After an hour of wandering aimlessly, darkness swept over the land, sudden and absolute, as if the world itself had been swallowed whole. Henry hesitated, then decided to set up camp in the encroaching shadow. Elara had vanished—her departure as abrupt as it was unexplained—and Henry, despite a brief shrug of frustration, resigned himself to the solitude.

Sleep came for him slowly, creeping like the thick fog that coiled over the forest floor, smothering the last embers of wakefulness. It dragged him down, deeper and deeper, until the heaviness claimed him entirely. Yet rest eluded him. Somewhere in the black depths of exhaustion, something began to stir—a shift so subtle it almost felt imagined.

The dream took root with a strange, unsettling sensation--a cold and insidious presence threaded through his mind. It did not invade so much as it wove itself into his thoughts, delicate yet unrelenting. It built a web of shadows within him, intricate and alive, its threads pulsing like veins carrying something vile and hungry. The sensation burrowed deeper, winding through the folds of his dreams with parasitic purpose, feeding on the raw, unguarded recesses of his psyche.

Panic clawed at his throat as he glanced down, horrified. Beneath the surface of his skin, something slithered, stretching his flesh taut with unnatural force, a writhing, monstrous entity desperate to break free. And then, with a sickening, wet tear, his skin split, giving birth to a shadowy form that clawed its way out of his chest, dark and dripping with an inky ooze that fell like black rain, staining his hands, his clothes, the floor beneath.

The creature pooled at his feet, twisting and writhing like smoke in liquid form, until it coalesced into a figure—an abomination of limbs, eyes, and mouths that seemed to feed upon his very terror. Its eyes, hollow and gleaming with a malevolent hunger, locked onto him, pinning him with a gaze so intense it stole his breath. The demon’s lips twisted into something like a smile, a mocking mimicry of humanity that left him cold with dread.

Without a word, the creature turned from him, slithering to the floor, each movement leaving a slick trail of darkness, a poisonous essence that clung to the wood like a stain of decay. Tendrils of shadow spilled out from it, spreading like the limbs of some diseased tree, creeping toward the edges of the room, hungry and relentless. Powerless, he could only watch, frozen by fear, as the darkness stretched beneath the door, its tendrils creeping into the hall, moving with silent purpose. It seeped under every door in its path, tendrils curling and winding, slipping into rooms like a deadly fog, seeking life, feeding on warmth and light with insatiable hunger. And he knew, with a dreadful certainty, that whatever it found, it would consume.

But the nightmare twisted deeper, shifting in that jagged, impossible way dreams do. Henry was no longer in the mist; he stood in the dim, familiar hallway of his childhood home, shadows pooling like poison underfoot. His mother was there, standing motionless at the end of the corridor, her eyes filled with a frozen, bone-deep dread.

He tried to scream, to warn her, but his voice was trapped, silenced as he watched the demon’s twisted form emerge from the darkness, its shadowed limbs stretching and bending at unnatural angles. It slid toward her in jerky, shuddering movements, silent yet echoing with a sickening, wet scrape.

She turned, too slow, eyes widening as the thing lunged. Black, smoky hands tore into her, pinning her to the ground as her face twisted in terror. Henry was helpless, forced to watch as the demon’s mouth unhinged, impossibly wide, revealing rows of needle-like teeth, glistening and ravenous. It hovered over her, savoring her fear, then drove its face into hers, consuming her eyes first in a wet, tearing sound that ripped through Henry’s mind.

Her screams clawed through his silence, piercing him, and as the creature devoured her, he could see fragments of her face reflected in its twisted grin. It didn’t just eat; it savored, each bite sinking deeper, relishing the horror in his mother’s eyes as her voice faded to a gasping, hollow whimper.

The darkness spread like oil across a shattered mirror, twisting the scene yet again, dragging him into a fractured, nightmarish version of the inn. The wooden walls were warped and decayed, bleeding shadows that curled and spread like living vines. He watched helplessly as the demon slithered further, leaving behind a trail of rot and emptiness. His stomach dropped as it rounded a corner, slipping through a familiar door.

Inside was his sister, Sarah—small, fragile, clutching her knees to her chest. She was frozen in place, her wide, terror-stricken eyes fixed on the approaching horror. Her gaze flicked up to him, desperate, pleading, searching for a brother who was helpless to move, trapped in place by some invisible force. The flicker of hope in her eyes dimmed, then vanished, as the shadows swallowed her whole, stealing her last breath, her frail figure crumbling into the consuming blackness.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Next came Elara. Even she, with her wild bravado, was nothing but a toy to the demon. She tried to fight, her magic sparking in furious bursts, her laughter twisted into a panicked shriek that dissolved into a choked gasp as the shadows enveloped her. Her shimmering wings flickered, and her form was swallowed by the void, her light extinguished, leaving only the faintest trace of laughter echoing hollowly in the darkness.

But the nightmare was insatiable, plunging him deeper, dragging him further down. He watched as the elders from the village appeared, stoic and wise, their faces lined with years of experience and secrets long kept. They faced the shadows as if to defend against it, but the darkness ripped through them, devouring their wisdom, their life. They fell one by one, their bodies drained, their eyes empty, their knowledge erased as if it had never been. Their husks crumpled to dust, carried away by the shadow like whispers lost in the wind.

Then, with a sickening lurch, the scene shifted, dragging him back to a place he thought he’d left behind—a sterile, white hallway lined with fluorescent lights. Methodist Hospital. He was in San Antonio again, the smells of antiseptic and fear mingling in the air. But something was wrong. His hands were soaked in something cold and sticky—darkness, dripping like tar from his fingertips. He looked around, realizing with horror that it was not the shadows this time; it was him. He was the monster, the bringer of ruin, the very creature that had claimed his family and friends in the inn.

He walked down the halls, hearing the familiar beeps of heart monitors, the faint hum of ventilators, and the muffled cries of patients. His touch left dark stains on the walls, spreading decay. He passed room after room where familiar faces lay, his mother, his friends, all of them looking up with the same pleading gaze Sarah had given him. He was the shadow, the curse upon them, and there was no one left to save them—or to stop him. Each step felt like an eternity, the weight of his own monstrous form dragging him down, his mind screaming against the horror but powerless to change the nightmare’s course.

With a strangled gasp, Henry jolted awake, his heart pounding as he blinked into the darkness, the remnants of his nightmare clinging to him like a shroud. The jolting of the cart beneath him and the rhythmic creak of its wheels brought him to his senses. He wasn’t alone.

“Elara?” he muttered groggily, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “Where... where are we? What’s going on?”

"Hey, you. You're finally awake.” Elara’s voice chirped from beside him, an unsettling mixture of relief and theatrical excitement. She was perched precariously on a wooden crate, her legs swinging wildly, as if she’d just discovered the concept of movement and found it utterly delightful. “Welcome to the magical, rattly contraption humans call a cart! Isn’t it marvelous? A box on wheels, rolling along like it owns the road!”

“A cart?” Henry blinked, trying to piece together her nonsense. “Wait, what do you mean, a cart? How did we—?”

“Oh, you were just adorable back there,” she interrupted, leaning closer with a grin that could power a small sun. “Snoring like a troll after a feast. Drooling a little, too. I thought, Wow, what a picture of heroism. Anyway, then this rickety wagon shows up, all creaky wheels and hay smells, and I thought, That’s the ticket!”

“What do you mean, that’s the ticket?” Henry stared at her, bewildered. “How did you even—?”

“I negotiated, obviously,” she said, her wings flicking in a smug little flutter. “Told the nice, unsuspecting wagoneer that we were on a very important quest, and that if he didn’t help us, well, I might have to unleash my ancient, mystical fairy wrath.” She giggled. “You should’ve seen his face! Poor guy looked like I’d just turned his goat into a fish.”

Henry’s jaw dropped. “You threatened him?”

“Oh, you’re so dramatic,” she said with an airy wave, like he was scolding her for stealing a cookie. “I didn’t threaten him. I simply... strongly implied that refusal might bring about catastrophic, otherworldly consequences. That’s persuasion! It’s a skill.”

“Persuasion?” Henry groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s not persuasion! That’s intimidation! What if he kicks us off? Or worse?”

“Oh, he wouldn’t dare!” Elara exclaimed, spinning around to peer at the wagoneer, who was humming a tuneless melody at the front. “Look at him. Harmless. Practically radiates NPC energy. Plus, he said we’re only an hour away from Frieter. Isn’t that fun? I love Frieter. Never been, but it sounds like a place with... vibes.”

“You don’t even know what Frieter is!? I thought you said we needed to head there!” Henry muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is insane.”

“Insane? No, no, no.” Elara wagged a finger at him, her expression dead serious for a fraction of a second before breaking into a dazzling grin. “Creative problem-solving, my dear Henry. You were all deadweight and sighs, so I improvised. That’s what heroes do!”

“I’m not even going to—ugh.” He sighed, leaning back against the cart’s edge. “You’re going to get us killed one day.”

“Nonsense!” she declared, puffing out her chest. “If anyone gets us killed, it’ll be you, with your grumpitude and inability to appreciate my genius.”

Henry groaned again, but Elara was already kicking her legs happily, her attention shifting to a passing butterfly. “Look at that! Nature’s little miracle! I should name it! Ooh, maybe ‘Gustav.’ No, ‘Wingsalot!’ Yes, Wingsalot it is.”

He buried his face in his hands, praying for patience—or, failing that, for Frieter to appear on the horizon sooner rather than later. And then a thought came to him, "Where's Sarah?"