It felt like passing through the mirror again, however long ago that was. Henry seemed to fall for ages, his awareness of his body fading away until a mere kernel of his Self remained aware in the void, free of pain, free of sensation, aware only of the passing of time.

Eventually, the void resolved into a twilit field. It looked like the scrublands in the valley or among the foothills back home. All the accumulated pain returned at once. No more lucid dreaming; this world demanded that he feel. A dizzy spell hit him like a brick and his knees gave out. His whole body hurt, though his arm was the worst of all. It felt like his wound was on fire.

He fell forward onto his left palm, the right one too inflamed to do anything with, and threw up. There wasn’t anything much in his stomach. He wished to God he’d had something more substantial than oatmeal, that there was any food in his backpack at all. Tears and blood dribbled off his face and into the puke, which looked far too much like the oatmeal had in its bowl. Straighten up you coward, he thought, and he forced himself up to his knees. His left hand went to his belt, stroking the silver concho and the turquoise stone. He felt better, and wondered if maybe there was a spell on the belt, for bravery. If there wasn’t, he would pretend.

From his knees, Henry pushed himself to his feet. His left shoe had come untied but he thought if he bent over he might fall and stay down. Instead he took stock of his surroundings. The chaparral around him definitely looked like uninhabited parts of California, though he couldn’t see any mountains in any direction. Turning around, he saw the sea, and to his right was the sunset. If this world was Earth-like at all, that meant the ocean was to his south. Probably not actually California.

The cry of a scrub jay as it flew overhead contradicted him. “Well, it’s just a dream,” he muttered, a little frustrated.

A harsher sound tore through the air, and he jumped in panic, body reacting before his mind could even register the sound. A doppelganger, he thought. He spun around, drawing his knife—

The sound came again, and he realized the source; a steam engine chugging away to the north. It honked its horn once more, as if to confirm. Henry watched it for a moment and saw that it was heading toward a city. Had it been there before? Well, he was a city boy through and through, so he got to walking.

The city felt both closer and much farther away than it really was. The distance seemed to erode, as if the Dreamlands wouldn’t tolerate an uneventful journey. Henry would blink, and the city was closer. But his pain, his hunger, his fatigue, all weighed on him, and whenever his thoughts lingered too much on his body, the path seemed to stretch out farther and farther…

Before he knew it though, Henry reached a paved road. Old motorcars trundled along it, mostly heading into the city, with very few heading out. The city was surrounded by a big medieval wall, but there was no portcullis. Instead, there was a modern swinging arm gate, like one might find at a parking garage. There were guards in green uniforms with red bands on their arms and hats; it looked vaguely Soviet to Henry. Every driver was stopped at the gate to present papers of some kind.

Well, no getting in that way. Henry didn’t have a passport or even an ID; hell he didn’t even have a library card. He diverted off the road, stumbling about in the growing dark until he bumped into the wall. Spotlights switched on overhead, panning over the chaparral. But they couldn’t bend all the way down to the base of the wall itself.

Henry took a deep breath, channeling the last of his magic into his skin. He stepped into the wall and it parted for him like water. He couldn’t see a thing, though he could somewhat feel all around him, as though through a thick glove. He took care not to inhale. He wasn’t a ghost, after all, the stone was still there and had mass. He could drown in it if he wasn’t careful.

After a minute or so, Henry stumbled onto a road. It was paved with flagstones and hugged the wall as far as he could see in either direction. It didn’t look to be well used; it must have just existed as a boundary to keep people from building too close to the wall. Directly ahead of him were rows of brutalist apartment buildings. Stairs flanked the main entrances of each identical building, forming the illusion of a pyramid.

It was like this for blocks and blocks. Few people were out. Just older men in wife beaters and portly women in hair curlers chatting and smoking on their stoops or balconies. They regarded Henry with suspicion as he walked past, and he put up his coat collar and walked faster.

Again, the world seemed to hate uneventful journeys, so Henry found himself in a different part of town in the space of a few steps. The buildings here were more Art Nouveau; stained glass windows and beautiful, almost whimsical designs integrating natural forms like trees and birds. This was a kind of downtown, and clearly older than the apartments he’d passed. Some of the buildings were houses, and some were shops. The signs were all illegible. He thought the words might be French, but whenever he took a good look the letters started to crawl or morphed into something more like cyrillic. Henry sighed. He couldn’t read French anyway, so it was pointless from the start.

As he stood there dumbfounded in the warm yellow lights, his arm began to bleed again. A man approached him out of the crowd, looking concerned, and said, “Ĉu vi bone, kamarado?”

Henry opened his mouth to say “I don’t speak that.” He fainted instead. Before losing all control of his body, he thanked God, Hecate, and Hermes Trismegistus that he didn’t throw up on the stranger.

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Losing consciousness in the dreamlands was a strange experience. Henry saw his body fall, saw people crowding around, heard a cry that was probably some good samaritan calling for help. And then he was off, falling through the floor and into the black, whisked across the void entirely against his will. Worlds flashed past his mind’s eye, layer upon layer of biomes and planets and universes.

He saw many scenes, some familiar and some strange. He saw a girl that might’ve been Ruby, dancing with a fox-eared boy. He saw a scene from Desert Reign playing out like a film; prince Ramades’s coup against the wicked King Ordog, but this time it was interrupted by a djinn. He saw the doppelganger in a neon nightmare world, his reflective body a spray of colors, battling creatures of darkness and eating them, getting stronger.

Henry was without shape or form, like when he entered the dream marble, and almost lost awareness again, but then he stopped falling at last.

He floated in a grey world. The grass was grey, the ground grey, the sky above was grey. But the stars there flickered black. There were trees and bushes around, though no species he could recognize. A pair of burning yellow eyes blazed in the shade of the foliage. Before he could react, something pounced—

It leapt right through him. Henry turned around quickly, in time to see a black panther the size of a pony clamp its jaws around the head of a huge rabbit. It let out an unsettlingly human scream and then it was silent. The panther dragged its prey into the underbrush. “What the hell is this?” Henry muttered.

A hollow voice sang out in answer.

“Along the shore the cloud waves break,

The twin suns sink behind the lake,

The shadows lengthen

In Carcosa.

“Strange is the night where black stars rise,

And strange moons circle through the skies,

But stranger still is

Lost Carcosa.

“Songs that the Hyades shall sing,

Where flap the tatters of the King,

Must die unheard in

Dim Carcosa.

“Song of my soul, my voice is dead,

Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed

Shall dry and die in

Lost Carcosa.”

The cat emerged from the darkness, and Henry realized that it was the cat that had been singing. It licked its chops and stood erect, stretching out its forelimbs like arms. Formless shadows dressed the cat, placing a skull-like mask on its face, sheathing its black body in a golden robe. “R. W. Chambers,” it said. “Quoting a fragment of Cassilda’s Song, as remembered in a dream.” The robe grew longer and more elaborate as it spoke. The mask sank into its flesh, flattening its head until it had a nearly human profile. It reminded Henry of a manticore.

The yellow gaze of the creature filled him with a revulsion beyond what it should have. He liked monsters and creatures. He thought that if he were awake he might think it was cool. But in a nightmare it’s not the things you see that make you afraid; it’s the fear you feel that makes the things frightening.

“I haven’t read that,” Henry ventured. “If it even exists in my world.”

“It does,” the creature assured. “Have you died, Henry?”

Henry coughed. “How do you—”

“The nightmare always knows your name,” the creature replied. Then it crossed its arm across its chest and bowed. “You may call me Phobetor.”

Henry winced, reaching for his knife. It wasn’t there. He had no arms. He was still a formless Self. Perhaps he could dream himself a body, but better not to try. Phobetor hadn’t been able to touch him before, when he leapt through him. He should be safe—

“Let me help you,” said Phobetor, and suddenly Henry felt heavy as he was clad in flesh. “It is strange how afraid you are. I have been with you all your life.”

“That’s not very comforting,” said Henry.

Phobetor made a dry, cattish sound that may have been laughter, or may have been a hairball. “I would have liked to keep you here longer, but your body is waking.”

Henry thought it would be best not to talk too much to this thing, but he couldn’t help himself. “If you know my body is asleep,” he started, carefully, “then why did you ask if I was dead?”

Phobetor clicked his tongue. “There are dead things that walk around in bodies, just as there are living things without them.” He stared at Henry. “That one was free, but the next one shall cost.”

Henry blinked rapidly, and as his eyes fluttered, the vision in front of him flickered between Lost Carcossa and…a room? “There won’t be a next one,” said Henry.

“We shall meet again when next you dream within the Dreamlands,” replied Phobetor, like a judge pronouncing a sentence.

Henry resolved himself not to fall asleep again. Phobetor met his eyes. “I know your thoughts. But I vow that we shall meet thrice more before you die, and you will call for me when you do.”

A snide remark died on Henry’s tongue as he suddenly felt himself yanked upwards. The Dreamlands all rushed past him again as he flew an impossible distance and—