I asked where the stars were and for that crime, I will receive The Degree Absolute. The men in black suits are hammering down my door. I stand in front of my window and stare out over the rotting city. The sky is the color of smog. Sheets of black rain stain every exposed surface. Bags of trash fill the sidewalks, some the destitute remains of humanity. If I had been a little more cautious, I could have joined them in begging.

            The rain-stained suits tackle me from behind. My face presses against the plastic floor. A padded knee jams my spine. Steel manacles lock on my wrists and ankles. I’m hauled upright. Someone tosses a canvas sack over my head and I’m half-carried, half-dragged outside to the waiting van. My death awaits.

-

            I stare up at the blinding fluorescent lights. Wide leather straps cover my body. I squeeze certain muscles, feeling a padded diaper under my pants. Those about to die always lose their bowel control. The diaper allows the executed to preserve some dignity. A black hood performs the same function. I wish it was a hood I wore.

            “Doctor Lawrence, do you have any final words?”

            I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I’m a young man, in my early twenties. I have a thin, skeletal frame from spending all my time in libraries. The light reflects off my gray eyes, highlighting the lines under my face. I look tired.

            “[Dream],” I say. I hear the word, and it sounds like two people are speaking. That word has power. Of course, it’s not the word, but the way I spoke. Eldar, the language of magic, has no direct translation into English. To recite a magic word, one visualizes the word in Eldar while speaking one’s native language. None of this matters to my audience. Eldar is one of the dead, fictitious languages that the Government works hard to deny.

            I wish I had more words to say. ‘Stars are real.’ ‘There used to be billions of them.’ ‘Magic is real.’ ‘The government is lying to you.’ But I don’t. The words stick in my throat. Things I should speak but leave unsaid. But is anyone even watching on the other side of the glass? Does anyone care? Has my life mattered? Do I matter? I suppose none of it matters. It’s almost comical. Nothing I’ve done in life matters. I don’t matter.

The table lowers. I stare up at the lights again. I let my eyes close as the spell takes effect. Someone removes my glasses. They don’t put a hood on, though. Shame, I’d have appreciated that. Oh well. Two needles prick my veins, one in each arm. A prison guard hooks them up to IVs, which begin feeding me a saline drip to ensure the lines are not blocked. One of the lines is a backup in case the primary fails.

            Another guard attaches a heart sensor. I wish it was a male nurse, but no nurse would ever volunteer for this. It goes against the Hippocratic Oath. Anyway, I hear the steady beeping of my pulse increase. This is it. I take a deep breath and relax. The first drug, pentobarbital, will render me unconscious in about thirty seconds. With my spell active, I’ll know when I cross that line from reality into dream. The other two drugs—.

            I open my eyes. I’m standing on a grassy field. The sky above is the color in a children’s picture book. They don’t have skies that blue in Reality; pollution coats the sky like a film of oil. I stare at the blue for a long moment, content. I smell wildflowers and grass. A great, grassy plain stretches in every direction. Bordering the plain is a ring of trees on all sides. I’m no expert on trees. These have leaves, not needles. There’s no life that I can see.

            That makes me glad. The wildlife here is dangerous. This grassy plain is as close to a Green Hill Zone as I’m going to find. I use that term because it implies the local monsters are easy. Experience tells me they are not. I have yet to meet adventurers or…well…any other sentient person. But some part of me believes they exist.

            I pick a direction and start walking. The sun is high. But it is moving. Time is fluid in a dream. Moments can last days and vice versa. The execution process should take about seven minutes from start to finish. I want to make the most of it while I’m here.

            I reach the edge of the plain and enter the forest. This is the edge of the starter zone, as one calls it. I would call it safety. I’ve learned to fear wide open spaces in my prior dreams. The forest is dangerous. There are predators, hunters, and worse. But also cover. I can hide.

            My feet crunch on sticks. I should be trying to keep quiet, but I don’t bother. Not this time. I skirt a familiar-looking rock and follow a narrow path. It’s wide enough for a line of people to walk single file, but it passes through the hills rising on either side. This so-called ‘gap’ bears all the signs of travel. The dirt has old footprints. If I look, I can see hoof-shaped prints. Sometimes, I pass a bush that smells foul.

            But I never see anything. Every last time I’ve been here, I’ve never seen people. I’ve seen plenty of evidence of people. But no bodies between the trees. No shapes up or down the path. I turn my head and look over my shoulder. The ground rises on either side like a flight of stairs, steep and difficult. The back of my neck prickles.

            Someone is watching me. That’s what this feeling means. I look around. No one is behind. No one to the sides. No one is ahead. No one on the hills, either. Though if I’m being honest, I can’t see much. The hunter is using camouflage.

            The woods begin to darken. The sun is setting sooner than I’d have thought. But that’s what happens in a dream. I quicken my pace. Prior experience has taught me that all manner of terrible beasties come out at night to play. During the times I was in the Green Hill Zone, my pleasant dream turned into a nightmare.

            My neck prickles again. I lengthen my stride. The sun falls. The beautiful blue sky turns all manner of purples, reds, and yellows. I want to stop and admire the sight, but something tells me that would be unwise. I keep walking.

I turn my head to look behind, but I see nothing. The hills turn into stone cliffs worn smooth by wind and ancient erosion. The forest plunges into twilight as the sun sinks beneath the horizon. Its last few rays spark across the sky like the dying scream of some great beast. The shadows lengthen.

I turn my head. This time, I investigate the corner of my eye, right on the edge of my vision. And there, I see it: a silhouette, person-shaped but much too tall. Its form hunches over, with oversized claws extended on all limbs. It moves at a crawl, taking one step for every ten of mine. It is stalking me, I realize.

I fight the urge to sprint. That thing can kill me in three bounds. Since I’m unconscious, death here will mean actual death, assuming I haven’t suffocated yet. The second drug does that. The first drug causes unconsciousness. The second is a muscle relaxer that often causes asphyxiation. The third one is the heart killer. As thin as my body is, the muscle relaxer will do me in. Either way, I did not come back to this place to die.

Not now. I am here to enjoy the last few minutes of my life on a nice walk. So, what if they’re in dangerous woods? This entire area is dangerous. The thing behind me is one of several oversized monsters. Bigger than a bear, taller than an elk. It’s hunting me. I’m lunch.

There’s a break in the trees up ahead. I hear a huff behind and my nerve breaks.

I sprint for the plain. I hear heavy footfalls behind me. There’s a rush of air as something grazes the back of my neck. I pick up the pace and run for dear life. The trees break. I’m on a plain, but I don’t stop running.

Ahead of me, I see shacks. A few yellow lights flicker in their windows. People. Civilization. Safety. I hear the high notes of a bell ringing. Something buzzes over my head. I hear a cry of pain and chance a look back. The creature following me is a humanoid wolf. Its teeth are too big for its face. Jagged, foot-long claws sprout from human-like hands. Its skin is tough and leathery, where it isn’t covered by patches of gray fur. And the creature’s eyes. Crimson like blood, the whites tinged red with rage.

Another bullet flies over my head and hits its emaciated torso. Its ribs stand out in sharp relief. The creature opens its mouth and howls.

The sound is human and not human. Tortured, anguished, but most of all frustrated. It takes another step, but more bullets hit it. It wavers for a second, torn between the desire for easy food and its survival instinct. Survival wins out and it turns. It lopes away on all fours. When it reaches the trees, it melts into the shadows and vanishes.

I stop running.

Holy crap, that was intense. Never have I ever felt more alive than I did at that moment. It was like the beast was chasing me for real. But then, that’s the whole point of this place.

I stand up and face the town. There’s a lookout tower on this side. The huts are all ramshackle, several lean. It’s less a town and more a settlement built up by a few fishermen. I start walking toward it. With my hands up.

This forest is constant. Every time I cast my [Dream] spell, I spawn somewhere in it. In the past, I faced everything from garden-variety forest critters to mythical cryptids. Wolves and bears, but also megafauna. Direwolves, wyverns, short-nosed bears, saber-toothed tigers, and as of today: the wendigo. I am proud to say that I survived after meeting such a vicious creature. Often, I get disemboweled, and my liver is eaten for the energy my muscle-less body won’t supply. I wake in a cold sweat and spend the rest of my night sleepless. But not today. Today, I live.

I enter the town. No one is there to greet me. I see lights in the buildings. I peek in the windows. I see evidence that there should be people, but no people. One shack has a fireplace. Next to it is a vacant rocking chair that rocks.

Another shack has a meal laid out on a table, half-eaten. As I watch, the cutlery moves. Invisible people raise forks and eat. I knock on the door. When nothing happens, I knock a little harder. Still, I am ignored. Oh well.

“Hello?” I call. No one answers me. Wait, that lookout tower had people on it, right? I didn’t see anyone, but in my defense, I was a little preoccupied. Where was it? Right around….

I walk around the bend. Oh wow. The houses are all clustered together on the edge of a grassy plain. But one-half of that plain is missing. In its place is a vast lake. There are no waves on this lake, as expected. I’m from Chicago and Lake Michigan doesn’t have waves. At least this beach isn’t covered in seagull poop.

There is a road that runs between the beach and the town. Pavement, not dirt. I haven’t seen that before. And the road has yellow stripes. It’s unusual because that kind of road isn’t seen next to this kind of town. The road looks too “new” even at night. But first, the lookout.

I find it on the corner edge. But it’s unguarded. Curious, I climb the ladder. I stick my head up inside and stop. A rifle is hovering in the air. Not levitating, it’s held tilted and at an angle that indicates an invisible person is holding it. Okay, I’m no expert on the supernatural. But that, to me, looks like a ghost. And that’s weird.

Because when I’m in a normal dream, I never picture people’s faces. My eyes are incapable of looking anywhere above their sternum. I don’t even picture gender. I have a vague feeling about someone and let the dream take me where it wills.

But that’s in a normal dream. I’m capable of lucid dreaming, but I often don’t feel like it. But this dream isn’t a real dream, it’s another world. In math, it would be a constant. And I, the dreamer traveling in and out like a bird flitting from place to place with the changing seasons, am a variable. The forest is always the same. The grassy plain is always the same, though I have enough experience to tell that it can be in different places.

This is the first time I’ve encountered this village. And already I’m creeped out. Time to test the theory. I raise my fist and rap a knuckle against the wood. In the quiet night, the sound is like thunder. The floating rifle or the invisible ghost holding it doesn’t appear to take notice. Well, I suppose that’s good. Don’t wanna startle someone holding a loaded weapon. But it’s a two-edged sword.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

The monster saw me. The ghosts do not. But the ghosts saw the monster and reacted. Weird. Welp, that settles it. I’m not sticking around. I climb down the ladder. Okay. Cannibal-monster in the forest, armed ghosts in the town. Am I the one who’s invisible? Eh, I’ll figure that one out later.

This world is bigger than I thought. I want to see it all. I don’t know how much time remains on my clock, but what I’ve seen thus far is promising.

I go to the road and start walking. I decide to follow it with the water to my left. What are roads for if not going places? If I stick to it, I should find a bigger town or one with real people.

I glance at the forest. My neck doesn’t prickle, but my mind is playing tricks on me. I half-imagine the creature is up there, hiding in the shadows. Watching me. I was safer in the village, even if I can’t trust the ghosts.

It’s not the weapon I feared, it’s the invisible person holding it. If he or she can’t see or hear me, then I have no way to communicate I’m not an enemy. I may be could move objects in the environment, but that might alarm them. Alarming an armed ghost is a bad idea. But approaching any ghost is never a good idea. Horror movies taught me that.

On a whim, I decide to walk down to the water. Its color is a deep blue, almost black, behind glass. I dip a finger in the surf and raise it to my lips. Salty. I spit it out. Sea water. Of course, it has to be seawater. Why can’t it be fresh?

Well, freshwater isn’t drinkable in most parts of the world. It requires boiling first to remove bacteria and other harmful substances. It’s disappointing that a dreamworld picks seawater to use for its lake instead of fresh water. Oh well. There are worse things it could pick.

I return to the road and keep walking. Best to keep one eye on the trees and look over my shoulder every so often. I’m too exposed out here. But if there are wendigos in the trees, it follows that there may be sea cryptids hiding in the shallows. Better to stay between them.

A pale moon rises over the horizon. Milky light banishes many of the shadows. I see a sign mounted on the side of the road and come up next to it. Welcome to Gullhaven, reads the sign. I keep walking.

A cool breeze kisses my face. It’s hard to relax with the ever-present threat of monster attacks. But the atmosphere is nice. I look around one more time to be sure. Yep, still alone. It’s kind of nice. In the city, the sky was so cloudy I couldn’t see the sun most days. People must wear oxygen masks when they step outside or risk lung disease. Not those flimsy paper ones that “protect” against diseases. Masks with air filters that need changing.

I walk.

And walk.

And walk.

I am not aware of time passing. Yet, I know it must be. The town vanishes. I hear the wind whistling through the trees. I am tempted to walk along the tree line, even though the ground rises and falls over hills. Then I remember the wendigo. I stay in the left lane. It puts me closer to the water, but I haven’t seen anything in the water following me. Yet. It’s not safe here, Doctor. Remember the previous dreams.

Yeah, that’s right. I found the beach in one or two of my previous dreams. There was no road. White sand extended for miles until a monster appeared. The beaches of this world look like Oahu but are more like Omaha. Snakes and wolves prowl the dunes. Giant birds come to bathe in the sand, for whatever reason.

A city comes into view. Buildings rise from the ground. Unlike Gullhaven, this city is real. Lights fill the air. I see silhouettes walking around. I pick up the pace. As I get closer, my good mood starts to deflate.

If I had to pick one word to describe this place, I’d say decay. The white beach gives way to an old wooden waterfront. I now know why the Great Chicago Fire happened. Everything here is wood. Wooden streets, wooden sidewalks, wooden buildings. Where the wood ends the water begins. Straddling that line is a chaotic mess of rain-soaked planks, mooring lines, and docks.

Black smoke rises from chimneys to form dark clouds. A taste like something wet and sweet lands on my tongue; the stench of decay.

Broken glass litters the street like drops of jagged water. Hungry, cawing crows perch on all the roofs and eaves, watching my every move. I lengthen my stride.

Boats of every shape and size fill the docks. Rigging creaks. There’s a slight breeze, chilling the cool air. I shiver. I was wearing prison scrubs when I fell asleep. I am wearing them now. I wish I had my coat. Or a nice sweater. Either is preferable.

I see no people. I see evidence of human life. Coiled ropes, not tangled, moor the boats. The difference is an expert sailor coils his rope. People who don’t sail, don’t bother. Many boats have lit lanterns. Some of them are electric and some are gas or oil. I see ships made of wood, fiberglass, and steel. Every make and model from the past thousand years rests somewhere on the endless docks.

And the docks are endless. They stretch in a single line between the city and the sea. But the width of that line is immense. No organization exists. People constructed new sections as needed by bolting them onto existing ones. The result is a half-filled, half-baked, chaotic hodgepodge.

Continuing my stroll, I come to a sort of main street. The road changes to blacktop. I see lit shops down that way and walk toward them. The buildings are like the ships. Every make and style is present. Whitewashed cement with painted wood in the Greek style stand next to Italian brick. On the corner is a hookah lounge with a glass window. Peering through the window, I see lights turned low.

I turn down a special street cordoned off by cement, anti-vehicle columns. The road beyond it is cobblestone, not pavement. The businesses here are restaurants. I can tell by the wonderful smells. The breeze carries the sounds of happy, laughing people. Tables and chairs line the sides.

But no people. Cutlery moves. Glasses rise and lower. Bottles pour liquor. But the patrons are invisible. I see nothing. Unsatisfied, I walk up to a table and wave my hand through the space a person would be sitting. Nothing happens.

Before my execution, I ate a last meal. I chose fried chicken, pop, and French fries. For dessert, I wanted vanilla ice cream. I got it. It was delicious. Someone did a study on the most requested foods eaten by inmates for their last meal. More than a third selected what I wanted. About twenty percent choose a burger, and another twenty choose a nice steak. For ice cream, people don’t want Neapolitan or Rocky Road, they want chocolate or vanilla. Hot, good, normal food. Comforting.

I am full. But because I am a researcher, I reach for a hunk of bread on someone’s plate. My hand passes right through it. It takes me a long moment to digest this. I grab for several items on the plate. Nothing happens.

The chair, then? I move the chair…or try to. I can’t grab it. My fingers pass through. I can’t tip over the glass either. Okay. Am I not in a city full of ghosts? Am I the ghost? Unnerved, I walk into the bar. I see tables and chairs. The bar is full of drinks. No television, but that’s expected. Plenty of conversation, though. I reach the back wall and stop.

I extend my hand toward the wall. My fingers pass through without resistance. It feels like air. Taking a deep breath, I step forward. And walk through the wall. I am in the restroom. I walk through the opposing wall and find myself in a little alley behind the building.

This alley is tiny and dark. The sky is night with a milky moon, but the alley is all shadows. I see a light in the corner of my eye and turn my head. There’s a hole in the wall, a little way down. Not having anything better to do, I approach.

It’s like a window. The border is irregular like a wrecking ball punched a hole through something. Light shines from around the edges. Most important, the hole isn’t a part of the wall. It hovers in the air a few inches above it. I have enough space to slide my hand between the two.

There’s an electric tingle from the hole’s ring, but nothing else. I can’t see my hand from this side. The most important detail is what’s in the window itself. One would expect to see another bar or a ruined building. Instead, I see a laboratory.

The floor of the hole rests on a metal platform. The platform itself is either at the end or center of a huge room filled with men in white coats. All manner of scientific instruments points at the hole. The people look human. And I can see them, which means they’re not ghosts. Comforting things. Some of the people have green sweaters with a crest over the heart. They seem to be the ones giving orders.

“Hello?” I speak. My voice is quiet. Someone on the other side looks up, looks around, then back down. I raise my voice, “Hello?”

A few people look up. Someone wearing a sweater looks at the portal. He frowns. He turns to someone with a tablet.

Vertigo clouds my vision. I guess my heartbeat is finally slowing down. I haven’t discovered anything like this in my dreams. I knew this was a different reality, but finding an actual portal is a cool discovery. Where does it go?

There’s one way to find out.

I step through. The portal resists me. It’s like pushing against plastic wrap. The membrane of the portal warps around my fingers. The visual effect is like a thin, wispy cloud clinging to my skin. Someone on the other side chooses that moment to look up. Their eyes lock on my hand. Their mouth opens.

Many people raise their heads. What follows is a flurry of commotion. I begin hearing the beeping heart rate monitor as if from across the room. The beeps get further apart. My pulse is slowing.

I elbow the membrane. The barrier folds around me. I succeed in getting one foot outside. I see the platform shake and look up. Someone in a green sweater stares at me. The membrane breaks, and I step forward. Cold air rushes over me. The lights blind me for a moment. When I can see again, the man is staring at me. Behind him, I see white coats running around like decapitated chickens. For one eternal moment, the man’s eyes meet mine. I am seen.

“Greetings, Earthlings. My name is Doctor Lawrence. I come in peace.” The monitor becomes a singular drone.

-

            “State your name for the record.”

            “Doctor Lawrence.”

            “Not your title, your name, and surname.”

            “My surname is Lawrence. My first name is ‘Doctor’.” I look past the man in the green sweater. There’s a one-way mirror behind him giving me my own reflection. I’m still in my prison uniform. But for the moment, I am alive.

            “What’s your name?” I ask, more to be insolent than curiosity.

            “Agent Tommy,” the man says. “I’ll be your case handler, Mr. Lawrence.” He makes a note on his papers. “How long have you been exploring the Other World?”

            “A while.” I shrug. “I dunno. Every time I go to sleep since I learned how to cast that spell. Every time I go there, I start someplace different. There’s always something new to see or a different place to explore. Never seen any people though.”

            “I see,” Tommy nods. “And when did you learn that spell?”

            “Couple of years ago.”

            “Mmm-hmm. Are you aware it is illegal to explore other worlds?”

            “I wasn’t even aware other worlds existed,” I saw. “I’m still not even sure what I’ve done to deserve execution.” Or why I’m still alive, but I decide it’s better not to look that gift horse in the mouth, for the moment.

            “You broke the law,” the agent says. “The law says you’re not allowed to go exploring, and you broke it.”

            “Is there a written document somewhere that I can look at? They didn’t cover that in eighth grade.” I tug at the handcuffs around my wrists. They’re too tight. But complaining isn’t going to help.

            Tommy shifts in his seat, as if uncomfortable. He drops his gaze and seems to hesitate.

            “Those laws… are secret,” he says. There’s a long pause. Many things are clicking into place. My mind is racing.

            “You know that other worlds exist,” I say. Tommy is silent. I lean on my elbows and sit forward. “Of course you do. You know magic exists, otherwise, there wouldn’t be a law against using it. Not some fairy-tale crap—high-fantasy style magic with wands and staffs and fireballs. You know the stars used to be real. More real. More of them. You know all sorts of things. But you won’t let anyone ask questions about it on the pain of death. Why?”

            “That is above my pay grade.” Tommy shuffles his notes. “The reason you’re still alive is that you’re the first documented person to come through that portal. The technology is still in its infancy. We didn’t think it was possible. We thought your dream magic was taking you someplace else.”

            “Whaddayu want?” I ask. “What’s the short version?”

            Tommy grows serious. “We want you to act as a scout. We are going to send you through. You will spend one minute there, and then come back.”

            “And if I refuse, I die.” I lean back.

            “We need an expert for this project.” The agent closes his brown file. The seal on the front reads: The Bureau. The seal is a stylized shield with an ‘X’ over it.

            “And I’m expendable,” I say. I slouch in my chair. “Besides living, what else do I get?”

            “That’s not how this works.” Tommy’s face doesn’t change. He seems to have trouble meeting my eyes as if this is an uncomfortable topic. But his tone is hard. “The laws you’ve broken. There are no life sentences. There is a mountain of evidence against you and no way out of it. Do what we ask, and you’ll get a room instead of a needle.”

            “So… the more I do for you, the better the view from my window.”

            Tommy is silent. He’s older than me by at least a decade. His sweater is a nice, dark green. It has elbow patches. The seal over his heart matches the one on the file. His tie is plain black, a full Windsor knot.

            “All right. I’m gonna need some new clothes, though. The weather there is cold and nasty.”

            Tommy doesn’t quite smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”

            And that’s how it begins. An hour later, I stand in front of the portal with its glowing edges. I wear my street clothes: denim pants, a hoodie, and sneakers. Instead of a weapon, I have a bottle of pepper spray. The Bureau doesn’t think I’ll need it. But it is better safe than sorry if the ghosts turn out to be violent.

            The Bureau affixed one of those ankle-monitoring bracelets. In my right hand, I carry a small satellite dish. The plan is to take sixty seconds to set it up and come right back. The dish will broadcast a radio signal into space. If the Other World is in the same universe, we will be able to pinpoint its location when the signal reaches Earth. If not, they don’t tell me what will happen.

            I expect the satellite will perform other things. I am a pawn. I have my orders. I was not given reasons for those orders. When Tommy spoke, my inquiries provoked hostile silence. Everyone else yelled at me to shut up.

            “Any day, kid,” Agent Tommy says.

            I bend my head and press forward. The portal membrane does not resist me. It is possible astral projections are not supposed to be in the same world as their bodies. Interesting. Anyway, I pass through the portal and enter the twilight.