Henry stumbled forward, feeling as if he were moving through thick, syrupy fog, each step slower and heavier than the last. The silence in the forest was oppressive, suffocating, and his mother’s figure ahead seemed to float, soft and warm against the mist. Relief washed over him, like he’d found something precious he hadn’t known he’d lost. He opened his mouth to call out to her, but the words were swallowed, vanishing as if they’d never existed.
Then, from the shadows, a second figure emerged—a woman cloaked in deep red, her steps deliberate, each one punctuated by a sharp, echoing click. Her face remained hidden, but her presence was enough to turn the air cold. She stopped close to his mother, bending slightly, her face barely inches away, and they began speaking in low whispers. Henry strained to hear, but their words were garbled, indistinct, carrying an undercurrent of menace that made his skin crawl. His mother’s expression shifted, her warmth replaced by fear, her gaze darting to him in a silent plea.
Panic seized him as he tried to reach her, but his feet were bound to the ground, his body a prisoner of his own fear. The red-cloaked woman moved, something glinting in her hand—a blade flashing in the dim light. Before he could even comprehend, she struck, and his mother gasped, clutching her stomach as crimson blossomed beneath her fingers, spreading in a dark stain.
As his mother collapsed to her knees, a strange, awful movement caught his eye. From the wound in her stomach, something small and pale began to emerge, unfurling like some ghastly flower. Elara’s face peeked out, grinning with twisted delight, her eyes gleaming with dark mischief. She pulled herself free, giggling, her hands digging into his mother’s flesh as if she were climbing out of some secret burrow.
"Peekaboo, Henry!" she cooed, her voice sing-song and teasing. "Look what I found! Your mom’s got some… guts on her!" She punctuated her words with a wicked laugh, reaching into the wound, pulling out his mother’s intestines with delicate, almost playful fingers. "Long and stretchy! Just like the best kinds of toys!"
Henry felt his stomach turn, but he couldn’t look away, horror rooting him in place. Elara held up the slick entrails, twisting them thoughtfully. "Ooh! Let’s make it into something fun!" she chirped, her fingers working skillfully, winding the organs into a grotesque loop. "Look, Henry! Now it’s a jump rope! Come on, let’s play!"
She took a step back, stretching the jump rope taut, and began to skip, each hop sending tiny sprays of blood into the mist, flecking her face and hands. Her laughter echoed through the silence, a chilling contrast to the twisted nightmare unfolding before him.
"One, two, three—watch me, Henry!" she called, her voice lilting. "Skipping’s even better when you’ve got a little bounce in your step!" She swung the rope in wide arcs, her giggles bubbling over as if they shared some private joke. "Oh, come on, don’t look so glum, Henry! It’s only a game," she teased, her voice shifting to a low, mocking whisper. "Besides, you know I’d never let you go without a playmate..."
Elara’s eyes locked onto his, her gaze filled with something dark and unhinged. She edged closer, her bloody jump rope trailing behind her, a gleeful smile plastered on her face. "Wanna join me, Henry? Let’s skip together!" Her voice took on a sing-song quality, her words laced with dark promise. "One, two… death’s coming for you… three, four… you’re stuck evermore…"
Henry tried to scream, to run, to wrench himself away from the nightmare, but he remained frozen, forced to watch as Elara’s laughter grew louder, echoing through the stillness, her gleeful dance painted in splatters of red against the misty backdrop. The scene stretched on, each second an eternity, until her laughter blended with the silence, fading into a haunting echo that clung to him, refusing to let go.
The blood-soaked ropes tightened around his neck, Elara’s laughter spilling into his ears like shards of glass. Her face twisted with glee, her eyes wide with manic delight as she leaned in close, her breath hot against his cheek. “You like my little game, don’t you, Henry?” she whispered, her voice lilting with mockery as the ropes bit into his skin, stealing his breath. He clawed desperately at the cords, slick and warm, his vision blurring as darkness closed in, his chest burning as he fought for air. The twisted forest dissolved into a consuming void, and her laughter bounced again and again through the emptiness, high-pitched and relentless, digging deep into his mind.
Then, with a shuddering gasp, he jolted awake, his hand flying to his throat, feeling only his own skin and the shallow rhythm of his pulse. His breath came in jagged, staccato bursts, and the damp, cold earth beneath him grounded him, though his mind still spun in disoriented panic. Slowly, the darkness of the cavern settled around him, its silence heavy and thick, but reassuringly real. His hands shook as he took in his surroundings, forcing himself to remember where he was—no shadows, no ropes, just the cold, empty cavern walls.
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Henry jolted awake, his hand flying to his neck, fingers pressing into his skin as if he could still feel the phantom ropes tightening around him. His breath came in shallow, desperate gulps, and his pulse hammered wildly beneath his fingertips. The cold, damp earth beneath him was real—solid and grounding—but the nightmare clung to him like a shadow, a lingering whisper at the edge of his mind that refused to let go. His eyes darted around, trying to shake the feeling of those dark tendrils still wrapped around his throat.
Above him, Elara floated in mid-air, blissfully lost in her own sleep, her body swaying slightly as though caught in some invisible current. A faint smile tugged at her lips, her expression serene, even innocent. “No, not the pickled unicorns…” she murmured dreamily, her voice soft and distant. “They only dance on Wednesdays… And the potatoes… careful with the potatoes… they bite.”
Her body shifted, drifting lazily, her limbs spread like a marionette hanging from invisible strings. Henry felt the absurdity of her words wash over him, grounding him just enough to dispel the remnants of terror still gripping his mind. But his hands shook as he wrapped his arms around himself, curling into a ball, feeling the chill seep into his bones. The nightmare lingered, haunting him, its dark tendrils woven into his thoughts, as though part of him were still trapped within it, struggling to distinguish reality from the horrors of his dream.
He glanced back up at Elara, watching her float, her carefree muttering entirely oblivious to the role she’d played in his nightmare. She drifted like some twisted angel, hovering just above him, mumbling to herself, “The gremlins in the marmalade jar… they hide on Sundays,” followed by a quiet, snorting laugh. Her voice was soft, almost melodic, each nonsensical phrase lulling him further into the strange reality they shared, one woven together by her unpredictable whims and his own wavering sanity.
Taking a shaky breath, Henry forced himself upright, fighting the exhaustion that pressed on him. The darkness around him felt oppressive, thick with shadows that seemed to crawl along the edges of his vision, and he could still feel the ghostly grip of Elara’s nightmare-self tightening around his neck. He knew it was just a dream—had to be just a dream—but a small, unsettling part of him wondered if some fragment of her dark, chaotic presence in his nightmare was more real than he wanted to admit.
“Right. Up we go,” he muttered to himself, shaking off the chill as best he could. They couldn’t stay here; they needed to keep moving. He reached out to nudge her, but Elara blinked awake just before his hand made contact, her eyes fluttering open, and she looked down at him with a lazy, mischievous grin.
“Oh, Henry! Fancy seeing you here, all tumbled up on the ground. Did the shadows try to nibble on you? I told you they get awfully hungry around this hour,” she said, her voice still thick with the remnants of sleep but laced with that peculiar, almost teasing edge.
He forced a chuckle, trying to shrug off the weight of his nightmare. “Something like that,” he murmured, not trusting himself to say more. She tilted her head, watching him intently, and for a moment, her eyes gleamed with a strange light, as though she saw more than he was willing to share.
Together, they entered the elevator, the ancient machinery groaning and shuddering as it began its slow, creaking ascent. The ride was short, but the silence between them felt vast, filled with the ghosts of his nightmare. He glanced at her, expecting her usual tirade of nonsensical commentary, something that might shake him from the shadows still clinging to his mind—maybe she’d say something like, “Ooh, the magical flying box! I bet it’s powered by teeny-tiny goblins with wings!”
But instead, Elara stood quietly, her gaze distant, almost contemplative. She was so still it unnerved him, her usual bright energy dimmed to a quiet that felt unnatural. He couldn’t shake the memory of her twisted, mocking smile in the dream, her blood-stained hands reaching toward him. Had he let her into his mind too deeply? Had the nightmare somehow opened a door he couldn’t close?
As if sensing his unease, she looked over at him, her eyes dark, an unreadable expression flickering across her face. She leaned in close, her voice a soft, almost taunting whisper. “Oh, my precious minion,got his guts all tangled up in knots, twisted and bound…”
Henry felt his stomach twist, an involuntary shiver running through him. Her words were so close to those in the nightmare that he almost pulled back, his mind racing. Had she seen it somehow? Was it just a coincidence, or was she toying with him?
“Elara,” he said, trying to steady his voice, to ground himself in reality. “Are you… are you real?”
She blinked, her expression shifting as if something in her was snapping back into place. Her mouth broke into a mischievous grin, her eyes gleaming with her usual playfulness. “Of course I’m real, Henry!” she chirped. “Real as the potatoes that bite, real as the dreams that bite harder. Why, are you doubting me?”
His pulse slowed as her words returned to their familiar absurdity, and he let out a shaky breath, forcing a nod. “No… Just checking.”
A soft chime announced the elevator’s arrival, and they stepped out. Henry froze as he took in the view before him, his heart sinking. They should have been at the edge of the city, the familiar streets and buildings stretching out before them. But instead, all that lay before them was a massive, gaping pit.
He staggered forward, unable to process the sheer scope of the emptiness. The city was gone, replaced by a void that stretched endlessly, the faint metallic scent of freshly torn earth filling the air. His nightmare had shifted into a strange, unsettling reality, and he felt himself teetering on the edge, the line between dream and truth blurred once more.
Beside him, Elara stared into the pit, her usual smile absent, her expression unreadable, even haunted. She seemed to know something he didn’t, her silence more ominous than any of her wildest words. For the first time, he saw a hint of solemnity in her, an acknowledgment of something beyond her usual madness.
“Elara?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, hoping she might break the silence with one of her strange comments, something to ground him.
But she simply tilted her head, her voice soft and distant. “What a lovely place to be lost in, don’t you think?” she murmured, her eyes fixed on the void. “So many lost little things, tangled up in shadows… just like you.”
A chill crept up his spine as he stared into the darkness, feeling himself slip further, the memory of her laughter from the nightmare a terrifying mirror. Whatever had caused this destruction was beyond anything he could fathom, and standing here beside Elara, he wasn’t sure he could fully trust what he was seeing—or if he could even trust her.