The drive to the cabin was long, the winding roads taking me deeper into the heart of the countryside. As I drove, memories of my childhood began to surface, each one more vivid than the last one. I could almost hear the creak of the old swing that hung from the sturdy oak tree in front of the cabin, the one where I had spent countless afternoons, lost in the rhythm of its back-and-forth motion.
My grandfather would sit nearby, whittling a piece of wood or tending to the garden, his deep, gravelly voice filling the air with stories of the forest that surrounded us. He would tell me about the ancient trees that whispered secrets to those who knew how to listen, about the animals that roamed the woods, each with its own tale to tell. His stories were always full of wonder and mystery, a blend of folklore and fantasy that made the forest seem like a living, breathing entity, filled with magic and hidden truths. Even as I grew older and moved away to the city, those stories remained with me, tucked away in the recesses of my mind, a comforting reminder of the simpler times I had left behind.
As I drove, the familiar scent of pine and damp earth filled the air, carrying on the breeze that wafted through the open windows. It was a scent that instantly transported me back to my childhood, to the days when I would wake up to the sound of my grandfather chopping wood for the fireplace, the rhythmic thud of the axe echoing through the crisp morning air. The cabin had always been a place of warmth and safety, a refuge from the chaos of the outside world. And now, more than ever, I needed that refuge.
But as I neared the cabin, a strange feeling began to settle over me, a sense of unease that I couldn’t quite explain. It was as if the forest itself was watching me, its ancient eyes tracking my every move. The trees, once comforting in their familiarity, now seemed to loom over me, their branches twisted into shapes that looked almost menacing in the fading light. The road ahead seemed to stretch on forever, the cabin still hidden from view by the dense foliage.
I shook my head, trying to dispel the feeling of dread that had taken hold of me. It was just the aftermath of the accident, I told myself. The trauma was playing tricks on my mind, making me see danger where there was none. But the feeling persisted, gnawing at the edges of my consciousness, refusing to be ignored. I encouraged myself to drive, even after what happened.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the cabin came into view, nestled in a small clearing at the end of the road. Relief washed over me at the sight of it, but it was tinged with something darker, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. The cabin looked exactly as I remembered it, yet there was an air of desolation about the place, as if it had been abandoned for years.
The swing still hung from the oak tree, its wooden seat worn and weathered from years of use. The windows of the cabin were dark, reflecting the last rays of the setting sun, and the garden that my grandfather had tended with such care was overgrown with weeds. The once vibrant flowers were now wilted and brown, their petals scattered on the ground like ashes.
I parked the car and stepped out, the silence of the forest pressing in on me. The only sound was the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze, a sound that should have been comforting but now felt ominous. I stood there for a moment, staring at the cabin, my heart pounding in my chest. This was supposed to be my sanctuary, my place of healing, but instead, it felt like a place of mourning, a place where the echoes of the past lingered in the shadows.
Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to move forward, each step feeling heavier than the last. As I approached the cabin, I noticed something strange—a faint glow coming from one of the windows. It was barely perceptible, just a soft, pulsing light that seemed to flicker in and out of existence.
But something compelled me to go on, a strange pull that I couldn’t resist. I reached the front door and hesitated, my hand hovering over the doorknob. The feeling of unease had intensified, the air around me thick with tension. It felt as though the forest was holding its breath, waiting to see what I would do next.
Summoning all the courage I could muster, I turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. The hinges creaked in protest, the sound echoing through the stillness. I stepped inside, the familiar scent of wood and earth greeting me, but there was something else in the air, something that didn’t belong.
The light I had seen from outside was now more pronounced, emanating from the far corner of the room. As I walked further into the cabin, I realized that the light was coming from the old fireplace, the one my grandfather had always kept burning during the cold winter nights. But the fire wasn’t what was casting the light—it was something else, I felt a sudden sting in my hand, the tattoo vanished before my eyes. I wonder why…
The moment I stepped into the cabin, a rush of emotions flooded my senses. The scent of pinewood and the faint aroma of herbs and spices from my grandfather’s old cooking pot were still lingering in the air, just as I remembered. The warmth of those memories filled me with a bittersweet sense of nostalgia. I had always considered this place a sanctuary, a safe haven away from the chaos of the world. Yet now, as I stood in the doorway, there was an undercurrent of something else—a subtle, disquieting feeling that I couldn’t quite place.
“Grandpa?”
I called out, my voice echoing through the quiet rooms. There was no response. The silence in the cabin felt almost unnatural, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
I began to move through the rooms, each step taking me deeper into a past that felt both comforting and haunting. The wooden floor creaked beneath my feet, the sound reverberating through the empty space. As I walked down the hallway, memories flooded back—lazy summer afternoons spent on the old swing outside, nights by the fire listening to my grandfather’s stories, and the comforting rhythm of his voice lulling me to sleep. The cabin was a repository of everything I had ever considered happy in my life.
But as I called out for him again and again, my excitement began to wane, replaced by a growing sense of unease. Where was he? Why wasn’t he answering? I passed through each room, the kitchen, the small study, and the cozy living room where we had shared countless hours together, but there was no sign of him.
Finally, I made my way to the room where I used to sleep, my heart pounding in my chest. The room looked exactly as it had when I was a child—my old bed with its worn quilt, the bookshelf filled with storybooks, and the window that overlooked the forest. Everything was in its place, untouched by time. But the stillness of the room felt oppressive, as if it were holding some dark secret.
As I stood there, taking in the familiarity of it all, I suddenly heard a voice behind me—soft, but unmistakable.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“Mary…”
The sound filled with warmth yet tinged with something I couldn’t quite identify. I spun around, my breath catching in my throat.
There he was, standing in the doorway. My grandfather. He looked exactly as I remembered him—his silver hair neatly combed, his kind eyes crinkled at the corners, and that familiar, reassuring smile on his face. But there was something different about him too, something that made me pause. It was as if time had frozen for him. He was untouched by the years that had passed, almost as if he were a figure preserved in amber.
“Grandpa,” I whispered.
My voice was trembling with a mixture of joy and confusion. I rushed towards him, wrapping my arms around him in an embrace that I had longed for since the day I left this place behind. He felt solid and real, but there was a strange coldness to his touch, a chill that seeped into my skin.
He gently took my hand and led me towards the living room, his steps brisk, his demeanor oddly hurried.
“Come, Mary,” he said.
His voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of anxiety that made me uneasy.
“We have much to talk about.”
As we walked through the cabin, I noticed that my grandfather seemed distracted, his eyes constantly darting around as if searching for something. There was a tension in his movements, a nervous energy that was completely unlike him. He had always been a calm, steady presence in my life, the one person I could always rely on. But now, there was a sense of urgency in him, something that made me uneasy.
We reached the living room, and he immediately began to search the shelves, his hands moving with a sense of purpose. He was looking for something, his movements becoming more frantic as he sifted through the various objects that lined the shelves. My curiosity grew as I watched him, wondering what could possibly be so important.
Finally, his hands closed around a small, intricately carved wooden box. He held it tightly, almost reverently, as if it were the most precious thing in the world. I recognized it immediately—it was the box where he kept the strange gray stone, the one he had never allowed me to touch or even ask about.
“Grandpa, are you alright?”
I asked again, but he kept silent.
I had always been curious about that stone, about the secrets it seemed to hold. But every time I had asked him about it, he had brushed off my questions, changing the subject or giving me vague answers that only fueled my curiosity.
But this time, I needed answers. After everything that had happened, after the accident, the coma, the strange dreams—I needed to know what was going on. There was a sense of foreboding in the air, a feeling that something was coming, something I couldn’t quite understand. And I knew that whatever it was, it had something to do with that stone.
“Grandpa, are you gonna tell me about the stone?”
But my grandfather remained silent, his eyes fixed on the box in his hands. He seemed lost in thought, his face a mask of concentration. I could see the conflict in his eyes, the struggle between wanting to protect me and the need to tell me the truth.
“Please, Grandpa,” I urged, my voice pleading.
“I need to know what’s going on. I need to understand.”
He looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw a flicker of fear in his eyes—something I had never seen in him before.
He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, he suddenly stood up and headed towards the door. His movements were abrupt, almost panicked, as if he had just made a decision that terrified him.
“Come with me, Mary,” he said, his voice low and urgent.
“There’s something I need to show you.”
I followed him, my mind racing with questions. What could be so important that he couldn’t even talk about it inside the cabin? Why was he in such a hurry? And why was he acting so strangely, so unlike himself?
As we stepped outside, the cool evening air hit me, sending a shiver down my spine. The forest was dark and silent, the trees casting long shadows that seemed to stretch out towards us like skeletal fingers. The only sound was the crunch of leaves beneath our feet as we walked deeper into the woods.
“Grandpa, where are we going?”
I asked, my voice trembling slightly. The sense of unease that had been building inside me since I arrived at the cabin was now a full-blown feeling of dread. There was something about the way he was moving, the way he was looking around as if he were being watched, that made my skin crawl.
He didn’t answer right away, his focus entirely on the path ahead. It wasn’t until we reached a small clearing that he finally stopped, turning to face me with a seriousness that I had never seen in him before.
“Mary, you need to know something, something vital”
I felt my blood getting colder.
“What you experienced during your coma—it wasn’t just a dream.”
“It was something much more real than you could ever imagine. The place you saw, the things you felt—they exist.”
I stared at him, my mind reeling. How could that be possible? The dream I had during my coma had been so vivid, so strange, but it was just a dream, wasn’t it? A product of my unconscious mind trying to process the trauma of the accident.
But the look in my grandfather’s eyes told me otherwise. He was deadly serious, and there was a fear in his voice that made my blood run cold.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered, shaking my head in disbelief.
“How can that be real? It was just a dream…”
“No, Mary,” he interrupted, his voice firm.
“It was much more than that. The place you saw, the forest, the river, the butterflies—they’re all real. They exist in a world that is just beyond our own, a world that most people never see, never even know exists. But you… you’ve been there.”
I felt a chill run down my spine as his words sank in. The forest, the river, the butterflies with the eyes that reminded me of Lucas—those weren’t just figments of my imagination? They were real, as real as the world I was standing in now.
“But how?” I asked.
My voice barely above a whisper.
“How is that possible?”
My grandfather took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for what he was about to reveal.
“There are things in this world, Mary, things that we don’t fully understand. Powers, forces, that exist just beyond the reach of our reality. The stone that I keep in that box—it’s connected to that world. It’s a doorway, a bridge between our world and the one you saw in your dream.”
I stared at him in disbelief, my mind struggling to comprehend what he was saying. A doorway? A bridge between worlds? It sounded like something out of one of the stories he used to tell me, not something that could possibly be real.
But the seriousness in his voice, the fear in his eyes, told me that this was no story. This was real, and it was terrifying.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” I asked.
My voice trembled with a mixture of fear and anger.
“Why did you keep this from me?”
“I was trying to protect you,” he said.
His voice filled with regret.
“I didn’t want you to get involved in something so dangerous. But it's too late now. You know the truth. I hope you’re ready to face it, you better be prepared, we’re almost there.
“Getting where?”