Silence is hell. Hell made manifest by the simple absence of something most people take for granted, sound. You never know how much you miss something so simple as sound, or light, until it’s gone.

Michael Thorn awoke to nothing but silence. Not the soft, peaceful kind that came with the early hours of dawn, but the oppressive, unnatural void that made your skin crawl. The kind that told you something had gone terribly wrong. The sensation of his limbs aching, the only reminder that he was, in fact, still alive.

If this was the afterlife, it was a cruel, unfamiliar one. There was no warmth, no light, no soft murmur of the world around him. Just an unnerving void that stretched endlessly, pressing in on him with the weight of a thousand unanswered questions.

He shifted, his hand reaching out instinctively, hoping to touch something—anything—familiar. Instead, his fingers brushed against something smooth, hard, and cold. It wasn’t the warmth of Cosmo’s body beside him. It wasn’t the comfort of the worn couch they had shared for so many nights. It was as if the very world he had known had slipped away, while he was passed out, leaving him with nothing but emptiness.

But then he felt something unexpected.

A bottle. A glass bottle, rough with the texture of its label, the faint but distinct scent of whiskey. Glenfiddich 18 Year. The best damn scotch on the market. His mind scrambled trying to make sense of how it had ended up here. The last time he had seen it, it had been on the table beside his recliner, next to the beat-up couch in the living room of his small studio apartment that had been his sanctuary for so long.

The bottle felt impossibly full in his hand. His fingers trembled as he held it, his heartbeat quickening with a flicker of hope. Maybe this wasn’t the end. Maybe he wasn’t completely lost.

With practiced ease, despite the stiff, foreign feeling in his hands, he uncorked the cap and raised the bottle to his lips. The amber liquid burned as it slid down his throat, its warmth a fleeting comfort in the cold, disorienting surroundings. For a brief moment, it was as if he could feel the familiar world of his past—the worn-out truck, the stash of tools under the seat, the lonely housewives needing their appliances fixed. He could almost taste the mundane simplicity of it all again.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

But it was only a moment. As quickly as the warmth came, it faded, replaced by a gnawing sense of unease. Something was wrong. He wasn’t hungover. He wasn’t dizzy. In fact, he felt oddly… clear-headed. A strange feeling after a hard night of celebrating his birthday with the few friends he still talked to.

He shook his head, his thoughts spiraling. Where was Cosmo? The loyal German Shepherd. His anchor, his constant companion. Michael had woken to Cosmo’s sloppy kisses every morning. But now, there was only a void. No warm fur, no heavy breathing on his face, no kisses. Nothing. Where was his dog?

He set the bottle down with a clink, his mind racing. The place around him was impossible. The ground was impossibly smooth, impossibly cold. Like the slab flooring at the big box DIY warehouse store he had grown to call a second home. Yet, it felt wrong—unnatural. As if polished to an impossible smoothness that concrete could not achieve. There had to be an explanation. Maybe this was some kind of twisted dream, some cruel trick played on him by his own mind. Or maybe…

“Cosmo!” he shouted, his voice hoarse, the words lost in the stillness. There was no reply. Only a deep, suffocating quiet. He felt it again— that sense of being completely alone, utterly unheard. It was as if the world had swallowed him whole.

The bottle of whiskey sat there on the cold surface, its amber contents nearly untouched. The mystery deepened. Why was it still full? He’d been drinking from it, just the night before. Hadn’t he? Why didn’t he feel hungover? Where was he? How did he get there? Where were his friends? Did they do this as some sort of prank? The questions piled up in his mind, but answers were nowhere to be found.

Panic began to crawl up his spine, and he couldn’t stop it. He stood, the cold floor pressing against the soles of his boots. His hands trembled as he took a step forward. Where was he? What was this place?

“Cosmo,” he murmured again, this time with desperation threading through his voice. He took another step, uncertain if it was the right direction, but he had to move. He had to keep going. He couldn’t sit here and wait, couldn’t wait for answers that might never come.

As he walked, a terrible realization began to settle in his chest: whatever this place was, it wasn’t empty. He wasn’t alone. Something was there. Something was waiting for him, watching.

And he had no idea what it wanted.