can only be used when you have the appropriate gear equipped. Retrieving said gear and just holding it does not count.”

“What about something like a sword? If I retrieve my sword it still can be used as a weapon.”

“Yes, but gear only confers stats to you when it is equipped.”

David nodded. “So I can’t use my sword right-handed.” Clerics couldn’t equip anything other than wands and staves in their main hand.

“That’s what you really wanted to know, huh? Do you need more practice?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

In the end his experiments accomplished little, and he focused more on his other pastime: reading.

“You’ve been looking at your phone a lot recently,” Lance said one day while they were resting in a dungeon.

“I realized I had some books downloaded.”

“What are you reading?”

“The Bible.”

Lance looked at him.

“What?” David said.

“Have you read it before?”

“I grew up in a Christian household, so yes.”

“Then why read it again?”

David put his phone down and leaned against the wall. “Because it might be immediately relevant.”

“This again?” Lance shook his head. “There is a logical and natural explanation for this world, just like our own, even if you and I don’t fully understand it yet.”

“Oh?”

“Many-worlds interpretation. If we assume there are infinite universes, then a world such as this could exist, and it is theoretically possible that the denizens of that world could invent a way to travel to another universe. That’s the most reasonable explanation. If there is a god, he is not here.”

“If there is a God, He is here by definition. Omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent.”

“Then why are we here? Why would an all-powerful, all-knowing god allow any of this?”

David smiled. “I’m sure there is a logical and natural explanation, even if you and I don’t fully understand.”

“That is a deeply unsatisfying answer,” Lance said, crossing his arms.

“Such is life. But hey, if your theory is right, we are here by our own volition. Blame God all you want, but we opened the door.”

“Then, what, the whims of humans can overrule the will of a god?

“Or maybe God’s plan accounts for the whims of humans, allowing for both free will and salvation.”

“Or maybe there is no plan at all.”

David shrugged and turned back to his phone.

In truth, he felt he had no better grasp on the situation than Lance. Even if they agreed that their enemy was demonic in nature, that didn’t bring them any closer to going home.

That night, he was reading during his watch when his phone started vibrating and Oliver’s name appeared. He looked back at Lance’s room. The door was closed. He took and deep breath and answered the call.

“Hello?”

“David! I finally got through.” It was definitely Oliver’s voice.

“Where are you?”

“I was going to ask you the same.”

“I asked first.”

“I’m at home. At least, it looks like my place, but it definitely isn’t.”

“Did you go through a black door?”

“I did. There’s no one here, and I can’t figure out how to come back. I’m kind of freaking out.”

“Oliver, do you remember the name of our guild?”

“What?”

“In Battlecraft. What was our guild called?”

“Heaven’s Fury. Why are you asking me that?”

“When was the last time we spoke in person?”

“What is this, twenty questions?”

“Answer.”

There was silence for a while. David grit his teeth. He really, really wanted Lance to be wrong about this one.

“Why don’t you trust me, man?” the voice on the other side said.

“Who are you?”

“It’s me, Oliver. Your friend. Who are you? Because right now you don’t sound like the David I know.”

“Tell me who you are. I know calls don’t work in this world.”

“Then why pick up?” Something changed. Oliver’s voice lost its tone, flattened somehow.

“Because I need to know the truth.”

“Truth. The truth is you abandoned your friend and now he’s dead.”

“What?”

“Eight years ago. That was the last time you and Oliver talked in person. Do you know what’s happened since then?”

“I… Sure. We talked online pretty often.”

“Yes. The video games. You knew he spent a lot of time online. You knew he had a strange schedule. You knew he was awake at odd hours. Did you know that he dropped out of school? Did you know his father left him? Did you know his mother abused him?”

“What? He never said anything like that.”

“You never asked.”

David’s body was suddenly very cold.

“Do you want to know what happened next?” the voice continued. “He killed himself. Over a year ago. But you must already know that, right? You would not be a very good friend if you didn’t.”

“No. That’s not possible. I just talked to him.”

“Think about it, cleric. That was me.” The voice raised an octave. “It was very convenient, I admit. His weakness led to you, and now yours will bring you to me.”

“You… You used him to—”

“You need to stop wasting time. The knight is leading—”

David hung up.

He walked out to the balcony. The air was still. He was tired. He was tired of this world. He was tired of this empty city. He was tired of fighting. He stared at the ground with an empty mind.

Minutes—or perhaps hours—later, he spotted a black dot in the distance. It weaved between buildings, slowly growing bigger as it made its way toward him. When it was a certain distance away, he recognized it as a fiend. It was sat upon what appeared to be a small black cloud.

“Hello, David!” it called out in its tedious speech.

“Go away.”

“Now, now, that’s no way to talk to a friend!”

The fiend floated in front of him. Its appearance was slightly unusual—instead of black orbs for eyes, this one had brown irises with horizontal, hourglass-shaped pupils, like a goat. The goat-like image was further emphasized by nubbly horns protruding from its forehead.

“Leave before I knock you out of the air.”

“Listen! I have something you want!” It smiled and rubbed its tiny hands together.

“All I want is to leave this hellish place. Can you give me that, you pest?”

“I can show you the way out! Yes! But that’s not really what you want! You want to know if your friend is truly dead!”

“Equip wand of the dove.”

The fiend jumped up, waving its arms. “Wait! Don’t be hasty! I’m here to help! I can tell you the truth!”

David hesitated.

“I’ll tell you what you want to know!” it continued, its goat eyes darting about. “I’ll take you to the white door, too! Yes! You can verify it yourself!”

“I’m listening.”

It calmed somewhat. “I’ll tell you! But first, an exchange! Equivalent exchange!”

“How about this,” David said coolly, “you give me what I want and I don’t kill you.”

“You must leave Lance behind! The knight stays with us, and you go home! And! I’ll tell you anything! Anything you want to know!”

For one wretched moment, he considered it.

“Smite.”

David returned to his reading, though he found it difficult to focus.

Author’s note: For the month of July I am challenging myself to write and post one chapter a day every two days with minimal planning and outlining. You can read the first chapter of Doors of the Dreamer here.

For a moment, David thought he was back at the camp. But the woman straddling him was certainly not a vagabond. She had violent orange hair and pale skin completely exposed by her nakedness.

When his eyes and nose finally caught up with his brain, he recognized her.

“How…?”

“Does it matter?”

She caressed his cheek. He found himself leaning into the warmth of her hand. He breathed in her scent. She was using that perfume she liked. She smelled good. No, the smell was overpowering. No, it was nostalgic. His thoughts bled together and his mind was on fire.

“I’m here now, don’t you want me?” she purred.

He grunted. His tongue was like lead.

“Let me help you get these clothes off.”

She pulled his shirt over his head and threw it aside. Her fingers found his scar and traced it, sending a shiver down his spine. David reached out. He had to get her off him. His body disobeyed. His hand groped at her flesh.

“You’ve been alone for so long. Relax, let me take care of you,” she said.

Alone. Was he alone? No, someone was here with him. Someone had taken the first watch. Lance. If he could just raise his voice. Lance. Lancelot. The hero. He looked at the woman’s face. Her foxy smile. Her gleaming cerulean eyes. Hadn’t he already learned this lesson? He was alone.

She leaned in close. “David.”

David. The hero. The king. What makes a hero? Something was missing. Fear. Why resist her? He was unafraid. Shouldn’t a hero be unafraid? Fight or flight. He had not yet lost everything. For that reason, he should be afraid. For that reason, he should fight. He needed a weapon. Silently, he cried for help.

A weight was lifted from him.

“Equip silver shortsword.”

He swung haphazardly and the intruder jumped back. Its look of surprise faded quickly. David scrambled out of bed, pulling his pants up with one hand.

“Was this body not to your liking?”

The thing changed. Its hair, its skin, its face, its chest, its legs—all morphed into someone else. He recognized this form too. It was the lady he helped on the day he found the black door. The shapeshifter’s stench assaulted him. It made him want to know how she felt to his fingers, how she tasted to his tongue. It made him want to gag.

“Lance!” he choked out.

“Perhaps this would be more to your taste.”

The door swung open. The knight stood there in full armor, greatsword in hand. However, whether by blind luck or intentional malice, the form the intruder had chosen made Lance pause. It was the vagabond shaman. David rushed forward, meaning to run the thing through. It was faster. Twisting the shaman woman’s face in a cruel grin, it slipped past Lance, who realized what was happening too late. He cast wind cutter and turned to go after it, but David heard the sliding door open and knew it had jumped off the balcony.

Lance returned a moment later. “That thing was damn fast. What was it?”

“I don’t know,” David threw up his hands. “Mimic? Vampire? Succubus? You tell me.”

“I’ve never seen a monster capable of shapeshifting. How did it get in?”

“I think it was already here.”

Lance sniffed. “The smell.”

“Something is out to get us,” David said, sitting on his bed.

“What do you mean?”

“I had a dream. There was a voice that kept mentioning an exit. I didn’t understand it then, but it was definitely a threat. Ever since then I’ve had this feeling—I don’t know how to explain it.”

“When was this?”

“A few days ago. After the dullahan.”

Lance unequipped his gear and leaned against the door frame. “Likely just a dream. You were feverish and a bit delirious at the time.”

“I disagree. It’s clear to me now that there is a demonic force at play in this world.”

“Demonic?” Lance scoffed. “The shapeshifter. Did it appear to you in the shaman’s form?”

“Not at first.”

“Do you know the person it imitated?”

“Yes.”

David could feel Lance’s eyes on him, but he remained silent.

“Anything you can tell me about this enemy will help us fight it next time,” Lance said eventually.

David exhaled. “It looked like my ex-girlfriend and it was trying to force itself on me.”

“Oh.”

He had never seen Lance look so uncomfortable. It almost made him laugh.

“That smell,” he continued, “must be some sort of—what’s the word, pheromone? It was hard to move or speak.”

“How did you free yourself from it?”

David shrugged. “Divine intervention.”

Silence descended again. Lance rubbed his beard. David unequipped his sword and found his shirt.

“Can I just… talk for a minute?” He didn’t wait for Lance’s reply. “We were in college. I thought she was the best thing to ever happen to me, and I was quite generous with her. Paid for everything, took her wherever she wanted to go. At least to the best of my ability as a nineteen-year-old. I was raised to treat women ‘right,’ you know?

“About a year in, I asked what she thought about marriage. Less than a week later she ghosted me. When I tried to find out why, she blocked my number and blocked me on social media. One day I waited for her outside of one of her classes and confronted her. What do you think she said? ‘I’m not looking for anything serious.’ At first I thought it was my fault—that if I had taken her on more dates, bought her more gifts, spent more time with her, she wouldn’t have dumped me. But it’s the other way around. Some people go through life just fulfilling needs. They don’t love, they don’t dream, they barely even think.

“I don’t know what I’m trying to say anymore. I guess seeing her face dug up some bad memories.”

He collapsed to the floor and leaned against the wall. To his surprise, Lance sat beside him.

“Do you mind if I also speak for a while?” he said.

“Don’t force yourself.”

“Trust is a two-way street, remember?”

David chuckled. “I’m listening.”

“When I was a child I was convinced that all I needed to succeed in life was intelligence. All problems could be solved with knowledge and reason. When I became an adult I realized how wrong I was. I needed social connections, I needed to stay healthy, I needed to know how to cook and clean… You know that character you see in fiction sometimes who is extremely smart but inept at everything else? That was me. Once I figured this out, I tried to find ways to solve these problems. I exercised a certain number of times every week. I found a handful of easy but healthy recipes online. The one thing that eluded me, however, was socializing. I could not solve people.

“When I came to this world, I enjoyed the solitude for a while. Then I found Robin. She was a beautiful woman—looked a lot like the shaman, actually—and if there is one category of people I am especially bad with, it’s beautiful women. But she surprised me. She was patient, easygoing, and genuine. Even so, I had a hard time communicating with her on anything more than a basic level. It was like there was some invisible X factor she had and I didn’t. When I expressed as much to her, she just laughed and said I was thinking too much. After she died, I started to hate being alone.”

Lance cleared his throat. His eyes were fixed on something David couldn’t see.

“If you ever felt I was being too strict or domineering, I apologize,” Lance said. “It’s true that I’m bad at communication. But I also don’t want to lose anyone else.”

David put a hand on his shoulder. “We’re getting out of here.”

Next chapter…

Author’s note: For the month of July I am challenging myself to write and post one chapter a day every two days with minimal planning and outlining. You can read the first chapter of Doors of the Dreamer here.

Lance laid out a map and explained his plan. When he was escaping the dullahan, he saw two dungeon entrances between the apartment complex and the park. On the way back to the base they would check both, and if one was level 25 or lower, Lance wanted to clear it.

“30,” David said.

“What?”

“We can handle a level 30.”

“Remember what happened that last time you said something like that?”

“Unlike the dullahan, you know dungeons. You want me to be raid-ready within the month?”

“Ideally,” Lance said, rubbing his beard.

“Then have a little faith in me.”

Lance studied him for a while, then said, “We’ll play it by ear. Just remember, your spell range is shorter with a wand. It may take some adjustment.”

David nodded.

“Use the rest of today to relax and prepare. We’ll head out first thing tomorrow morning.”

David held up a hand. “Actually, I’d like you to do something for me.”

“What’s that?”

“I have a pretty good idea of what you’re capable of already, but can you walk me through the details of your skills?”

“Good idea,” Lance said after considering it for a moment.

Wind cutter gathered air around the user’s sword and then hurled it as a razor sharp projectile when the sword was swung. It was Lance’s only ranged skill, which made it perhaps his most important weapon. Blood rush significantly boosted the user’s speed and mobility for a very brief time, launching him forward. War cry was a taunt skill, capable of distracting and pulling the “aggro” of all monsters in an area. It could only be used with a shield equipped.

“There are a few more skills knights have access to, but I primarily use those three.”

David spent most of that day thinking. He thought while doing push-ups, sit-ups, and sprints. He thought while eating the food the vagabonds provided, mostly roasted meats and vegetables (where these came from was a mystery to both David and Lance). He thought while wandering aimlessly around the camp. When the musicians and dancers started up again that night, he thought while staring into the twisting flames of the pyre.

Something felt off. It was like the feeling of being watched, or perhaps the feeling that he was missing something. This feeling did not leave him when he saw Lance and the shaman woman disappear into a tent again that night, or when they said their goodbyes and left the following morning, or even when they reached the dungeon Lance had mentioned.

“Level 31.”

They exchanged a glance. David smiled. “What’s it gonna be?”

Lance sighed but nevertheless pulled open the door and said “Come on.”

The dungeon was crypt themed, which meant plenty of skeletons, wraiths, and other assorted undead to contend with. Even with the increase in difficulty, David’s second dungeon progressed much like the first. Lance went ahead and slaughtered everything while he stayed back managing buffs and watching his companion’s back. He did this without complaining or losing focus. While he waited for Lance to clear rooms, he concentrated on his “mental tallies”—namely, how long until his buffs expired, how much mana he was using, and how close he was to potion sickness. As much as Lance seemed to hate comparing this world to a video game, his strategy reminded David of his dungeoneering days in World of Battlecraft. Everyone in the party had a job. Someone had to call the shots, someone had to deal damage, someone had to heal, someone had to pay attention to timers and cooldowns. And just like in a game, mastering this strategy was going to be the key to defeating the hardest challenges—and getting home in one piece.

The boss room had a low ceiling and felt almost claustrophobic compared to the manticore’s room. A robed figure with its back turned to them stood in the middle of a circle drawn with something like chalk. Black candles were placed at five points along the circle. Besides the flickering flames of the candles and wall-mounted torches, all was still.

“Necromancer,” Lance said. “I won’t be able to block his spells without switching to the tower shield, so stay on your toes. In the second half of the fight, he’ll put up a barrier and summon thralls. Should be no problem to taunt all of them with war cry, but run back here just in case.”

David nodded and cast his blessings.

The necromancer proved to be surprisingly nimble for a rotting, decrepit creature. It dodged Lance’s opening wind cutter, spinning around and answering with a dark bolt of magic. Lance slowly advanced, sidestepping black projectiles, while David trailed him. Lance had said the “second half” of the fight, but it only took one hit. The knight waited until the necromancer was about to cast a spell, and in one clean motion, stepped in and cut open its belly. Undead guts spilled onto the floor and Lance jumped backward.

“Thralls!”

David, realizing what was about to happen, scrambled back into the corridor. As Lance swapped to his shield, the necromancer held out its arms and gurgled something. The five candles lifted themselves into the air and a lavender bubble formed around them. Within the protective barrier, the necromancer called out to its undead slaves.

The stone floor cracked and the thralls crawled up through the ground. They had lifeless black eyes and gaunt, skeletal frames. There were quite a few of them, but they were slow. Lance stood at the center of the crowd, head on a swivel.

“Lance?”

“If I do it too early, it won’t work,” he called.

The undead closest to David were nearly free. They groaned and grabbed at the air. He pointed his wand at one of them and waited. A cold bead of sweat ran down his back.

“War cry!”

The sound of Lance’s voice filled the room. The thralls stopped and turned in unison, then began shambling toward him, reaching out their rotting hands. Before any could touch him, he used blood rush to charge through their ranks, shield first. With a speed that could only come with experience, he switched back to his greatsword and began systematically culling the horde using wind cutter. David watched in amusement as the thralls were sliced apart, body parts flying everywhere. Then he heard something behind him.

He jumped away and turned to see a thrall bite the space where he had been standing. Had one spawned out in the corridor? David raised his wand, but hesitated. He had enough mana to smite this one, but what about the necromancer? What if there was a dullahan waiting outside the dungeon? The expression he saw reflected in the thrall’s eyes was that of terror. Was it his own?

You do not shy away from weakness, do you?

There is something empowering about holding a sword, David discovered that day. He grit his teeth and shoved his left hand forward. The silver blade flashed and pierced the thrall’s skull. It went limp.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” David said, exhaling. “You missed one.”

“Sorry.”

The rest of the thralls lay dead and dismembered. Lance was standing directly in front of the necromancer’s barrier, poised to strike.

“It’s supposed to drop the shield when the minions are dead.”

David glanced down the corridor. “Maybe there’s more.”

“I doubt it. Do you see anything?”

“No.”

“I think it’s toying with us.”

David wrenched his sword free and cautiously approached the barrier. He tapped it with the tip of his blade.

“It blocks physical attacks and skills,” Lance said, “but at least it can’t attack us while its in there.”

The necromancer followed them with its dead gaze, but was otherwise frozen with its arms extended. Even with its torso split open, it didn’t appear to be in any hurry to fight them—David imagined that an undead monster couldn’t bleed out anyway.

“Maybe there’s some trick to it,” he said.

The floating candles seemed an obvious place to start. They were inside the barrier so he couldn’t just reach in and grab them, but on a whim he tried blowing one out. To his surprise, it worked. The necromancer immediately dropped its arms and began casting a spell. But Lance was faster. The instant the candles hit the floor and the barrier dissolved, he cast wind cutter. The boss dodged, but clumsily. Lance closed the distance and swung. The necromancer’s decapitated body collapsed.

“Good kill.”

Lance was breathing hard. “Used too much mana on that one. Nice thinking with the candle.”

Once again, the loot was nothing impressive. David did level up, but he did not unlock a new skill this time. They had a long road ahead of them.

They backtracked through the dungeon and, after a short break, ventured back into the city. Thankfully, there were no dullahans waiting for them this time. They returned to the apartment and found it as they had left it. Mostly.

“Do you smell that?” David asked.

Lance unequipped his gear and sniffed. “No.”

David was surprised to smell anything—this world was oddly devoid of any strong scents or flavors.

“What kind of smell is it?”

“It’s… sweet. I don’t know, maybe I’m imagining it.”

The aroma did fade, and by dinner time he had forgotten about it.

He remembered very quickly, however, when he woke up in the night with the sickly sweet stench violating his nostrils. Something was on top of him. He blinked, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

A woman’s voice whispered in his ear. “Miss me?”

Next chapter…

Author’s note: For the month of July I am challenging myself to write and post one chapter a day every two days with minimal planning and outlining. You can read the first chapter of Doors of the Dreamer here.

David held up the crystal. Its ivory color seemed to shimmer if looked at from the right angle.

“Sounds like you got pulled in to a side quest,” Lance said.

David looked at him. “I guess I did. So if this is a quest reward, do you think it’s special somehow?”

“Maybe. What name does it have in your inventory?”

“Pure quartz shard.”

“Hm. Sounds like something that could be used for crafting. Want to try making a wand?”

David smiled. “Let’s do it.”

Lance proceeded to explain every detail of the crafting system. Some of it David had already known or inferred, but he listened without interrupting.

The basis of crafting in Doors of the Dreamer was the combination of any arbitrary number of items. Most combinations yielded no results, but the ones that did could be saved by the user to create a reusable crafting recipe. These recipes could, of course, be shared online. Long before David started playing, most recipes had been discovered by players, but occasionally someone stumbled upon something new. In the game, the primary use for crafting was creating potions, but some equipment could be crafted as well.

“Adding real-world items into the mix makes this all the more complicated,” Lance said. “Retrieve water gunblade.”

The item that appeared was, as David realized eventually, the fusion of a water gun and a sword. The sword was single-edged with an orange gun barrel attached to the blunt side. A tube connected the barrel to a small water tank embedded in the blade itself. The trigger to fire it was beneath the hilt.

“Does it work?” David asked.

“Technically, yes.” Lance gripped the blade with his fingers, careful not to cut himself, then pulled the trigger. A stream of water shot out of the barrel. “Obviously it’s not very practical, even if it shot bullets instead of water.”

Lance went on to demonstrate a few more results of his crafting experiments, though all were similarly absurd and useless. His biggest discovery was realizing that the final item added was sometimes treated as a tool and was not consumed during the process. This was how cooking worked, by placing something like a frying pan in the last slot after raw food.

“So the order of items matters,” David said.

“Correct. You can get different results from the same crafting inputs by simply changing the order. I figured that out when I noticed potion-related recipes that used a mortar and pestle always put it last.”

“What happens if you don’t?”

“It tries to combine the items with the tool, and the tool is lost.”

At this point, David was itching to try it out himself. “What kind of tool do I need to make a wand?”

“Actually, for weapon crafting, no tool is necessary. You’ll need another wand to use as a base.” He began scrolling through his inventory “Here.”

A short wooden rod materialized, and Lance handed it to David. It was perfectly smooth and had no distinguishing features.

“I like to hold on to low-level weapons for crafting purposes. Put that in the first slot and then the quartz, and see what happens.”

He did. “The button is still grayed out. Do I need another item?”

“The recipes can be difficult to predict. Let me see if I have anything that could help.”

Lance and David fell quiet as they searched for a third item. David was tempted to try something ridiculous, like a pair of socks, just to see what would happen.

“Okay, let’s try this,” Lance said eventually. A golden orb the size of a baseball materialized in his hand. “It’s a fragment of Hyperborea, a rare drop from Doors of the Dreamer. Whenever I craft with one, it seems to have an amplifying effect on the results.”

David wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but turning the orb over in his hands he sensed that it was a powerful item. Inscribed on the gold surface were long strings of unfamiliar symbols. Along its circumference was a thin groove, through which several concentric wheels could be seen spinning inside the thing. He stored it, added it as his third item, and tapped “Craft.”

“Well?” Lance said.

“Equip wand of the dove.”

The shaft of the wand was made of a smooth, marble-like material complimented by golden stripes that twisted around its length. At its tip was the quartz crystal, embedded snugly in the marble.

“Bizarre looking thing. How are its stats?”

David held up his phone, and Lance’s eyes widened.

“I’m surprised you’re able to equip this,” he said.

The wand was heavier than David expected, but it felt good in his hand. “Now this is battlecraft.”

Lance looked at him.

“Used to play World of Battlecraft with a friend, Oliver. We would always joke about how they kept updating the game but never added ‘battlecraft,’ whatever that is. Every time we played a game with a crafting mechanic, we would bring it up again. ‘Is this battlecraft?’” David grinned.

“I see.” There was a softness in Lance’s voice that David had never heard before. “I’m sure your friend is fine.”

“I want to get stronger,” David said. “I want to get strong enough to clear a raid so we can both go home.”

Lance nodded. “I have something else for you. Looted it from the dungeon and forgot to give it to you.”

He retrieved a silver shortsword and held it out.

“It’s not as powerful as your fancy new wand,” Lance said, “but clerics can equip it, and now you have a better weapon for close range. Although, you’ll have to train yourself to use a sword left-handed.”

David swung the sword around a bit.

“One more thing. Wanting to get stronger is good. But at some point you may encounter an… unusual fiend. I call it Faust.”

David frowned.

“I suppose the more correct name would be Mephistopheles, but that’s a bit of a mouthful.”

“I don’t know what you’re referencing.”

“Nevermind. This fiend, Faust, will find you when you’re at a low point and offer you a bargain. It’s very important that you do not accept, no matter how tempting it is.”

“What kind of bargain?”

Lance’s expression was stony. “One with short-term gain and long-term consequences, to put it mildly.”

“Like a deal with the devil.”

“Something like that.”

Next chapter…

Author’s note: For the month of July I am challenging myself to write and post one chapter a day every two days with minimal planning and outlining. You can read the first chapter of Doors of the Dreamer here.

David limped out of the tent and was greeted with a sight that momentarily distracted him from the issue at hand. The vagabonds were dancing. Men and women of various ages circled a pyre of stacked logs with an impressive flame roaring within, which struck him as strange, given this world’s constant pseudo-daylight and lukewarm temperature. Performers sang and played stringed and percussive instruments. It was a wild and eclectic song that had the dancers laughing and singing along.

David spotted the shaman woman standing off to the side, smiling at Lance. He felt his phone vibrate in his hand and hurried over to them. He held out the screen so Lance could see it.

“Don’t answer,” Lance said immediately, a shadow passing over his face.

“He could be in trouble.”

“I don’t know who Oliver is, but calls to—and presumably from—our world don’t work.”

“He plays Doors of the Dreamer. He could be here, on this side.”

“That doesn’t explain it either. Calls and texts don’t work here, period. Whoever or whatever is calling you is not Oliver.”

The vibrating stopped. David checked his call history, but the last entry was weeks old.

“When something like this happens, I need you to trust my judgment. Otherwise, we’re going to have a repeat of the dullahan situation,” Lance said.

“I’m sorry about the dullahan, that’s on me. But trust is a two-way street.”

Lance took a sip from the wooden mug he was holding.

“Alcohol?”

“Probably.”

As if on cue, a girl, no older than ten, ran up to David and handed him a mug.

“Uh, thanks.” David smiled.

The girl smiled back, then darted away without saying anything. David took a cautious sip of the amber-colored liquid. It was not as flavorless as the potions, but it was close. It had a bitterness to it that suggested it was alcoholic, despite its watery taste.

“How are you feeling?” Lance asked.

David noticed that the shaman had slipped away at some point. “Fine. Good, even. Do you know what she did to me?”

“Not specifically. Something with herbs. In the game, you could get some pretty useful buffs from vagabond healers.”

“Not for free, I imagine. Though, I haven’t seen any kind of currency here.”

“Don’t worry about that, I took care of it.”

His tone made David curious, but also discouraged further questioning.

“What’s your plan?” he asked instead.

“Why do you assume I have a plan?”

“Come on, you always have a plan.”

Lance smiled slightly. “I have two plans. One if you decide to come with me, and one if you don’t.”

“It’s not like I have a choice.”

“Of course you do.” Lance watched the dancers twirl and laugh. “I know I’m not the best at communication, but you were right about me needing you. Taking on a raid with two people is already treacherous—solo would be nothing short of insanity. But you have to make the decision. If you don’t think you can work with me, I can’t force you.”

“Quite the guilt trip,” David said with a chuckle.

“How so?”

“You really think I would abandon you to walk into a raid by yourself?”

The music stopped and the vagabonds clapped and cheered. Lance was quiet.

“I happen to pride myself on being able to get along with just about anyone,” David continued. “I’m going with you, but I have one condition.”

“Which is?”

David weighed his words. “Full transparency. If you want me to do something, explain it. If something scares you, tell me why. If something bothers you, speak up.”

“I told you I’m bad at communication.”

“Is being bad at something a reason to stop trying? I realized earlier that I know basically nothing about you.”

“Okay. What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with something simple, like… your name.”

“Lance.”

David shot him a look. “Your full name.”

“Lancelot Kingsley.”

“Good—Wait, your name is Lancelot?”

Lance nodded almost sheepishly. “Nobody calls me that.”

David burst into laughter. “That’s so cool, though! Why wouldn’t you want to be called Lancelot?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“Is one of your parents a history nerd or something?”

“My father loves mythology. Legendary tales of heroics, and all that. I never enjoyed that kind of thing personally.”

The music started up again with a song even more energetic than the last.

“Are you an only child?” David asked.

“I have a brother.”

“Let me guess, his name is… Beowulf? Roland?”

“Percy.”

David blinked.

“As in Percival.” Lance said.

“I love it. Is your dad’s name Arthur or something?”

“No. Bob.”

He spat out his drink. “You’re kidding. This is a bit, right?”

“No. Oh, we also had a dog named Excalibur.”

David doubled over, howling with laughter.

“Sorry,” he said eventually, catching his breath, “I’m just imagining you saying ‘Good boy, Excalibur!’”

He started laughing again.

Lance smirked. “He was a good boy, but we called him Cal.”

The shaman appeared beside Lance again, touching his arm. “Dance?” she asked.

Lance drained the rest of his drink. “The plan is to lay low for a few days and take advantage of the lack of monsters near the camp,” he said to David. “Enjoy the peace while it lasts. We’ll talk dungeons tomorrow.”

Then the shaman woman pulled him away, and they joined the crowd around the pyre. David, sipping his drink, noticed that the vagabonds’ camp was set up in a park he had been to a few times as a kid. Homesickness crept up on him. He watched the dancing for a while, amused by how awkward Lance looked. At some point, the shaman pulled him away and they ducked into a tent. David felt like he had seen enough, and returned to his own.

When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of the manticore’s black eye fixed on him and the sound of the dullahan laughing.

He awoke a few hours later. His head was pounding, though he had not even felt a buzz drinking the vagabonds’ booze last night. He stepped outside. The camp was quiet. David sat on the dead grass and looked up at the black disc. He had never seen it move from its high noon position.

“Can you help me?”

The voice startled him. A girl—he recognized her as the one who had brought him the mug last night—was peeking at him from behind his tent.

“What do you need help with?”

She came around the tent. She had olive skin and long dark hair and was slightly taller than his sitting height.

“I dropped something and can’t get it back.”

“Where?”

She grabbed his hand and started walking. David clambered to his feet and let her guide him.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“I am the chieftain’s daughter.”

He wondered if vagabonds did not have names.

“Does he know you’re leaving the camp?”

“It’s okay. You’ll protect me from the monsters, right?”

David smiled. “Of course.”

He didn’t know how far the girl was taking him, or how big the “safe zone” around vagabond camps was. He decided to equip a weapon just in case. The dullahan had destroyed his staff, but thankfully he had a lower level backup.

They ended up walking to a parking lot maybe 500 feet from the camp. The further they got, the more David felt like he had been infected by Lance’s paranoia. He was scanning the area nonstop and his heart beat a little faster every time he thought he saw something move. When the girl stopped, he noticed how sweaty he had become.

The chieftain’s daughter pointed to a storm drain at their feet. David knelt down and peered between the bars.

“I see a white stone, is that what you lost?”

She nodded. David considered how he was going to get the thing out. If he had a fire spell of some kind, he could melt through the grate, but he was a cleric, not a wizard. Perhaps smite would have a similar effect. He thought about it and realized divine lights might be a better idea, as it offered more precision. But he had never tried to cut through metal with either spell, and he was left scratching his head. He scrolled through his inventory looking for something he could use as a lever to push the cover off. He found himself wondering what Lance would do in this situation, and that made him pause.

An image of the knight killing a huntsman with one punch came to him, and he realized he was overthinking it.

“Blessing of strength.”

David motioned for the girl to stand back and gripped the bars. Bracing his legs, he lifted with all of his might. The grate did not budge. He tried again. After straining for a few more seconds, it gave. It was even heavier than he expected. Grunting, he tossed it aside and it hit the pavement with a deafening clang. He glanced around, making sure he hadn’t attracted any unwanted attention, then climbed the ladder into the storm drain. There was a thin layer of dark water at the bottom, even though he was pretty sure it never rained here. David picked up the stone—more of a crystal, now that he looked at it—which was the size of a quarter. He brushed it off on his shirt and climbed back up.

He handed it to the girl, who took it and smiled. Then she handed it back.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” David asked.

She nodded. “I’m giving it to you.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll take good care of it, then.”

They hurried back to the camp.

Next chapter…

Author’s note: For the month of July I am challenging myself to write and post one chapter a day every two days with minimal planning and outlining. You can read the first chapter of Doors of the Dreamer here.

David fell into a feverish, restless sleep.

He could not move or speak. He was looking through dirtied glass at a world he left behind. His parents, his sister, Oliver, they had all moved on without him. Then he saw Lance. The knight stood alone, battered and bloodied, but a conqueror. Everyone else had found their peace. That meant he could rest now, right?

Something wouldn’t let him. It bound him, and he was suspended in a void between two realities.

“Cleric,” it spoke, “you must let go of these things. You have blinded yourself. Even now it is your own hands that confine you.”

David tried to speak, to scream, but his body refused.

“You desire freedom. It is only human. I can give that to you, but you must come to me.”

The voice was impossibly smooth and resonant. It was androgynous, lacked any kind of accent or inflection, and seemed to come from everywhere at once.

“Leave the knight. You and I both know his cowardice will only slow you down. His obsession with strength is his weakness, and that terrifies him. But you do not shy away from weakness, do you?”

David strained his mind, desperately trying to regain control of his body. His chest burned.

“The path you walk does not lead to freedom, it leads to suffering. There is only one exit. It is here, with me.”

An alabaster door descended from the darkness above him.

“You will come to me, or you will die. I would rather you live, cleric. Spare yourself the trials on the road ahead, and come to me. Open the door.”

A white butterfly flew by his head. When it reached the door, it opened, revealing a bridge of light that could cross worlds.

David jerked awake, his heart pounding and covered in sweat. He was in a tent with a high ceiling supported by a wooden pole. He looked down. His shirt was gone, and a bright pink scar ran diagonally across his chest. He was sitting in a bedroll of some kind, and a bowl of water with a rag in it sat nearby. David realized how dry his throat was. He retrieved a bottle of water and began sucking it down. He drank too quickly, however, and started coughing.

Shortly after, a woman wearing a dress made of hides pushed through the flap of the tent. She looked to be in her thirties, with gentle eyes and tanned skin. She turned to someone behind her and said, “He’s awake.”

Lance followed the woman into the tent. His bearded face somehow looked even more weathered than the last time David had seen it. He sat, and the woman knelt beside David. She slowly raised her hands to his face. David let her touch him, but his body remained tense. She gently pressed against his jaw and looked into his eyes. The only sound was that of her bead bracelets clicking against each other. Without saying anything, she got up and left.

For a while, neither Lance nor David spoke.

“Seems like I owe you my life again,” David said eventually. “And I never properly thanked you the first time, so… thanks.”

Lance shook his head. “You owe me nothing. In both cases, I acted in my own best interest. If anything, I owe you an apology.”

David gingerly touched his new scar. “You know, my dad once posed an interesting question to me: Is it possible for a human to perform a purely selfless act?”

Lance considered it. “I would say no. Even the man who runs into a burning building to save someone, even if his conscious motives are altruistic, is moved by self-interest to some degree. Perhaps he is a firefighter who works for a salary, or he simply does not want to bear the guilt of having done nothing.”

“I was young and naïve at the time, so I told him the answer was yes. My dad said the answer was no, but that it was okay because selfishness could become selflessness.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, acting in your own self-interest often corresponds to acting in the interest of those who care about you.”

“Your father is a wise man.”

“He is, but for a long time I disagreed with him. Or rather, I wanted him to be wrong. I wanted there to be such a thing as true selflessness.”

Lance was silent.

“So, where are we?” David asked.

“Right. I managed to find a vagabond camp while I was escaping the dullahan. We’re about a half day’s walk from the apartment complex, but we don’t have to worry about monsters while we’re here.”

“Vagabond camp?”

“Yes. As in, the NPCs from Doors of the Dreamer.”

“Oh, I remember now. I wouldn’t have expected them to exist here.”

“What do you mean?” Lance frowned.

David blinked. “Ah. That’s right, you’ve been… away for a few years. The developer removed vagabonds several months back.”

“What for?”

“Uh.” David scratched his head. “I guess some people felt that they were a negative portrayal of certain real-world demographics.”

“Hmm.” Lance thought for a while, rubbing his beard absentmindedly.

“I don’t think it’s that deep of a critique, the developer just removed it to appease the crowds.”

“I know. I hadn’t given much consideration to how updates to the game may or may not affect this world. I found the black door only two weeks after it released.”

“Can’t help you there. I’m pretty new; I only heard about the vagabonds thing because it made the rounds on social media.”

Lance nodded. “How’s your wound?”

“Tender, but there’s no pain.”

“I think you manged to cast heal on yourself. That probably saved you, or at least kept you alive until I got you to the shaman.”

“That woman a minute ago—she’s the shaman?”

“Yes. I suppose you wouldn’t know—vagabonds had a few roles in the game. They could heal, buy and sell certain items, give quests, et cetera. It’s much the same here, but…”

“But she seemed real.”

“More real than the zombies at least.” Lance shrugged. “They seem to have desires, fears, entire personalities, but they aren’t human.”

“How do you know?”

“They look human, act human, and speak our language, yet there is a limit to what they are capable of. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s as if they’ve not quite mastered the art of emulating humanity. They’re safe, just don’t let yourself get too attached, they’re moving camp in three days.”

“How long was I out?” David asked.

“Almost twenty-four hours.”

Lance told David to get some rest and left him with a new shirt. David laid down, but kept his eyes open. He wasn’t tired, and he was in no hurry to risk another nightmare—or vision, or whatever it was. He laid like this for what felt like a very long time.

At some point, he heard voices outside his tent. He struggled to stand, fighting his stiff legs. Wondering what time it was, he retrieved his phone, but before he could check, it started vibrating.

He was getting a call. The screen read “Oliver.”

Next chapter…

Author’s note: For the month of July I am challenging myself to write and post one chapter a day every two days with minimal planning and outlining. You can read the first chapter of Doors of the Dreamer here.

“It’s headed right for us,” David whispered.

“On my count we’ll run into the hotel.”

“It’ll see us.”

The sound of hooves on pavement grew louder.

“It’s our best bet. It will have to dismount to follow us in,” Lance said.

Before David could protest, Lance began counting. There was about twenty feet of sidewalk between them and the hotel’s front door.

“—three.”

They sprinted toward it. David risked a glance to his right. The dullahan had stopped and watched them with its disembodied head. There was an impulse—something like frustration—in David’s mind. Perhaps he wanted to prove his usefulness, or maybe he was tired of running and hiding and scheming.

“Smite.”

The spell struck where the dullahan’s head should have been and it doubled over. Without straightening its body, it raised its scythe and uttered some grotesque syllable, and the hotel entrance exploded. Lance and David were thrown to the ground.

“Lance!” David yelled, his ears ringing.

Lance said something and gestured. The dullahan was watching them again. It held out its head and black ooze trickled out of the neck.

“Move!” Lance woke him from his stupor.

They ran for the hotel, shattered glass crunching beneath their boots. They passed through where the hole where the door had been and did not slow down as they ran through the lobby.

“Fire exit.” Lance pointed.

It took them into an alleyway behind the hotel. They stopped to catch their breath.

“What were you thinking?” Lance said.

“You didn’t tell me it could cast spells!”

“I didn’t know!”

David drank a mana potion and an agility potion. “We should fight it. Maybe we can take its horse.”

“Absolutely not. We have no idea what this thing is capable of, clearly.”

“It’s not like we’ll know what a raid boss is capable of either.”

“It’s too much risk for an uncertain reward.”

“You’re level 100, man!”

Lance shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. We’re leaving. We’ll take a longer route back to the apartment and make sure it doesn’t tail us.”

“And what if I say no?”

Lance looked at him.

“You need me, don’t you?” David said. “Look, I’ve followed you around, done what you’ve told me to. But now you need to explain why you’re so afraid.”

“Because I’ve seen what this world is capable of.”

David noticed something in his peripheral vision. Some kind of black liquid was creeping out from beneath the fire exit door. Too late, he realized this was the same stuff he saw oozing out of the dullahan’s head.

David jerked his head back as a pointed appendage shot out of the ooze like a spike made of tar. It grazed his cheek. A second spike was aimed at Lance, who had managed to bring his arm up as a shield. It had pierced his armor.

“Barrier.”

There was a humming sound, and the spell worked as he anticipated, dislodging the spike from Lance’s arm. The ooze retracted its appendages and was seemingly preparing for another attack. David and Lance both bolted for the street. David cast heal on Lance as they ran, hoping that would at least stem the bleeding. As they neared the end of the alley, they heard the clopping of hooves, and the dullahan appeared to block them. Behind, the ooze was sliding toward them, and beyond that, nothing but a dead end.

There was no time to form a plan or consider strategies. Lance and the dullahan watched each other, waiting for the other to strike, but David had other ideas.

“Smite.”

The previous smite had little to no effect on the monster. So, he changed targets. Light struck the dullahan’s head, and it flew out of its hand. Without missing a beat, David stepped forward, wound up a kick, and punted the head. It flew forward, between the horse’s legs, and bounced into the road. By some miracle, it was facing the opposite direction.

The dullahan swung its scythe blindly in their direction.

“Wind cutter.”

Lance was trying to hold off the ooze. Where the knight’s skill landed, the ooze spread itself apart to dodge before reforming a moment later.

“My attacks won’t work on this thing, I’ll take the rider,” Lance said.

David smiled. He had the perfect spell for the little slime.

“Smite.”

The ooze exploded outwards, whether because it was struck by the smite or because it was trying to avoid it, he did not know. But all the scattered bits still moved, trying to regroup. David realized the thing could be invulnerable on its own. If it was an extension of the dullahan, perhaps it could only be defeated by killing the dullahan, in which case he just needed to buy time for Lance. He retrieved and drained a mana potion as he glanced back at his companion. What he saw confused him. Lance was struggling to free his sword from between the clenched jaws of the dullahan’s horse without being struck by its flailing hooves. Atop the horse was no one.

Lance turned. “Behind you!”

The ooze was regenerating much faster than expected—only, it was no longer a puddle on the ground but a body that was forming. A headless body wearing black armor with a scythe in one hand and a helmet in the other—

David felt the ground shift. His insides rebelled and he vomited, hard. Potion sickness. He could no longer see straight.

“Barrier,” he coughed out. He held up his staff in a pitiful attempt to defend himself.

The dullahan’s scythe sliced through the staff and his body. He staggered backward. His world spun and his chest was on fire. There was blood on his hands and he was looking at the sky. The ground was cold. He saw the blurred form of the dullahan standing over him. There was a sound like laughter.

“Heal,” he said. But maybe the word only existed in his mind, because he felt no relief. He held up a hand to the heavens, wondering if God could hear him in this place.

Next chapter…

Author’s note: For the month of July I am challenging myself to write and post one chapter a day every two days with minimal planning and outlining. You can read the first chapter of Doors of the Dreamer here.

“Level doesn’t really matter, it’s gear that changes your stats.”

“Alright Mr. Max Level, hand over some legendary items then.”

“You wouldn’t be able to equip—That was a joke.”

“You’re learning.”

David and Lance were resting in the last room of the first floor. David took a drink of water and checked his phone.

“How are your supplies?” Lance asked.

“Should be fine.”

He had used one mana potion and nothing else. The previous four rooms of the dungeon had proceeded much as the first. David cast his blessing spells, Lance walked in, everything died. Next. Even when they reached the trap room, Lance told him to wait and began crossing the room following a path only he knew. In under a minute, he reached the other side, pulled a lever, and said “It’s safe now.”

“In the game you wouldn’t have even been allowed in this dungeon.”

Lance shrugged. “When you’re ready we’ll head down. Two or three more rooms, then the boss. Stay focused.”

“Yes, sir.” David saluted.

They descended to the second floor. As Lance predicted, there were three rooms before the boss. A room of skeletons and fiends that Lance cleared in a matter of seconds, another trap room that Lance already knew the solution to, and a room with wraiths. They floated up out of the floor, screaming. For a brief moment, David thought he would be able to help in a more tangible way. Wraiths were incorporeal, and in Doors of the Dreamer, only certain skills belonging to certain classes could damage them. To David’s surprise, wind cutter was apparently one of those skills, and Lance made quick work of them.

The boss room was a long hall dotted with marble pillars and burning braziers. At the far end, a manticore slept on an elevated platform. Manticores had the body of a lion with gray fur, the face of a man, and a rat-like tail covered with long spines.

“Good, it’s not a wyvern. Flying bosses are a bit tricky for my build.” Lance turned to David. “The one thing you need to watch out for is the quill attack. It will bristle its tail, then shoot two volleys of quills from it. You should hide behind a pillar. If you get hit, you’ll be poisoned.”

“I know, that’s what the antidotes are for.”

“It launches those things with enough force to pierce armor. You might be in so much pain you’ll want to use a health potion first. Don’t. The venom will kill you faster than you think.”

“Okay.”

“Otherwise, same as before—”

“Buff and heal, got it.” He gave Lance a thumbs up.

Lance nodded, then retrieved and drank an agility potion and an attack potion. “When you’re ready.”

“Blessing of strength. Blessing of fortitude.”

The knight walked confidently into the hall. David followed him about halfway in, then ducked behind a pillar. He needed to be at least this close for his spells to reach Lance.

When Lance was maybe ten paces away from the manticore, he swung his sword and opened with the usual.

“Wind cutter.”

The skill slashed open the thing’s face, wounding its right eye. It jumped to its feet, tilted its head to see its opponent with its good eye, then let out a painfully loud roar. Lance stood his ground, two hands on his greatsword. David expected him to charge in immediately or loose a few more wind cutters. In Doors of the Dreamer, damaging a monster’s eye had no meaningful effect in most cases—only a handful of enemies, such as living armor, had any concept of “body parts” in the game—but in this world, Lance had given himself a significant advantage by half-blinding the manticore. Even so, perhaps because this was a boss, he waited. David noticed how big the manticore was—it towered over Lance, with paws big enough to cover his face and then some.

The beast took this pause as invitation to strike, swiping at Lance with its claws. Each time, he stepped back to avoid the attack. This dance continued for a while, but the manticore grew impatient. With a growl, it raised its paw and swung down hard, intending to crush its opponent. Lance thrust his sword to meet the attack.

“Wind cutter.”

As the greatsword pierced the manticore’s paw, Lance twisted his whole body to swing down. The skill ripped through the monster’s foreleg, spraying black blood. It recoiled. Lance pressed his advantage, aiming for the head. But the manticore, with surprising nimbleness given its wounds, bounded over Lance, perched momentarily on the pillar David hid behind, then flung itself at its opponent. Lance threw up his blade, using it as a shield as the manticore crashed into him. Across the room, David realized with a start that Lance was now pinned by the manticore’s good leg.

“Heal.”

Nothing happened. This was his first time needing to use the skill—Had it not taken effect because Lance was not actually damaged? Or was he too far? He didn’t have time to think it through. He dashed out from behind cover and got as close as he dared.

“Heal.”

This time, he felt a gentle warmth rise up from his core and pass through his arms. The spell had cast, but Lance was still struggling to get free. Then the manticore turned its head and fixed its gaze on David. Its face may have been humanoid, but its eye was black like a crow’s and devoid of anything resembling human thought. This was the eye of a beast—no, a demon, David realized.

The manticore’s tail bristled. Its quills stood on end. He had to get behind something. He turned to run to the pillar. It was too far, he wasn’t going to make it. And what would happen to Lance? Would he be safe directly beneath the manticore? David looked back.

Lance had somehow escaped and was flying toward him. David heard words he did not comprehend at first.

“—Equip tower shield. Get down!”

The first barrage of quills struck with a rapid series of thuds. Lance was standing over him, holding up a massive rectangular shield with both hands. The second barrage hit. Lance staggered a little under the violent force of the impact, but held fast.

“Buffs?” David managed to ask. He had lost his sense of time and had no idea how close they were to the two minute timers on his blessings.

“No need. Get back to the pillar. When I give you an opening, smite it.”

Lance ran forward, swapping shield for sword, and David scrambled to his feet. He sprinted back to the pillar, careful not to trip on the quills—roughly the size and shape of bananas—embedded in the floor. Lance and the manticore resumed their dance, but the monster was slowing down. Soon, Lance’s patience was rewarded. The manticore put too much weight on its wounded leg and stumbled forward just enough for Lance to shove his sword into the thing’s chin. It reared back, roaring, forcing Lance to let go of his weapon.

“Now!”

“Smite!”

Light exploded into the manticore’s head, forcing it back down and sending it reeling.

“Unequip chimera greatsword. Equip chimera greatsword.”

David blinked as the weapon in question disappeared from the manticore’s chin and reappeared in Lance’s hand.

“Blood rush.”

Lance leaped forward as the skill took effect and slammed into the manticore’s head, stabbing through its remaining eye and burying the blade deep in its skull. The beast roared and thrashed about, stumbled, fell, and was still.

For a moment, there was silence. Then David let out a whoop and pumped a fist in the air.

“Nice kill! I would never have thought of that unequip-equip thing you did. That was so cool!”

“It only works at close range,” Lance said flatly. “What you did was reckless and unnecessary. You only need to heal me if I ask for it or I’m visibly wounded.”

“Hey, all I could see was a manticore’s ass. I didn’t know how damaged you were.”

“Fair enough. And your recklessness distracted the boss, which allowed me to get free. Just be mindful of your positioning.”

Two wooden chests lined with gold had appeared on the platform where the manticore was sleeping. David ran over to open his.

“I think there’s legendary drop in this one,” he said, putting his ear up to it and knocking on the wood.

“Unlikely.”

His loot was, as might be expected, mediocre. Some potion crafting materials, low-level gear for a different class, and, strangely, some socks. Lance explained that real-world items sometimes appeared as drops. At Lance’s suggestion, David checked his phone and found that he had leveled up. A new spell was available to him: aegis. According to the app, aegis would surround its target with a barrier that granted a degree of physical damage mitigation. He was unsure what that meant in practice, but clearing the dungeon and unlocking a new skill had put him in a genial mood.

“So how do we get back out?”

“We walk.”

David raised an eyebrow. “All the way back to the door?”

Lance nodded and David shrugged. Thankfully, it wasn’t that far of a walk. As they neared the entrance, Lance stopped and turned to David.

“You should drink a mana potion. There may be monsters waiting for us.”

“Couldn’t we just run back inside?”

“Not once the door closes. You can’t open the entrance to a dungeon for a few days after the boss is killed.”

David downed a mana potion while Lance pushed open the doors enough to poke his head out.

“I don’t see anything, let’s go,” he said after few seconds.

They exited onto the street and the entrance closed behind them.

“We should have time for a few more blocks,” Lance said.

“How long were we in there? Feels like—”

The sound of clopping hooves reverberated between the buildings. David shot a look at Lance.

“I thought you said there were no horses.”

The sound stopped, then resumed with greater speed. Lance grabbed David’s arm and pulled him behind the door. He was about to protest when Lance pointed. Frowning, David peeked around the door frame. Down the road was an intersection. A dullahan was crossing it, coming their way.

Next chapter…

Author’s note: For the month of July I am challenging myself to write and post one chapter a day every two days with minimal planning and outlining. You can read the first chapter of Doors of the Dreamer here.

They traveled deeper into the city. Lance insisted they wear full gear around-the-clock. David didn’t mind this so much as his cleric robes were light and easy to move in, but he wondered how Lance tolerated wearing full armor all the time. They were moving slower now, always dodging between buildings and waiting for monsters to pass. Twice that day they were forced into combat. The first time was when they almost ran into an ogre after turning a corner. The ogre seemed just as surprised as they were, and Lance quickly dispatched it. The second time, Lance wanted to clear a gas station.

“They might have maps I need.”

“Well, you could ask the cashier,” David quipped.

A seemingly empty suit of armor was standing guard behind the cash register.

“There’s one in the corner, too,” Lance said.

Two sets of living armor. As implied by the name, the suits were capable of movement and even combat. However, they were not truly alive but animated by a curse placed on them. The curse was bound by a seal somewhere on the inside of the armor. In Doors of the Dreamer, players would hack the armor apart until they separated the seal from the rest, rendering it immobile. David was not surprised to hear Lance had a more intellectual strategy.

“We always want to use the element of surprise to our advantage. In this case, the best way to handle living armor is to cut it in half, then remove the limbs from the still-moving half.”

“I don’t have a skill capable of that, so how about I just smite it?”

“That’s—Right. Okay.”

They slipped inside. Lance counted them down, and they launched their attacks simultaneously. Smite atomized the helmet of the “cashier” and the armor fell forward into the counter. David shot a glance over to the corner. Lance’s strategy, in action, looked awfully similar to the usual “slice it until it stops moving” approach. He heard movement and turned his attention back to the other armor. His decapitated opponent stood and vaulted the counter in one smooth motion.

“Smite.”

The living armor fell again, a smoldering hole replacing the top half of its chestplate. Its sword arm had fallen off. It shuddered and began to rise again. David smiled. He still had a few good smites in him.

“Wind cutter.”

In his peripheral vision, he saw Lance swing his sword in an arc. There was a distortion in the air, and the armor was sliced apart at the groin. Finally, it was still.

“I had that under control,” David said.

“You need to be careful how you spend your mana.”

David shrugged. Lance found and stashed some maps and they moved on.

There were a lot of the so-called zombies wandering about. At first, David would watch them for any signs of life, but he soon realized this was a pointless effort and started ignoring them like Lance did.

“What does a dungeon look like in this world?” he asked at one point.

“The entrance is a door. You’ll know it when you see it.”

“More doors, huh?”

He had noticed the occasional freestanding door—down an alleyway, in the middle of the road, on a roof. David could more-or-less tell by looking at them that these were the same type as the one from the previous day.

That evening, Lance pointed to an apartment complex across the street and said, “Let’s make that our base of operations.”

“Why there?”

“This area seems quiet, and we need a place big enough to hide in that provides multiple escape routes.”

David thought about it. “Couldn’t we get trapped inside an apartment, though?”

“Not if we pick one with a balcony.”

“Our escape route is jumping off a balcony?”

“Only if necessary.” Lance looked at him. “Your gear’s defensive bonuses will protect you if you fall from that height. Just bend your knees when you land.”

“Right.”

They cleared one wing of the second story. Lance chose an apartment at the end of a hallway, near a fire exit, and barricaded the door. David went out to the balcony. Looking out at the city, he was reminded that this was his hometown, or at least an imitation of it. It was somehow hostile and alien, and he thought he understood what Lance had meant by this world being a shadow of theirs.

After dinner, Lance produced a map of the city and explained his plan. In the morning, they would move block by block and hunt for dungeon entrances, marking down any they found. If it was a lower level dungeon, depending on the timing, they could enter and clear it immediately. Otherwise, they would return to it later. He drew a circle on the map centered on their new headquarters.

“Ideally, we can find everything within this radius. If not…” He drew a larger circle. “Anything past this is a no-go.”

“Why?”

“It would take at least half a day just for travel, and we want to leave ourselves plenty of time in the dungeons.”

David nodded, taking his word for it. “We need mounts. Are there horses or tameable dragons or something?”

“I have seen no evidence that such a thing exists.”

Now that he thought about it, David realized Doors of the Dreamer didn’t have or need mounts—that’s what cars and bikes were for.

“I assume camping out in the dungeon is not an option.”

“Only in emergencies.”

David studied the map. “How do we identify a dungeon’s level?”

“Similar to how it was in Doors of the Dreamer. If you’re near the entrance, you can see details in the app. Types of monsters, loot, that sort of thing. Make sure to charge your phone and power banks tonight. I’ll take first watch.”

“Wait. If I’m waking up at 2 AM every night, I’m going to need coffee.”

Lance looked at him.

“Don’t tell me you don’t have coffee.”

“I don’t have coffee.”

David sighed. “Okay, tea?”

Lance shook his head.

“Energy drinks? Pop?”

“I don’t consume caffeine, so I don’t have any.”

David opened his mouth to say something, but stopped himself.

“We can probably find some tomorrow,” Lance said.

“Right. Let’s do that.”

David left for his bedroom. Something about Lance had always rubbed him the wrong way, and now he understood. Lance was the straightest straight man—dry, dull, a pure pragmatist. It made him wonder if three years in this place would leave him the same way.

They set out on their first dungeon hunt the following morning. David found his hands were shaking a little in anticipation—or maybe that was just his body reacting to his lack of sleep. Lance explained that dungeon entrances often appeared near recognizable landmarks like parks, churches, and historical sites.

“Like in the game,” David said.

“Yes.”

As luck would have it, they found a low-level dungeon almost immediately. Like Lance said, it was a door—two doors, technically. It was big, at least eight feet tall, and unmistakably medieval in appearance with no windows and large ring pull handles. It was posted in front of a hotel only two blocks away from their base.

“Level 17, two floors. Fiends, living armor, huntsmen, skeletons, wraiths. Cursed castle theme, so the boss could be a manticore or a wyvern.”

“How’s the loot?”

“Bad, but that’s not why we’re here.” Lance made a mark on the map. “We should have more than enough time to beat this then explore a bit before we head back.”

“Let’s do it.”

“Equip chimera greatsword.” He rested the blade on his shoulder. “David, all I need you to do is maintain your buffs, heal me if I take damage, and occasionally smite something. Always stay behind me and be conservative with your mana. If you catch aggro, call it out and I will use a taunt skill when I get an opening. If you need to run, always run back to rooms we’ve cleared.”

“Okay.” David yawned.

“You’ll get the same experience drop even if you don’t kill any monsters.”

“I know. I have run a dungeon before.”

“Not like this, you haven’t.”

Lance pulled open the doors. It took a few seconds for David’s eyes to adjust to the dimness. He was looking down a stone corridor lined with flickering torches. It looked like something right out of the game. He stepped inside, half-expecting to get hit with a musty, dank smell, but just like the outside world, it smelled like nothing and was unnaturally quiet. The doors creaked shut behind them.

Lance silently lead the way. David followed, staying close but not too close. The corridor was uncomfortably long, and David thought it might have been narrowing. At last they reached an opening, but just before he entered the next room, Lance stopped and held up a hand. He was looking at something on the ceiling, and motioned for David to do the same. David leaned in and squinted. The room was square, about twenty feet across, and seemingly empty. However, looking up, he could make out three—no, four motionless shapes. The cleric and the knight backed up a few steps into the corridor.

“What are those?” David asked.

“Huntsmen.”

“On the ceiling? That’s new.”

Giant arachnid monsters were a common trope in video games, and Doors of the Dreamer was no stranger to tropes. Huntsmen were a familiar sight in dungeons. Unlike the typical fuzzy giant spiders inspired by tarantulas, they had spindly legs and a bulbous body the color of tar, similar to a black widow.

“They have terrible eyesight, but they can detect prey through vibrations in their webbing.” He pointed at the floor.

“What’s the play?”

“Like I said, you focus on buffs and heals. Whenever you’re ready.”

David took a deep breath and cast blessing of strength and blessing of fortitude on Lance.

“Wind cutter.”

Without missing a beat, Lance stepped into the spider’s den.

“Wind cutter.”

Two corpses hit the ground. The third and fourth huntsman hissed and scurried down the far wall with alarming speed.

“Blood rush.”

Before they could reach the ground, Lance launched forward and skewered one. However, his sword was now buried in the wall, and the other spider was already on him. David opened his mouth, about to cast smite. He didn’t get the chance.

Lance turned and slammed an armored fist into the monster’s head, which exploded into chunks.

David blinked. “What level are you, again?”

“100,” Lance said casually as he pulled his sword from the wall.

Next chapter…

Author’s note: For the month of July I am challenging myself to write and post one chapter a day every two days with minimal planning and outlining. You can read the first chapter of Doors of the Dreamer here.

They could see the city now. One more day of travel brought them to a suburban neighborhood.

“We won’t be able to avoid the monsters anymore. Keep your eyes open,” Lance said.

David nodded. “Are these homes empty?”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘empty.’ They have furniture, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“But no one lives in them?”

“Monsters, sometimes.”

The streets were desolate. The houses were dark and quiet, though some of them had broken windows or doors hanging open. Lance was walking quicker now, his head always turning about. Eventually he stopped in front of a house on a block corner.

“Let’s clear this,” he said, gearing up.

The door was unlocked. Lance entered greatsword first. They moved slowly, checking one room at a time. There were two stories and a finished basement. The place was furnished as Lance had said, and thankfully it was vacant.

“Don’t turn on any lights and stay away from the windows,” Lance said. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Wait.”

David went back to the kitchen and turned a knob on the stove. Sure enough, the burner light flashed on.

“Let’s cook something tonight. I mean, actually cook.”

Crafting was convenient, but it lacked the capability to make more nuanced or complicated meals. Also, David missed eating food that tasted like it was made by a human.

Lance was indifferent. “Can you cook?”

“Well enough.”

David suggested making omelettes as the crafting system could only make eggs sunny side up. Lance must have been completely unoffended by the idea of having omelettes for dinner, as he merely nodded and started barricading the entrances to the house.

As with most evenings, they ate in silence. More than once Lance got up to peek out a window. After a week, David still could rarely read the man. The only thing he knew for sure about Lance was that he took everything very seriously.

“I’ll take first watch.”

“What do you mean, watch? Is that necessary?” David asked.

“Monsters don’t sleep. Someone needs to be awake at all times.”

David glanced pointedly at the pile of furniture blocking the front door.

“I’ll wake you up at 2,” Lance said.

David shook his head—but soon forgot his misgivings when he realized he could take a shower for the first time in a week. Lance gave him soap, the water was hot, and he enjoyed it for at least half an hour. He emerged feeling like a new man. The closet, like all the cabinets and drawers, was empty, but Lance had a few extra shirts. David decided they would have to stop by a clothing store while they were in the city. For a little while he wondered why a store—according to Lance, anyway—would have clothes, but a closet in a home wouldn’t. He decided to leave that kind of thinking to his humorless companion and went to bed. After a week of spending nights outdoors in a sleeping bag, sheets and a mattress felt like heaven. Living like a civilized person again had him in a good mood.

Next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake.

“What? What is it?” David sat up.

“It’s 2 AM, time to switch. Wake me up if you see or hear anything.”

David mumbled something and dragged himself to his feet. Lance disappeared into the other bedroom and David sat at the top of the stairs. It was eerily quiet. The lights were off, but the constant ambient light that permeated this world drifted in through the windows and made it look like a summer afternoon. It reminded him a little of his childhood home. He wondered if he would ever see his parents again.

David jolted awake. His shoulder hurt from leaning against the wall. How long had he been out? He checked his phone.

“Not long enough,” he muttered to himself.

He needed something to keep himself awake and pass the time. He began wandering about the first floor, opening and closing cabinets that he knew were empty. He checked the landline. Unsurprisingly, there was no dial tone. He checked the TV. It turned on, but every channel was blank. David patrolled the house like this for quite a while, thinking about nothing.

Then he saw movement. He froze. He waited and listened, but heard nothing except his accelerating heartbeat. Had he imagined it? He crept toward the window, adrenaline flooding his body.

There was a person on the sidewalk. A man—by all definitions, an ordinary man—walking past the house. Without thinking, David ran to the door and started pushing Lance’s barricade out of the way. He stopped himself just before turning the handle. Taking everything Lance had told him into account, he realized the probability of this being a human was low. However, in Doors of the Dreamer, there was no creature that could disguise itself in such a way. In fact, there was little subtlety in the monsters’ appearances either in the game or in this world—all sported fangs, claws, inhuman proportions, or some other grotesque features.

He decided there was only one way to know for sure, and he equipped his staff as he ran out to the driveway.

“Hey.” David didn’t say it very loudly, but his voice still echoed conspicuously off the neighboring houses.

The man, now with his back to David, did not stop. He tightened his grip on his staff. Was he in shock? Deaf, maybe?

“Divine lights.”

There was no time to get Lance, he judged, but he could handle this on his own. Divine lights would stay active for sixty seconds, which should be enough time to determine if this was friend or foe.

He hurried down the sidewalk after the man. When he was a few paces away, he called out to him again. Still no reaction. David circled around him and waved.

“Hello, can you hear me? Do you need help?”

The man continued walking forward, his eyes fixed on some point in the distance. David sighed.

“Don’t waste your breath.”

David about jumped out of his skin. Lance, fully armored, was trotting toward him.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he said. “And you should fully gear up before interacting with a potential enemy.”

“I thought it was a person and didn’t want to scare him. What is this thing?”

“A zombie. At least, that’s what an old friend of mine called them. They’re mindless; they don’t respond to any stimuli. There’s quite a few of them in the cities.”

David scratched his head. “Why? I mean, where’s it going?”

“I don’t think it’s going anywhere, it’s just walking. As for why it’s here, I do have a theory. Are you familiar with the idea of collective consciousness? It’s possible that this world is a shadow of our world, so to speak, where beliefs about how society works are vaguely reflected. For example, a suburban environment needs people, and an urban environment needs even more. Thus, the zombies. It might also explain why electricity—”

“Is that one of the doors you were talking about?” David pointed.

Between two houses, planted in the dead grass, was a door.

“Yes.”

David approached it. It was similar to the black door he saw in the movie theater, only it had a wood veneer and an ornate brass handle. He opened it.

On the other side, it was a brisk spring morning. Everything was vibrant, almost overwhelmingly so. The colors, the smells—he thought he might be able detect a hundred different kinds of flowers. And the birds. He never imagined he would miss the sound of birds chirping raucously in the morning.

“The grass really is greener,” David quipped to no one in particular.

He walked out to the sidewalk. Dew covered the ground and a light fog blanketed the neighborhood. He spotted a young woman in athletic wear jogging toward him.

“Hello!” he said with a smile.

No reaction. Déjà vu.

“She can’t see or hear you. But be careful, you can still touch her,” Lance said. He knelt down and grabbed a fistful of grass to demonstrate.

David moved out of her way. “But this is our world, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It hasn’t changed, we have. Like I mentioned before, we’re in some sort of liminal state. One foot in this world, one foot in the other. We shouldn’t stay here long.”

“Why not?”

“You were attacked by something when you found the black door, right?”

“Yeah, a stalker, I think. It was invisible, just like…”

“Just like we are to that woman. And did it appear before or after you opened the door?”

“After. Almost instantly.” A chill went down David’s spine. “Are you saying that opening the door brought the stalker to me?”

“Maybe. The same thing happened to me. If imperceptible monsters were able to cross over into our world on a whim, don’t you think that would’ve made headlines?”

“So, what, the monsters only come through when someone opens a door?”

Lance nodded. “In folklore, vampires had to be invited into homes to enter them. I never understood that, but rules are rules. Come on, let’s go back.”

David took a deep breath, trying dispel his unease and savor what might be his last taste of home for a while.

Next chapter…

Author’s note: For the month of July I am challenging myself to write and post one chapter a day every two days with minimal planning and outlining. You can read the first chapter of Doors of the Dreamer here.

Eventually, Lance explained how to use the inventory system. All of the functionality was available through the app, but Lance had discovered voice commands that made things considerably easier. “Store” would place the item currently in-hand into the inventory. “Retrieve” would pull it back out, but required using the specific name displayed in the app; “Retrieve health potion,” “Retrieve minor health potion,” and “Retrieve superior health potion” would each yield different items. Equipping gear required the same level of specificity. “Equip staff” would only work if one had a generic item called “staff,” which made fully gearing up a bit wordy—“Equip mystic’s weaver garb. Equip hood of the enchanter. Equip ring of spellpower. Equip elderwood staff.” and so on. Lance explained that he often equipped gear using his phone instead. Thankfully, there was an “unequip all” voice command.

Skills such as a cleric’s spells could also be activated with the press of a button or a voice command. The first time David called out “Smite!” and watched a bolt of light shoot down from the sky and split a tree in half, he found himself laughing. Lance seemed less impressed.

“Skill usage is limited by mana. However, unlike in the game, mana is not measured by an easy-to-read blue bar. Casting spells carelessly will fatigue you faster than anything else.”

David discovered this for himself a few minutes later after casting smite four more times and nearly collapsing. Lance gave him a mana potion.

“This will only reverse exhaustion from low mana,” he said. “If you’re running around burning energy, you will run out of mana quicker and need more potions. And I’m sure you know what happens in Doors of the Dreamer when you drink too many potions.”

Potion sickness. In the game, drinking a certain number of potions of any kind over a period of time would result in various stat debuffs on your character. Here, Lance explained, it was a quite literal sickness that engendered nausea and intense vomiting.

They traveled east, following the highway from a safe distance. There was no GPS in this world, but Lance seemed comfortable navigating the old-school way with maps and a compass. A few times David spotted a gaggle of fiends or some other monster wandering the highway, but never anything as intimidating as the dullahan, and their journey continued without interruption.

It took some time for David to adjust to the lack of proper day or night. Sleep always came late and left early. In the mornings, Lance had him running sprints and doing push-ups and sit-ups.

“I need your stamina and upper and lower body strength in prime condition,” he said.

“Stamina I understand,” David said, “but why does strength matter? I’m going to be in the back casting spells, not swinging a sword.”

“Actually, I’m considering switching you from staff to wand so you can use a sword in your off-hand. If a monster gets past me or sneaks up behind, your spells are not going to be as useful for defending yourself at close range. Regardless, it never hurts to be in peak physical health.”

It did hurt, though. The first three days in particular were grueling. David had never thought himself out of shape, but now he was being forced to reconsider. Lance’s only guidance was to do the exercises until failure, and then they would spend most of the day traveling on foot. Sleep would evade him in spite of his exhaustion, and he would wake up stiff and aching—only to do it all over again.

In the evenings, David would practice his spells, which he always looked forward to. After two days of this, he realized something.

“Hey Lance, possibly a dumb question, but how do we charge our phones?”

“Oh. I forgot to give you these.” He retrieved a portable power bank and a USB-C cable from his inventory.

“Thanks.” David blinked. “How do we charge these?”

“Right. Retrieve USB-C power adapter.” Lance handed it to him. “Electricity still works here, somehow. Running water too, though I don’t trust its cleanliness.”

“Interesting.”

“What’s really interesting is that those work but not things like GPS or internet. Three years and I still haven’t figured that out.”

David chuckled. “Maybe this whole place was designed specifically to drive you crazy trying to figure it out.”

Lance looked at him.

“That was a joke.”

By the sixth day, David was finally getting used to this. He still went to sleep and woke up sore, but they were traveling further and further every day. He felt a vitality welling up in him. That evening, Lance stopped and pointed to a group of three fiends on the highway.

“Let’s use those for target practice tonight.”

David smiled.

They circled around behind the monsters. When they were a certain distance away—maybe one hundred feet—Lance stopped.

“I’ll watch from here,” he said, gearing up with his phone. “Try to take them out on your own. I’ll step in if things get messy.”

Three fiends? Easy, David thought. He equipped his gear and started to sneak up to them. Then he wondered what the range on his spells was. Still a good ways away, he crouched down and concentrated.

“Smite.”

Light tore down from the heavens and vaporized the fiend at the middle of the group. Its two companions were stunned by the blast, but seemed unharmed. One of them shouted something incomprehensible and they charged at David, who was already preparing to cast his next spell. Smite was a powerful but comparatively mana-hungry skill. Casting it just that once after a full day of walking left him a little lightheaded. A cleric’s options for offensive spells were limited, but conversely, that made it easier to strategize.

“Divine lights.”

Three glowing white orbs appeared above David’s head. His opponents foolishly ran toward him in a straight line, yelling to each other in some foul tongue.

He aimed with his gaze. “Fire.”

Light pierced his target’s chest—the leftmost orb, though it moved with such speed that for an instant it had become a glowing beam. The fiend stumbled but did not fall.

This time he aimed for the head. “Fire.”

Light flashed, and a hole opened between the monster’s eyes. Two enemies down, one cast left.

The last fiend was moving quicker than David anticipated.

“Fire.”

The third orb missed its mark and grazed his target’s ear. David swore under his breath. At this rate, the fiend would reach him before he could cast another spell.

“Blessing of strength,” he called out.

Heat rose up through his core into his arms and chest. The fiend was smiling and laughing and waving its knife around haphazardly. David gripped his staff like a baseball bat and waited one, two, three heartbeats, then swung—

—and missed. The monster jumped back at the last moment. David’s mind was screaming at him to move, but the momentum of the swing left him off balance. The fiend shoved its knife forward with a maniacal cry.

“Blood rush.”

Lance was beside him. He wielded a massive two-handed sword that he thrust into the thing’s skull, killing it instantly. The knife fell to the ground.

“Not bad for a beginner,” Lance said as he yanked his blade from its new sheath. “Your spell use was good and your decision making was apt, even if you underestimated your opponent. Even fiends, dim-witted as they are, will react and adapt to you during combat.”

He looked over. “What are you smiling for?”

David wiped sweat from his brow. “That was fun.”

Lance rested his bloodied greatsword on his shoulder and pointed an armored finger at David.

“Are you listening to what I’m saying? In the dungeons we will face monsters much stronger and smarter than this, and in larger groups. And I won’t always be able to bail you out.”

David raised his hands apologetically, still smiling.

Next chapter…

Author’s note: For the month of July I am challenging myself to write and post one chapter a day with minimal planning and outlining. You can read the first chapter of Doors of the Dreamer here.

After the dullahan was out of sight, Lance said, “For what it’s worth, I do have a plan.”

“Hold that thought.” David still had two bottles worth of water in his body that wanted out.

As he relieved himself, his mind kept returning to the same question: How much could he trust Lance? The man had saved him from almost certain death, and for that he owed him a great debt. He did not seem to be lying about anything and openly answered David’s questions, even if most of his answers boiled down to “I don’t know.” But a speck of doubt remained.

Problem was, no matter how trustworthy, Lance was the closest thing he had to an ally in this place.

David finished his business and found his new companion still leaning against a tree, watching the highway. “You mentioned a plan?”

Lance nodded. “Before that, what class are you?”

David blinked. “Cleric.”

“Good. I’m a knight, as you probably guessed.”

In Doors of the Dreamer, knights were heavily armored vanguards, always a party’s first line of defense. Clerics, on the other hand, were a support class that used spells that healed and applied stat-boosting buffs.

“I’ve tried nearly everything,” Lance said. “I’ve cleared 236 dungeons. I’ve killed hundreds of monsters. I’ve spent hours experimenting with crafting and items. I’ve traveled halfway across the country, exploring every city and suburb I came across. I even tried more abstract things, like uninstalling the Doors of the Dreamer app. Nothing has brought me closer to returning to our world. Nowhere have I seen even so much as a clue as how to leave. By process of elimination, there are only two things left to attempt.

“The first is a raid.”

David raised an eyebrow. “Okay, but where are we going to get two more people? You said it’s been over a year since you found someone in here.”

“We aren’t.”

“What?”

Lance looked at him. “I have to get out.”

David felt a pang of sympathy. Lance’s expression remained stony, but his tired eyes betrayed just a bit of the hopelessness he must have been feeling.

“Alright, let’s put that aside for now. What’s the second thing?”

“Suicide.”

David opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. The air was still and heavy—there was no wind in this world. Spending three years, almost all of it alone, in an alien, hostile place like this…

“I won’t let it come to that,” David said finally.

Lance almost smiled. “Right. Thus, the plan.”

David’s stomach growled.

“You said something about food, right?” he asked sheepishly.

Lance handed him his phone. “Take your pick.”

The Doors of the Dreamer app was open and Lance’s inventory was pulled up. David began scrolling, and his eyes grew wider the further he did.

“Are you the type to hoard items when you play video games?”

“Only when my life might depend on it,” Lance said. “Open the ‘consumables’ tab.”

David did. In the original game there was no concept of food, only various kinds of potions, but now Lance’s screen displayed a smorgasbord of both.

“Everything will be fresh, so don’t worry about that.”

“How?”

“The inventory preserves the state of the item when you store it. I’ll show you how to use it later.”

David chose a burger patty along with a slice of cheese and a bun—really he was craving fast food, but Grill Shack had apparently not expanded its franchise to this world yet. Lance used the crafting system to instantly cook the frozen patty and retrieved silverware from his inventory.

“The mechanisms unique to this world are as useful as they are fascinating,” he said. “Crafting in particular is very powerful. It took me a while to figure out all the rules.”

David was too preoccupied with his burger to respond. Lance took the opportunity to explain his plan.

“I believe completing a raid with two people is achievable. Obviously both will need to be geared as optimally as possible. Our class synergy is something to consider also—we have no dedicated damage dealer, but I have gear that can compensate for that and enable a more aggressive front-line playstyle. A cleric’s healing should be able to cover for my decreased survivability, not to mention the offensive buffs and spells. Based on my experience in the dungeons here, our biggest enemy will be exhaustion. You can’t simply press a button and watch your character attack and dodge in this world. We’ll start with lower level dungeons to get you used to fighting and work our way up to more advanced ones when the limiting factor becomes gear. Ideally we’ll be ready for a raid within a month.”

David finished his food and licked his lips. “Just to warn you, I’m pretty new to Doors of the Dreamer so my gear isn’t the best.”

“All the more reason to start with easier dungeons.”

“What are you hoping to find? I mean, do you think the raid boss will drop a potion or something that will teleport us home?”

Lance shrugged. “If you have other ideas, please share them.”

David scratched his head. “What about this Dreamer character?”

“What about him?”

“That fiend,” he jerked a thumb toward the highway, “said it was taking me to the Dreamer. That he wanted something from me.”

“I heard similar things.”

“Doesn’t that strike you as being important? Like, the guy’s name in the title of the game. Seems kind of like final boss territory, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t make me remind you that this is not a video game,” Lance said, narrowing his eyes.

“I know, I know. But then again, you just cooked a burger instantly by pressing a button on your phone. We’re talking about fighting bosses and getting loot. Even if we aren’t ‘inside’ Doors of the Dreamer, this place is somehow based on it. Video game logic is the law of the land here.”

“To an extent.”

“You really don’t think this is worth investigating?”

Lance sighed. “If what the monsters say about the Dreamer is true, that would make him more powerful than any opponent I’ve faced so far, which means I want nothing to do with him.”

“That’s just speculation.”

“Calling him a ‘final boss’ is also speculation.”

David nodded. “Forget about the Dreamer then. What about the door?”

“Which one?”

David frowned.

“You haven’t seen them yet?” Lance said. “Doors pop up all over the place here. You must be talking about the black door.”

“I am, but what’s this about other doors?”

“They’re not exits, if that’s what you’re thinking. If it was that easy I wouldn’t be here.”

“Then what are they? Where do they lead?”

“They lead back to our world, but passing through them puts you in a kind of liminal state in which—” Lance shook his head. “It’s difficult to explain. I’ll show you next time we find one. All you need to know is that they aren’t exit doors.”

“And the black door?”

“My hypothesis is that the black doors are one-way entrances used to trap players. I have not seen any since first arriving here. It stands to reason that there is a kind of corollary exit door; the question is how to find one.”

More speculation. David rubbed his forehead. “Okay. Let’s just go with your plan.”

“Good. Now, how many push-ups can you do?”

“What?”

Next chapter…

Author’s note: For the month of July I am challenging myself to write and post one chapter a day with minimal planning and outlining. You can read the first chapter of Doors of the Dreamer here.

The armored entity lifted the helmet’s visor, revealing unmistakably human eyes.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Get me out of these, then,” David said.

The knight looked down at him for a moment, then said, “Equip dagger.”

David frowned, but before he could say anything, a dagger materialized in front of the knight, who grabbed it. He knelt down and started cutting the ropes.

“I know you have questions, but we need to get off the road first.”

David was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. When his hands and feet were free, he tried to stand, but found his muscles uncooperative. The knight grabbed him by the arm and pulled him up.

“The fiend had your things.”

Fiend? David jumped down from the cart and his knees nearly gave out from the impact. A few feet away were the remains of the gray creature. It had been cleaved in two at the chest, its face still smiling, even after death. After seeing its whole body like this, even if not in one piece, David realized what the thing was. A fiend. A goblin-like monster from Doors of the Dreamer. He had killed some number of them in overworld encounters and dungeons. But seeing it here, hearing its voice, watching its black blood spill onto the pavement—it made him uneasy.

Beside its lower half was a cloth sack. Inside was David’s phone, wallet, keys, and a lonesome right-side earphone. The other must have been lost at some point during the whole ordeal. He looked down at himself. He was still wearing the same shirt and pants, though they were dirtied. His arms were covered in bruises.

The knight was already walking away, but David’s curiosity got the better of him and he circled around to the front of the cart. The decapitated beast still gripped the handles. Its head rested a few paces away and when he looked at it, David recognized the face of an ogre, another monster from Doors of the Dreamer.

“We’re inside the game, aren’t we?”

The knight looked at him, then scanned the area. His visor was down again, hiding his expression. “I’ll explain once we’re safe.”

David half-limped, half-ran to catch up with him. The highway was flanked by wide fields of brownish grass. The knight was headed in the direction of what appeared to be woods, though they were some distance off. This place did resemble the world David knew. The highway existed both here and there, although here it was unnervingly empty. But the colors were wrong, and the light and shadows were alien. Flat, somehow. He looked up and confirmed his presumption that there was no sun. The sky was a blanket of bruised purple, featureless—except, David now noticed, for a small black disc centered directly above them, almost like a dark sun.

“Here,” his new companion said.

“Huh?”

“Retrieve minor health potion.” A small vial of green liquid materialized, and the knight handed it to David. It did not surprise him to see that it looked identical to a healing tincture from Doors of the Dreamer.

“Drink the whole thing, or it won’t work. I need you in top shape.”

David raised an eyebrow at the way he said it, but uncorked the vial and did as he was told. The potion was tasteless and awkwardly thick. He held the empty vial for a moment, wondering what to do with it, before it dissolved in his hand. Similarly, his pain, bruises, and even the welt on his temple began to fade away.

“Convenient.”

The woods proved to be further away than David thought, and the potion did little to help his stamina. The knight produced a water bottle—one of a contemporary design, not something from the game—and gave it to David. By the time they reached the treeline, he had emptied the bottle and was out of breath. His companion, however, even with the burden of his armor, seemed unfazed.

“We should be safe here. Rest.”

David was already slumped against a tree. “Got any more water?”

“I have plenty of food and water for both of us. Retrieve bottled water.” He handed it to David, who tore the cap off and drank greedily.

“We’ll need to work on your endurance,” the knight said.

“Where do these come from?” David held up the bottle. “I don’t remember Doors of the Dreamer being sponsored by AquaVista.”

“This world seems inherently linked to ours. I haven’t determined the exact rules yet, but items from there appear here in places you would expect, like grocery stores. Interestingly, you can sometimes find those items as loot—” He shook his head. “I’m getting ahead of myself. Unequip all.”

The air around him shimmered for a moment and his armor vanished, revealing a thirty-something man with long brown hair and an unkempt beard.

“I’m Lance.”

“David.”

“I’m sure you have many questions, but let me say this first. This is not a game. This world has connections to Doors of the Dreamer, many of which I do not fully understand, but it we are not ‘inside the game.’ Most importantly, if you die here, you do not come back.”

Even with the helmet removed, Lance’s face betrayed no emotion. His eyes, accented by dark bags, were solemn. David drank his water and said nothing.

Lance leaned against the tree opposite him. “Now, ask me anything. I will do my best to answer.”

David didn’t even know where to start. He looked around. He had noticed before that the trees in these woods were bare, but now that he really looked, they were also dark and gnarled.

“Why is everything like this?” He gestured. “I mean—the sky, the grass, the trees…”

“I don’t know. I have not seen any natural green during my time here. Nature appears to be in a state of death or dying, but nothing ever decays. As for the sky, I unfortunately have no answers there either.”

“What about that?” David pointed to the black disc above them.

“I don’t know. It may be a celestial object, though I have never seen it move from that position.”

“How long have you been here?”

Lance remembered the exact date. When he said it, David’s jaw dropped.

“That was three years ago,” he said.

Lance pulled a smartphone from his pocket and checked it. “That confirms time passes at the same rate here.”

“How do we get back to our world?” Panic started welling up in his chest.

Lance exhaled. “That is the problem I have been working on for the last three years.”

David leaned back into the tree. His mental exhaustion hit him all at once, and he found himself fighting to stay awake. A terrible thought came to him.

“Have you been alone all this time?”

Lance shook his head. “No, there were others. However, you are the first in… one year and three months.”

“And the others?” He almost didn’t want to know.

A shadow passed over Lance’s face.

“If you don’t want to talk about it—” David started.

“They are no longer alive.”

David nodded slowly. Using a tree for support, he stood. He had finished the second bottle of water and needed to relieve himself.

“Stop.”

Lance was crouched down and looking at the highway. David followed his gaze. An armored man riding a horse was trotting down the road. No, not a man. He squinted to make out the details. The creature carried a massive scythe in one hand and a helmet in the other. The helmet was presumably its own, as it had no head.

“Dullahan,” Lance said quietly.

“What is it?”

“One of the reasons we walked so far from the highway. Monsters patrol the roads and cities.”

“Is it from the game? I don’t recognize it.”

Lance looked at him. “No. There are far worse things here.”

The dullahan stopped in front of the abandoned cart. David realized the helmet must have contained the thing’s head, as it lifted it up and used it almost as one would a lantern or flashlight to scan the surrounding area. David shot a glance at his new friend, suddenly wondering how good a dullahan’s vision was.

“Don’t worry. We are almost a mile away.”

The monster stayed there for several minutes, slowly moving its head around, before it finally kicked its horse into motion and continued down the road.

Next chapter…

Author’s note: For the month of July I am challenging myself to write and post one chapter a day with minimal planning and outlining. You can read the first chapter of Doors of the Dreamer here.

Something whistled past his ear and slammed into the door behind him.

He leapt away. Scrambling behind one of the seats, he scanned the room. Still empty. He caught a glimpse of the freestanding door, which now stood ajar. There was something beyond it. It was decidedly not a door to nowhere. Before he could make sense of this, the seat in front of him was plucked like a flower and hung suspended in midair.

David’s instincts finally caught up to him, and he ran.

He made it up a couple of steps before pain exploded in his back and the ground rushed up to meet him. Somehow he managed to stop his fall with his free hand—the other still clutched his smartphone—and he clambered up out of the theater like a wounded animal.

He reached the hallway before he collapsed. The blow had knocked the wind out of him, and he lay on the floor sucking in breath. His vision narrowed. His mind spun, trying to assemble a coherent thought. In his right ear he heard the jingle again. It was the sound effect Doors of the Dreamer played when a monster was nearby. He dragged his phone up to his face. Towering over David’s avatar was a creature that appeared to him a blur of black and red, and as his brain tried to make sense of its shape, seemed vaguely familiar.

Still gasping for air, he pushed himself up. He had to get back out to the street. After that, he didn’t know. He staggered forward. Something blocked him. He realized he was going to die.

His unseen enemy struck him in the temple, and his legs buckled.

Consciousness came and went. David remembered being bound, carried, and tossed onto a hard surface.

Stalker. The word floated up out of the depths of his memory. An insectoid creature based on the real-world mantis, black as midnight with bulbous red eyes, taller than a man, and forelegs that could fold in on themselves before shooting out like a boxer’s punch. That was the monster he had seen on his phone.

He saw other monsters now. Not constructs of a game, but flesh and blood. Some looked almost human, others not so much.

Had he made some mistake? Was this his fault? Was Oliver okay? How long would it be before anyone realized he was gone?

Darkness took him.

When David awoke, there was a continuous low rumbling like distant thunder. With some effort—his hands and feet were bound and every muscle in his body ached—he flipped himself on his side. He was in the bed of a carriage or cart that was being pulled by some huge, grotesque creature. The cart was enclosed by wooden boards on all four sides, limiting his sight lines. He struggled against the rope around his wrists, but it held.

“Where are you taking me?” His words came out strained and frail.

The beast did not respond. Instead, a gray, oblong head appeared, peering over the side of the cart with beady eyes. David repeated his question, with more force this time.

“To the Dreamer, of course!”

David winced. The gray creature spoke like it was laughing. Its voice was razor wire in his brain. He wanted to ask it more, but he also never wanted to hear it talk again. It had other ideas.

“Ah! I see! You humans are always so particular about these things! You are under arrest! You have the right to remain silent or some such! Ha! Just kidding! You have no rights here, you worm!”

Every sentence was an exclamation. Every syllable was emphasized.

“You’re lucky the Dreamer wants you, or you’d be dead already! Ha!”

“Why—”

“Though he’s just going to kill you if you aren’t useful to him! Understand this!”

“What—”

“Ha! What a pathetic existence you are, worm! Perhaps I should kill you myself and spare us all the effort!”

David, realizing he was going to get nowhere trying to question this imp, instead focused on contorting his body such that he could sit up. With his hands tied behind his back, this proved more difficult than he expected. He had managed to force himself onto his knees when the gray thing uttered some noise and the beast came to an abrupt halt, flinging David back onto his side.

“Careful! Do not be foolish, or I will slice your peeper!” A bony arm had joined the face, and it held a long knife inches away from David’s eyeball.

“Ha! I want to do it! I want to hurt you so badly!” The knife quivered.

A strange coolness came over David. “Do it, or shut up and leave me alone.”

“You have nothing! No power! Ha! You are alone!”

“Be quiet.”

“Worthless worm! You should be grateful! We have given you a chance to do something meaningful—”

“For God’s sake, stop talking.”

At last, it was silent. Its face twisted into a wrinkled, toothy sneer before it retreated. It barked another command at the beast, which resumed its trek.

David exhaled, feeling relief for the first time since entering the movie theater. He was in a strange place, he was likely to be killed, and every bump in the road jolted the cart and inflamed the aches pervading his body, yet he still drew breath. He knew of only one thing he could do in this situation: pray.

They must have traveled for at least half a day. David had little sense of time in this place; every time he craned his neck to look skyward, he saw only a bruised purple. There was light, but it never seemed to change. After a while he closed his eyes and tried to rest, but his sleep was shallow. Once, he noticed a shadow pass over him and looked up expecting to see some hideous bird. It was a highway sign. In his surprise he attempted to sit up, forgetting the ropes, and smacked his head against the wood. Thankfully, that did not seem to elicit any response from the gray creature. David scooted himself over to the rear end of the cart and pressed his face against the boards. Peering between them, he realized that he was looking at the back side of the sign. The world he saw—at least, this tiny slice of it—looked strange and flat to him, but one thing was unmistakable. They were traveling along a highway. He flipped himself over and watched for another sign.

Time dragged on. His stomach rumbled and his throat was dry. The discomfort kept him from dozing off, at least. And the gray impish thing had not made another appearance. These little silver linings kept him going.

Eventually, they passed another highway sign. David smiled. He knew where they were, or at least, where they should have been. But this new information began to confuse him the more he considered it.

The cart stopped. The beast’s head was gone. Its body sunk under its own weight, but never let go of the cart. David froze. He heard the gray creature yell in another language, then suddenly squeal like a dying pig.

Footsteps. Something approached. There was a metallic clinking as it moved. Adrenaline flooded David’s mind. He tried the ropes one more time. No luck. Should he play dead?

Whatever it was reached the cart and jumped inside.

“You alive?”

Very slowly, he opened one eye. Standing over him was a suit of medieval armor. He prayed there was a human being inside.

Next chapter…

Author’s note: For the month of July I am challenging myself to write and post one chapter a day every two days with minimal planning and outlining. As such, the focus for this story is on speed and consistency rather than quality. I am also not allowing myself to edit chapters from previous days with the exception of correcting minor spelling or grammatical mistakes. Without further ado, please enjoy Doors of the Dreamer.

Update: If you are somehow stumbling upon this now, I should warn you that it has no ending and probably never will. I explain here.

David Godwin was lost in his own hometown.

“This way’s no good either.”

“Why not?” Oliver’s voice questioned in his earphones.

“Big fence with a No Trespassing sign.” David sighed. “How much time do I have?”

“Until the dungeon? Twenty minutes.”

David exited the alley. “If I just keep going south I eventually should be able to cut over and go around the construction zone. Right?”

“How would I know? Your city, not mine,” Oliver quipped.

“‘My city,’ like I built the place. Look, downtown is big, and you know how my sense of direction is.”

“Why don’t you just use your GPS app?”

David chuckled. “I am using a GPS app.”

“You know what I meant. The GPS functionality in the game kind of sucks.”

He stopped at a pedestrian crossing, pinching and swiping at his smartphone. His avatar walked in place, apparently eager to get somewhere. The featureless gray boxes surrounding him—meant to represent buildings—offered no help.

“I know, but if I switch to Maps then I can’t see where this stupid dungeon is,” David said.

“You have plenty of time. We should be able to find a party even a few minutes after the countdown ends. Just don’t get distracted by a stray kitten trying to cross the road or something.”

The signal changed and he continued his journey southward. It was a mild spring day with a clear sky and calm breeze, though David paid that little mind.

“After all this, it better be worth it.”

“Trust me, the loot is worth it,” Oliver said.

“You’re sure you and I can party up? I mean, doesn’t that kind of defeat the point of the game?”

“I told you, it’s an event dungeon. They let you play with anyone for these.”

David came to another intersection and looked down the street. One block west, neon traffic cones and yellow tape obstructed his path.

“Great,” he said, checking his phone. “You know, I don’t hear any trucks or machines or anything. Think I could just slip through?”

“Maybe.”

He considered it, frowning. “Didn’t somebody get killed while trespassing because they were playing this game?”

“That was a different game,” Oliver said.

“But it did happen.”

“Yes.”

David continued south for another block. This time, when he reached the intersection and looked right, the road was open. He let out a sigh of relief.

“Good news, Oliver. The package is moving west.”

“Package? Doesn’t that usually refer to an object? You need a cool call sign, like—‘the Eagle is moving west.’”

He didn’t respond to Oliver’s banter. There was a woman near the pedestrian crossing, well-dressed and wearing the most pitiful expression of confusion David had ever seen. The light changed but she didn’t move, instead looking around and absentmindedly rubbing at her watch.

“Excuse me ma’am, do you need any help?”

She turned, a little surprised. She was older, David guessed fifties, and at least two heads shorter than him. He smiled at her, which seemed to calm her somewhat.

“Actually,” she said hesitantly, “I’m looking for a place called Ember and Vine. Are you familiar with it? I know it’s around here but I’m afraid I’m a bit lost.”

David looked around. “That’s on Linwood, isn’t it? Which means…”

He stuck a finger in the air as if testing the wind.

“Thirteen minutes,” a voice chirped in his ear.

“Sorry Oliver, give me a few,” he said into his phone before pulling out his earphones and shoving them in his pocket. The woman started to apologize for interrupting, but David shook his head.

“I don’t know this part of the city as well, but I’m pretty sure Ember and Vine is two or three blocks over that way,” he said, pointing east. “I’ll walk with you, I’m headed that way anyway.”

He checked his phone as they walked, confirming what he already knew—he was moving in the opposite direction of the event dungeon. No matter, thirteen minutes was plenty of time. He exchanged pleasant small talk with the woman. Her name was Lisa. Lisa was in town to meet an old friend whom she had not seen in years. When she asked where David was going, he said, “I’m meeting up with an old friend too. Kind of.”

He glanced at his phone again, this time out of habit.

“What maps app is that?” Lisa asked.

“Oh. This is an AR game, actually.”

She blinked.

“Uh, augmented reality. It’s like…” David scratched his head. “It’s based on your real location. There are monsters and characters and events in the game that you have to go to a certain place to interact with. In the real world, I mean.”

Lisa’s eyes lit up. “Oh, Monster Quest Go!”

“Similar, yeah. This one’s called Doors of the Dreamer, but it’s the same idea.”

“My kids play those games. Always on their phones. They and my husband are way ahead of me when it comes to technology.” She rummaged in her purse and presented an old flip phone with an apologetic smile.

“I think I saw one of those in a museum once,” David said, and she laughed.

They ended up needing to walk another block south. Lisa spotted the restaurant further down the street and, after another round of apologies, thank-yous, and a good-bye, hurried off. David quickly grabbed his earphones.

“Remember what I said about stray kittens?” Oliver said.

“Sorry, thought I muted. How long do I have?”

“Six minutes.”

David smiled. “No good deed goes unrewarded, Oliver.”

“How’s that?”

“The bad news is there’s no way I would reach that dungeon in six minutes. The good news is another one just popped up a block away.”

“Hm. Well you better get moving, I want to check your gear before we start.”

Most dungeons in Doors of the Dreamer were intended to be challenged with a party of 2-4 people. The problem was finding players to party with, as all members needed to be in the same real-world location. As a result, many players simply learned to run dungeons solo. The developer’s solution was event dungeons. These were designed for parties of up to eight players, and allowed in-person and online participants to mix in one party. David, being relatively new to the game, had never tried one before, but Oliver assured him that he could get some respectable loot with minimal effort—the other five players would carry him through. The trouble was finding an entrance; event dungeons opened only once a week for a limited period of time, usually in populous areas.

This week’s dungeon was going to open in three minutes.

“Alright, everything looks good,” Oliver was saying. “We’ll get put into the matchmaking queue automatically when the timer hits zero, and then all you need to do is stay in the back and cast your spells. You know your rotations, right?”

“Yeah.”

“It shouldn’t matter too much but some people are weird about it.”

“Sure you aren’t you one of those people? Remember when we played World of Battlecraft?”

Oliver was quiet for a moment. “That was a long time ago.”

David laughed. “Yes it was. Hey, we’re doing a raid after this, right?”

Raids were the pinnacle of risk and reward in Doors of the Dreamer. They all but required a team of four players armed to the teeth with endgame equipment. Few had attempted one, and even fewer had succeeded.

“Tell you what, you get a legendary staff from this dungeon and I’ll drive over there tonight and we can run a raid,” Oliver said.

“Easy. What’s the drop rate, five percent?”

“Try 1 in 1000.”

“Like I said, easy.”

Oliver said nothing, and David laughed again. Two minutes left.

“I’m going to hit the restroom,” Oliver said.

“Good idea.”

“Don’t wander too far. If you leave the dungeon radius you’ll get kicked out of the party.”

“Wander? Me? Never.”

The dungeon was planted directly on top of Zenith Film Center—David couldn’t remember there being a movie theater in this area, so it must have been fairly new. He swung open the door and realized he was humming some tune. How long had it been since he last talked to Oliver? He was very much looking forward to playing games with him again and joking about old times.

Inside, there was a set of stairs leading to the lobby. The place was completely empty. No one at the counter, no one waiting in line for popcorn, no one at all. David stopped humming. His footsteps sounded suspiciously loud. Looking for the toilets, he ducked down a hallway that seemed promising.

There were two theaters on his right and restrooms on his left. Silence followed him, clung to him like thick snow. There was a ringing in his ears and a murmur in the back of his skull. He walked toward the men’s room, and as he did, he became aware that there was something in the theater behind him. The knowledge came to him unprompted, unwittingly, like a whisper on the wind. But there was no wind. The air was stale and heavy.

He pulled his phone close to his mouth and said softly, “Oliver, are you there?”

No response. David looked at the screen, and his eyes widened. There was no matchmaking queue, no party, no timer, and no event dungeon at all. His avatar ran in place inside the gray box that was Zenith Film Center—alone. He checked his call with Oliver. It was still ongoing, but there was no sound from the other side. How many minutes had passed? Shouldn’t he be back by now?

David turned. He felt he had no other choice. He had to know what was in there. Why? he wondered briefly, but his feet carried him nonetheless.

He peered inside. The lights were on, the projector was off, the seats were empty, and at the front of the room was a door.

It was a freestanding door, like a prop one might use in a play, though it had no visible base or supports at all, as if it was somehow embedded in the floor. It was painted a deep black. As David slowly walked down the steps, the ringing in his ears grew more violent.

He approached the door and touched it. It was slightly warm. His hand fell to the handle. It was a door to nowhere. He was confused by his own hesitation. It was a door to… nowhere. He turned the handle and pushed—

He spun around. There was a sound. A jingle of some kind. But no one was there. He ripped one earphone free and listened. Then, perhaps too late, he realized his mistake. The sound had not come from inside the room. He looked at his phone.

There was a monster inside Zenith Film Center.

Next chapter…

The wanderer walked down the moonlit street lined with naked trees, leaves crackling beneath his boots. He breathed deeply, letting the autumn chill fill his lungs. He marched in step to the cries of nocturnal insects and thought of nothing. The night was young and he had a long journey ahead of him. As he was about to discover, however, it was not a journey he would be starting just yet.

Doran saw the light from the car's headlights before he heard it. The trees danced and his shadow began to materialize and lengthen before him. As the vehicle grew close Doran squinted, waiting for it to pass. Instead, the pickup truck slowed as it approached, stopping just ahead of him. There was a mechanical whir as the driver rolled down his window.

"Are you the expert?"

Doran turned. "Who's asking?"

The interior lights switched on, revealing a man wearing a baseball cap and a flannel shirt.

"I'm Abe. Rumor had it someone like you was in town." He looked down the empty road ahead of them. "Glad I caught you before you went too far."

Doran crossed the street, studying him. Abe had gentle features and an easy smile, but there was a hint of uneasiness in his eyes. Tufts of blond hair peeked out from under his cap.

"Someone like me."

"Yeah. You know, an expert." Abe fiddled with his wedding band.

"And you're certain that you require the services of an expert? They aren't cheap."

"Yes."

Doran nodded to himself. He could afford to stay in the area for a few more hours. He walked to the passenger side door, which Abe opened for him, slipped his pack off his shoulders, and got in.

"What's your name?"

"Doran. I'm a specialist, as you gathered."

Abe was having a hard time placing his age. Doran's hair was a pale, almost ashen color, and though his face was youthful and his skin smooth, his thick beard and his way of speaking implied a certain maturity. Abe pulled a tight U-turn, heading back toward town. He considered turning on the radio, but his new companion seemed like the type to prefer silence. And in silence they rode, Doran hugging his backpack to his chest and Abe stealing occasional sideways glances at him. 

"Did you enjoy your stay here?" Abe asked eventually. "It's not much, I know. Someone like you has probably seen a hundred towns like ours."

"I was just passing through."

"Oh, okay. Did you stop by Wayne's at least? Best damn apple pie in the midwest—or so I'm told."

"I did not."

Abe adjusted his cap. Doran produced a metal flask and took a swig.

"Where you headed after this? Got a big job?" Abe asked.

"Not exactly."

Silence descended on them again. The man was a stone wall!

"Why don't you tell me about your problem?" This time Doran initiated the conversation.

"Right. Okay." Abe cleared his throat. "My wife and me, we've been trying to have a kid for a while now. Turns out, the doctor says we . . . can't. But back in April, we found out Tina—that's my wife—was pregnant!"

He smiled a little, remembering the face she had made while holding up the pregnancy test. "Doctor couldn't make heads or tails of it. I told him it was a miracle, and he laughed and said maybe it was. We were happy, of course. Overjoyed. But I think we were both worried that this might be our one and only chance. We had to get this right. And we did, I thought. Everything was going great."

Abe could feel the words beginning to stick in his throat. He glanced at his passenger. Doran was watching him intently.

"Last week, Tina suddenly went into labor."

"When was she due?" Doran asked.

"Not until after New Year's. Another two months, at least. We had been planning for an at-home birth. Tina wanted it and the nearest hospital is pretty far anyway. So I called the midwife, and she panicked a little and wanted to send Tina to the hospital, but Tina said no and . . . It all happened so fast."

They were passing houses tucked among the trees now. Abe could still feel Doran's eyes fixed on him, but he wasn't sure how to continue.

"Maybe it's better if you see it yourself. We're almost there."

"It?"

He began drumming the steering wheel with his finger.

"Abe, what condition was the baby born in?"

He didn't answer. Doran shrugged to himself. He would find out soon enough.

Abe's home was cozy if nothing else. It wasn't cramped, certainly—Doran had seen much tighter accommodations—but it was not the kind of house that belonged to a family with many children. There was a delicate lavender scent, and the comfortable warmth soon had Doran sweating in his thick jacket. Abe led him to the kitchen, where a woman was sitting at a table for four.

"I found him," Abe said.

She rose, looking as though she had awoken from a dream.

"I'm Christina. Nice to meet you." She put on a small smile and carefully extended her hand, which Doran shook.

"I was just explaining to Doran our . . . situation," Abe said.

"Before that, why don't you put down your things and sit? Can I get you something to drink?" Christina asked.

Doran watched her. She wore a loose t-shirt and sweatpants. Her mouse brown hair was pulled back in a small ponytail. She was likely no older than her husband, maybe even younger, but there was a senescence that hung about her eyes and mouth. Aside from her initial greeting, she made no effort to make eye contact with him. Her hospitality was likely founded only on cold and polite obligation. Doran nodded as he pulled off his pack and jacket. It could have been worse.

"Thank you, but that won't be necessary. Do you mind if I ask you some questions, Christina?"

She sat back down. Doran remained standing, and Abe hovered nearby.

"When did you go into labor?"

"Last Friday."

"Are you in any physical pain right now? Anything beyond normal postpartum symptoms since Friday?"

She shrugged. "I don't think so. Just cramps."

"Are you lactating?"

"Yes. I'm taking care of it."

"Would you allow me to feel your belly?"

Christina frowned but stood without protest, tucking her arms behind her. Doran unzipped a pocket of his backpack and retrieved a small wooden box. Inside was a collection of corked vials, each no bigger than his thumb. He pulled out a vial containing a teaspoon of auburn-colored powder, checked the label, then opened it. As he held it beneath his nose, a burnt, musty smell rolled up his nostrils and tickled his brain. He quickly sealed the vial and waited for the effects. A few moments later, the room began to shift and shimmer like a layer of incandescent film had been superimposed on reality. He hated using this stuff.

"Should I lift my shirt?" Christina was scrutinizing him.

"You don't have to."

She kept her arms pinned behind her. Doran knelt, carefully pressing his hand into the soft flesh of her abdomen. He closed his eyes and reached out. Heat washed over him in waves, a rhythm sounded out by the march of a beating heart, directing the flow of blood across the system—muscles contract and release, lungs fill and empty—two organisms have left their mark, one of them human—great histories are etched into the walls, into the bones, into the blood—beyond it all lay a glittering globe, pulsing and probing and thinking—above that a tongue of flame, a sun, a mirror reflecting blinding light—a voice like trumpets and spinning gears: Your work isn't done—

Doran pulled away and inhaled deeply, touching the floor to recollect himself.

"Is everything okay?" Abe asked.

Doran stood up slowly. "Yes. As far as I can tell, Christina will be fine."

Her expression softened somewhat, but Doran could still see an untold story behind her eyes. He looked at Abe, who eventually motioned for him to follow.

"We'll be right back," Doran said.

Abe took him to the garage. Lavender warmth was replaced by stale cold. There was something else too. The world still glittered around him; impossible fractals appeared and disappeared in the pattern on Abe's shirt; translucent balls of light passed through the floor and up to the ceiling. Doran rubbed his eyes, trying to focus. Two things caught his attention. The first was the empty space where a second car could have been. A sedan was parked at the near end of the garage, probably Christina's, but Abe had left his truck in the driveway. Was that significant? Doran couldn't keep his thoughts organized enough to reach a conclusion. The second was the bucket on the far end. It was an unassuming thing made of black plastic, but it reminded Doran of a bucket from his childhood. One day, a young Doran suddenly became sick to his stomach, and his mother grabbed the closest container she could find. Even in his earliest memories of it, it was well-used, its handle beginning to rust at the hinges. For many years afterward, that bucket would not leave his side whenever he caught a stomach bug.

Doran pulled himself out of the recesses of his mind. He was not surprised to find Abe pointing silently at the bucket. While the rest of the garage was alive with color and motion, it alone somehow remained dead. Doran approached it cautiously. Inside was a lump of red. At first glance, it might have been a chunk of raw meat, perhaps beef or pork. Then it moved. It moved like a giant slug, stretching out its limbless form and creeping across the cotton blanket that covered the inside of the bucket.

Abe stayed at the other end of the garage. He watched Doran kneel and reach into the bucket, then rise several seconds later, a grim expression on his face.

"We . . . I didn't know what else to do with it," Abe said.

"Have you gone to a doctor?"

"No. I don't know how to even begin to explain this." He lowered his voice. "And I think Tina is worried they'll take it."

"Which one of you is supposed to be infertile?"

Abe bowed his head. "Tina."

Doran nodded. "Come on. I'll explain."

Doran placed three items on the table: a legal pad, a ballpoint pen, and a black, unlabeled hardcover. Before he began, he took a drink from his flask.

"Have either of you had any unusual experiences before last week? Anything that might be considered supernatural?"

They exchanged a glance and shook their heads. Doran drew something on the legal pad, then pushed it across the table so they could see. It was a circle, and inside of it a small stick figure.

"This is us." He tapped the circle. "You, me, this house, the country, the planet, the solar system, the galaxy, the universe. Our reality. It has its own rules and its own space and time. Now, we understand frighteningly little about our universe. I've drawn it as this quaint little circle, but in truth we live on an island in a vast ocean of unknowns. That's what makes this next part a little unnerving for some people."

Doran drew several more circles scattered about the page.

"You see this in fiction sometimes—alternate realities. It's speculation. We have no way to prove or disprove that other universes exist, and I personally don't think we ever will."

Abe and Christina stared blankly at Doran's drawing.

"Don't get too caught up in the alternate universes bit," he said. "If it helps, you can think of them like planets. Each has its own soil, its own flora and fauna, its own gravity, et cetera. I'm not so interested in 'planets' other than our own. What concerns me is the void in between. Space."

Doran scribbled in the area around the circles, shading it.

"My peers and I believe there is something analogous to outer space beyond the limits of our universe. A gap between realities. But unlike our outer space, this space does not simply lack atmosphere or gravity."

He darkened the circle in the middle of the page.

"We call the thing that separates realities from this space the veil. It might be a physical structure, or it might be something more complicated. Whatever it is, the popular hypothesis is that outside of the veil, there is only chaos. No space, no time, no order—a place that defies human understanding and rejects human existence. Certainly, it is inhospitable to life as we know it, but that does not mean that nothing lives there."

Abe was barely following. "Are we talking about aliens here?"

"In a sense. If a lifeform from a planet beyond earth is an extraterrestrial, then one from a reality beyond ours would be an extrauniversal. But if it comes from no universe, it would be something else entirely. Sometimes we call them extraplanar organisms. Commonly, though, they are known as outsiders."

"Outsiders," Abe repeated. The way Doran had said it unsettled him.

"We call them outsiders because they are exactly that. We know nothing about their existence beyond the veil, but from time to time, they cross over into our reality." The specialist laid a hand on the black hardcover. "This is where we move from theory to observable fact."

They waited as he opened the book and began flipping through it. Abe was surprised to notice that every page was handwritten, with notes crammed in the margins and an occasional picture drawn in.

"Here. The cuckoo." Doran pushed the book toward them.

"Like the bird?" Christina asked.

"It's . . . a cruel name. Our cuckoo—some species of them, anyway—is known for leaving its eggs in other birds' nests. Its namesake kills the unborn, and leaves nothing of its own behind."

Abe looked at him, then down at the book. The words swam and danced and taunted him. Somewhere, a clock ticked.

"Are you saying this thing is inside my wife?"

Doran's expression was a mask. "It was, for a brief period of time. I confirmed earlier that she is harboring no additional life, human or otherwise."

Abe's chair creaked as he leaned back. "How?"

"You're going to need to be more specific."

"Wouldn't we have seen it? Known something was wrong?"

"You did know something was wrong. Christina went into labor months earlier than expected. As for seeing it, many outsiders do not have a physical form we can perceive. Think of them like the wind, or ghosts."

"More like demons." Abe's head was beginning to ache. "This doesn't make sense."

Doran watched him put his face in his hands and felt a strong twinge of pity. He opened his mouth, then closed it. What could a stranger possibly say to comfort the man? Besides, that wasn't what they paid him for. The specialist's purpose was to solve problems—no, Doran thought, that's not right. No, his purpose was to clean up the mess.

"Why?" Christina broke the silence. "Why would it do this to us?"

Her words were like daggers. The enhancer had mostly worn off, but Doran swore he could see ominous clouds building up around her. He realized suddenly what the hardest part of this job would be.

"You're asking about the cuckoo's motivation," he said carefully.

She didn't respond.

"Among the recorded cuckoo cases, I'm not aware of any clear patterns or . . . "

He stopped himself. Christina's dark, watery gaze was fixed on him.

"Why did it kill my boy?"

Doran gritted his teeth. He had nothing.

The truth was, nobody knew the answer to her question. It wasn't just a lack of understanding, it was a question of the capability to understand. How does one deduce the intent of an entity from outside his universe that defies the rules of space and time and energy and life? How does one decipher Chaos? No matter how many decades Doran spent investigating outsiders, talking with researchers and other specialists in the field, resolving and documenting cases—no matter how many volumes of black hardcovers he wrote, there would never be a page that could answer Christina's question. Neither of them would be at peace with that until the day Chaos was destroyed and a true, eternal Order was established.

But in the meantime, the specialist's role was to clean up the mess.

"I have no answer for you."

She sank into her chair and stared at nothing. "I see."

Abe touched her shoulder, then glanced at Doran. They stepped out into the hallway that led to the garage, where Abe could keep an eye on the kitchen. On the wall was a picture of the married couple at some tourist spot, all smiles. Looking at it, Doran could not shake the feeling that he had made a mistake.

"The thing in the bucket," Abe said quietly. "Is it alive?"

"Nothing more than a corpse."

"But it moves."

Doran shrugged. "Jellyfish move without brains or blood. I know I compared it to a corpse, but it's a little more complicated. The remains a cuckoo leaves behind are . . . arranged."

"Arranged how?"

"You've seen it. Does it look anything like a seven-month-old fetus?" He sighed. "Most everything is disintegrated, but there's still a nervous system of sorts left over. But it can't see or feel or eat. It just moves. Eventually it will stop moving, but that can take years. Can you really call that living? Can you call that human?"

Doran bit off the rest of what he was going to say.

"God have mercy." Abe rubbed between his eyes.

"There's a kind of spiritual death as well. Studies have shown that cuckoos kill all traces of their victim's genetic identity, meaning any two victims are indistinguishable on a fundamental level. Humanity, by any definition, is erased."

They fell silent. Doran watched Abe struggle with his emotions behind a tortured expression. He clenched his teeth and waited. After a while, Abe took a shaky breath.

"Now what?"

There was only one thing Doran could do for this family now. "My advice is to destroy it as soon as possible."

Abe raised his hands defensively. "That's a very extreme option, isn't it?"

"Can you get a glass or bottle of some kind?"

Abe blinked, then returned to the kitchen. He leaned in toward Christina and said something to her in a low voice, and she left without looking at him. Then he opened a cupboard and produced a glass. Doran grabbed his flask.

"This is not water. Do not drink it," he said as he filled about an inch of the glass with a colorless, thick, slightly glowing liquid.

Abe held it up to the light. "Didn't you drink some earlier?"

"Do not drink it."

"Right," Abe said. "What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Pour it in the bucket."

"Is this for the best?" he asked, setting down the glass but still looking at it.

"Abe." Their eyes met. "That thing is no longer your child. It is a curse. As long as it stays in your household, it will torment you. It might tear your family apart if you let it."

"Can't we . . . Couldn't you take it? To study it, or whatever."

"Is that really what you want? Like it or not, this is your responsibility. No one else should make this decision for you."

Abe ran his thumb along the corner of the table.

"Something horrific has happened to your family. I can't even begin to imagine what this must be like for you. It must seem terribly unfair, and it is. If you need to rage, then rage. If you need to hate, then hate me. But do not—" Doran realized his voice had grown loud and cleared his throat. "Do not turn away. Do not run. Stand your ground."

Abe exhaled something between a laugh and a sigh. "Do you hear yourself?"

"It hurts. I understand that much. It's like you're on fire, and everything hurts, but you don't want to put the fire out because healing is going to hurt far worse."

Doran pushed the glass closer to him. Abe said nothing.

"At the end of the day, it's your choice. I've given my advice. If you insist, I can take the remains."

"No," Abe said without looking up, "I'll do it."

Doran nodded. "One more thing. I'm not aware of any instances of women being unable to conceive after being visited by a cuckoo. In fact, there is some evidence suggesting that they become more fertile afterward."

That got his attention. "You mean . . . ?"

Doran held up a hand. "No promises. Yours is an unusual case."

Of course, there was no such thing as usual when it came to intruders from beyond the veil. He had spent enough years in this line of work to understand there were no rules, only patterns, and there were always exceptions. But sometimes the exceptions worked in humanity's favor.

"Alright. I'll talk to Tina in the morning and work this out."

"No."

Abe stared.

"Do it tonight," Doran said. "Tomorrow, when I'm gone, you'll second-guess yourself. You'll want to think it over again. Maybe he was wrong, maybe there's another way, maybe, maybe, maybe. And between you and me, I wouldn't involve your wife in this decision."

"What?"

"You sent her to bed for a reason, didn't you?"

Abe's expression darkened. "It's late."

Doran shook his head. "You knew how she would react to this talk about destroying the remains, and her reaction is not going to change in the morning."

"Can you blame her?" Abe asked, throwing out his arms.

"No—in fact, her understanding of the situation is better than yours in some ways. She's interpreted this as an attack on her family, and now she's looking for the enemy. She wants to fight and protect, even if it's not in her power, and even if there's nothing left to protect. What she needs is someone who can stand with her and guide her, someone she can trust to make the right decisions. That should be you."

Abe fingered his wedding band. "If there's nothing else, you should probably leave."

Doran nodded. He gathered his things, shouldered his backpack, and headed for the door.

"Wait," Abe called after him, "how much do I owe you?"

The specialist turned and cast a sober glance back at his client. "Nothing." Then he disappeared into the cold darkness, his burden a little heavier than he remembered.

Abe, suddenly very tired, lowered himself into a chair. He wondered—if he fell asleep at the table, would he wake up with a blanket around his shoulders and the smell of bacon and eggs in the air and his wife beside him and a cooing, crying, living baby in her arms? He forced his eyes open and looked at the glass of glowing liquid in front of him. Doran's words churned in his head. None of it made sense. No, some of it made too much sense. Abe considered himself a decent judge of character, and at no point did Doran strike him as a liar, which was the scary part. Were their lives really so easily derailed by the inexplicable actions of these outsiders? Perhaps he had made a mistake in talking to a "specialist." In the morning, he could go to the doctor with Christina. But then what? This was not a problem that a doctor could solve. Doran had called it spiritual death. Abe had understood from the beginning that something unnatural and obscene had happened.

At some point, he stopped thinking and started praying. He remembered something his father had said years ago: "Don't think yourself into a corner." So he prayed, and then made his decision.

Christina was still awake. She was lying on her side, facing away from the door, but Abe could tell. He walked around the bed, and she opened her eyes.

"I'm going to take care of it. Try to get some sleep."

She sat up, looking at him. There might have been a hint of surprise in her expression.

"I love you," Abe said, caressing her cheek.

He returned to the kitchen to take the glass, then went to the garage. He slowly drained the liquid into the bucket, his hand shaking. He watched and waited until it was done.

When Abe finally went to bed, his wife wrapped her arms around him and cried.

It happened that Doran found himself in that area again two years later. Although he had no reason to do so, he took the road into town. The region was recovering from a particularly fierce winter. The trees were beginning to bud, a pleasant, earthy scent was in the air, and Doran spotted a red cardinal perched above him, vigorously chirping. He took it as a good omen.

He began by chatting with the locals, as was his habit. Rumors were powerful tools if one knew how to make use of them. A talkative elderly woman eventually told him what he wanted to know. There was a rumor that something strange had happened with Christina's pregnancy two years ago, but most of the townspeople seemed dismissive of it—"nobody pays dark gossip like that any heed," as she put it.

More importantly, Christina was pregnant again.

His curiosity satisfied, Doran decided to leave, but the universe had other plans. Not ten minutes after speaking to the elderly lady, a familiar pickup truck screeched to a halt on the road beside him. Abe threw open the door and jumped out, his face glowing in the spring sunlight.

"Doran! I never thought I'd see you again!" He grasped the wanderer by the shoulders.

"I heard your wife is expecting."

Abe's smile somehow widened. "Yes! All thanks to you."

Doran shook his head. "I didn't do anything."

"Are you joking? You saved us."

That surprised him a little. Abe was not saying this out of exaggeration or politeness, Doran could tell by the earnest look in his eyes. Were two years enough to heal the wound left by losing a child in such a cruel way?

"Come on," Abe said, climbing back into his truck, "Tina will want to talk to you."

Doran hesitated a bit, but eventually joined him.

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more for your family. I regret that I left on the terms I did," he said.

Abe turned down the radio. He drove quietly for a while, then said, "Do you regret helping us at all?"

"Of course not."

"It took a long time for me to fully understand everything you said that night. Not about the outsiders, I mean, but about me. When you told me we might get a second chance, though . . . that kept me going for a while. I guess I just really wanted to be a father, even after everything that happened. Does that make me sound crazy?"

Doran smiled. "No. Not at all."

"Anyway, what I'm trying to say is—thank you."

Just like that, the knot in Doran's gut untangled itself, and for the first time in a long time, he felt his chest swell with self-satisfaction. Was it really that simple? Life was complex, humans were nuanced, and reality itself was convoluted. But what was wrong with living simply? A man becoming a father and starting a family. A woman who wants to protect her child. A specialist who uses his knowledge and experience to help others, and takes pride in his work. Deep down, Doran had understood that these things were good, sublime even, but at some point he had forgotten.

"What's wrong?" Abe was glancing sideways at him.

Doran breathed a shaky sigh. "I'm cursed, you know. I made a mistake when I was young and attracted the attention of something unpleasant. Now if I stay too long in one place, every living thing there dies."

"Oh."

"It's a long story, so you'll have to forgive me for telling the abbreviated version." Doran cleared his throat. "I was miserable for a long time. I wandered aimlessly, ran out of money, and started helping with outsider incidents when I could find them. I suppose I saw the worst of humanity and inhumanity—suffering, hate, betrayal, insanity, death, chaos. I resigned myself to it at some point. In my mind, it was all just part of the curse. But that curse brought me to you, and now you've reminded me why I do this, why it's worth doing, even if it makes me feel like shit sometimes."

"Maybe, sometimes, there are blessings hidden in the curses," Abe said.

Doran laughed. "Maybe so."

Going forward, Substack will be the new home for the things I write. There are a few reasons for this; primarily, I gain little benefit currently from hosting everything myself. Server costs are one thing, but I’d rather redirect the time and energy I would have spent on development upkeep actually writing. Besides, I had basically created a worse (albeit much more customizable) WordPress. I may one day retreat to my custom solution, but for now Substack seems a more than adequate replacement.

I’m writing this partially because I realized I have not posted anything in nearly a year. That is not to say that I have been entirely idle. Since mid-2021 I have been working on a large, long-term project. Progress has been slow, and what started as a patchwork of interesting ideas has exploded into an ambitious behemoth. I have grown quite attached to this thing, but I am afraid I will have to shelve it in favor of smaller projects to help me wrap my head around the scale of effort that will be required to complete it. I am being incredibly vague about this project because I’m aware that once it is shelved, it may never again see the light of day. But I hope otherwise.

A project I started much more recently, and one I can be less vague about: I’m writing a short story for Passage Prize 2. I’m not sure how well the idea behind my story fits the competition’s theme, but I will submit nevertheless. If I don’t make it into the published volume, I will post the story here, of course.

I’m quite excited about this story. It will be my first work of prose since Emotionsmith, and although it bears a lot of similarities to that story, you could say it has something very different at its core. My perspective on a lot of things has changed in the last three years, and more importantly, I feel like I can write with purpose now. When you really dig into Emotionsmith, beneath all its overloaded symbolism, it’s just a story about a young man trying to get over a failed relationship. Am I being grossly reductionist about my own work? Maybe. But for being 6300 words, in retrospect, I don’t think Emotionsmith has a lot to say. “There is no magic solution to your problems” and “You have to do the hard thing before your life can improve.” These are true, but they’re kind of obvious and unhelpful. What interests me these days is what comes after. Being told that improving your life is hard is one thing, but what does that look like? How do you start? How does it change you? Showing the end result—or at least the process in action—provides a far more compelling and optimistic message.

I don’t want to understate the importance of optimism. Being cynical is too easy in current year. Cynicism is for degenerates and doomscrollers. I should know, I’ve struggled with cynicism (both specific and general) for years. It has a way of eating at your moral foundation, turning purpose into uncertainty and direction into aimlessness. These are the conditions under which I labored while creating Emotionsmith. I can point to specific works of fiction and events in my life that I drew inspiration from, but the truth is, I don’t know why I wrote Emotionsmith the way that I did. I don’t know what, if any, transcendent value I was trying to reach in writing it. It is story for the sake of story, which does not necessarily make it bad, but it does make it hollow.

If you tried to explain all of this to 2019 me, I don’t think I would have understood. Now I do. Apparently 2017 me understood it as well. Upon re-reading Kingdom of Dust, I was surprised at how based the message is relative to how little I understood about storytelling at the time and how little effort I put into writing it. There were a few poems and stories from my old site that didn’t make the cut when I transitioned to Substack, but Kingdom of Dust has aged remarkably well. Maybe it was luck—or divine inspiration.

I digress. Does all of this mean my next story is going to be a masterwork of fiction that both presents a beautiful message of hope and doesn’t lose sight of the sobering reality of our world? I don’t know, but I’m certainly going to try. I’m tired of not trying. I’m tired of wasting my time on hollow things.

I’m going to do the hard thing. I’m going to create something beautiful, cynicism be damned. And if I fail? I’ll get back up and do it again. How’s that for optimism?