Chapter 2

Aster could feel the cold sinking deeper into his bones as the rain poured down relentlessly. His clothes, soaked through, clung to him, each drop of water feeling like ice. He had been chased away from the curb by his landlord, then from three other places where he’d sought shelter. The night had become an insurmountable wall, one that no amount of effort seemed to be able to climb. Giving up, he curled into a small ball in the alleyway, covering himself with a discarded newspaper and hoping to sleep through the night, though he knew better.

The bitter cold was seeping into his very soul, the tremors in his limbs the only sign that his body was struggling against the hypothermia that threatened to take him. He was dangerously close to slipping into unconsciousness, and he knew that if he did, it would be the end. Yet, there was a strange warmth that had begun to creep over him, lulling him closer to sleep, to oblivion. It was so tempting, and yet his mind screamed at him to stay awake.

His thoughts grew sluggish, disjointed, as he struggled to find the energy to rise. He couldn’t escape the weight of his misery, the endless cycle of failure and disappointment. His life had been a series of unfortunate events, each one worse than the last. He had promised himself he’d fight through it, but now, after all these years, he was running on empty. The well of hope had long since dried up.

Aster’s eyelids fluttered, his head growing heavier, closing his eyes as the hum of the city slowly fades into silence. The air starts to thicken as Aster opens his eyes again seeing his hallucination having taken hold again. The mist swirled around him, vibrant and strange. Soft blues, neon pinks, and periwinkle hues seemed to mix and shift with each breath he took. He felt no fear this time, only a detached sense of awe, as if this was just another piece of his mind’s descent into madness.

But then, the touch came.

A hand gripped his shoulder, pulling him sharply out of his drowsy stupor. Aster lurched forward, spinning around, heart hammering in his chest. His gaze locked onto a figure standing behind him—a man. The same man who had appeared during his visions, who had saved him in the convenience store from that... that thing, and had warned him about the taxi.

“You can see me,” the man said, his voice a little too calm, a little too knowing, as if he had been waiting for this moment.

Aster’s eyes flickered. His throat went dry. He was hallucinating again. There was no other explanation. This was just another warped image his mind had conjured up, a cruel trick to torment him.

“Of course I can see you,” Aster scoffed, the words coming out hoarse with exhaustion. “I’m the only one who CAN see you, that’s how insanity works!”

The man’s cyan eyes glimmered with a strange mixture of frustration and something like relief, as though he wasn’t surprised by Aster’s response. “I’m not a hallucination.”

Aster blinked, then chuckled darkly. “Right, sure. You’re... real. As real as monsters, fairies and Santa Clause. What stage of psychosis am in?” His eyes darted to the side, looking at the swirling, shifting mists around them, above them, the sky was a churn of multicolored storm clouds. A Green lightning strike lights up the sky as it’s violent flashes cuts across the sky like jagged streaks of neon. Creatures, shadowy and indistinct, moved within the clouds, their forms shifting and darting through the colours.

The ground beneath Aster’s feet felt strange, too. The usual asphalt of the city street felt soft and cloying under the vibrant mist. Strange, exotic plants sprouted from the cracks, their roots twisting and reaching, as if they too were alive, drinking in the mist.

Chuckling to himself he turns back at the man. “Which level of psychosis makes you think you’re in Narnia?”

The man’s brow furrowed in frustration as he stepped closer, almost pleading with his eyes. “Listen to me. I know this is hard to accept, but you’re not crazy, Aster. I’m not a hallucintaion, I’m real and I’m here to help you!”

“Help me?” Aster repeated, shaking his head, the cold fear creeping into his gut. His heartbeat louder. “Help me with what? I’m talking to a figment of my imagination and you’re going to help me? How?”

The man’s gaze sharpened, his voice growing more insistent. “This isn’t just in your head. I know it’s hard to believe, but if you don’t listen, you’ll die out here. You’re standing on the edge of something, and if you don’t take action, it’ll be too late.”

Aster stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or scream. The desperation had built up too long inside of him for him to dismiss the man’s words immediately, but he couldn’t give in to the madness. Not yet. “And if I do listen? If I follow whatever... instructions you’ve got for me?” His voice was trembling with uncertainty. “What happens then? You finally convince me that this is all real and I kill a mall Santa because you claimed it was the Antichrist?”

The man stepped back, raising his hands in a defensive gesture. “No... No nothing like that, I just want you to hear me out, seek shelter, and from there, if you wish to seek me out, will be up to you. But I’ve only got so much time to explain, and if you waste it, you’ll not make it to your twenty-first birthday.”

Aster is too shocked at his words to respond for once, giving the man the chance to explain.

The man’s expression turns serious, his cyan eyes unwavering. “You’re in the Astral Plane,” he said, his tone calm "It’s a layer of reality that exists right alongside your own, but it’s not something most people can see."

“The... Astral Plane?” Aster repeated, still trying to make sense of it. "You mean that stuff hippies and druggies talk about?" His voice was laced with scepticism.

“Exactly,” the man said, his eyes lighting up as though finally getting through to Aster.

Aster let out a harsh laugh “So, this is it, huh? This is the DMT trip I’m supposed to go through before I die?” He swallowed, trying not to dwell too long on the thought that he was dying, rather trying to work through his thoughts around the growing certainty that he was losing his mind

For a moment, the man said nothing, simply staring at him with a mix of pity and understanding.

Then the slap came.

The sound of it cracked through the damp air, sharp and sudden. Aster’s face stung, his head snapping to the side as the shock of it registered. The world around him seemed to freeze for a second.

The man’s voice cut through the silence, harder now, done with being gentle. “I’m a friend of your father, Howard. He made me promise to help you when the time came,” he looked at Aster making sure he understood the gravity of what he was saying “and the time has come, I’m here to help, but I need you to believe me if you’re going to get through this”

Aster stood frozen, his mind scrambling to make sense of what just happened and what he was saying. He had been slapped by someone who didn’t exist—or did he? And they were saying they were sent by his father? His thoughts were a tangled mess. He didn’t know how to process the pain in his face, or the fact that this man somehow knew his father, an hallucination would know his father’s name, but that slap was no hallucination. For a moment, he could hear nothing but the rain, or the pulse of his own heartbeat in his ears.

“Look,” the man continued, his voice softening, but the urgency still there, “I know this is a lot for you. But you’re slipping. If you don’t act, this will be the last conversation you ever have. I’m real, Aster. And I’m trying to save you. You need to trust me.”

Aster closed his eyes, hands shaking. He couldn’t trust him. Not yet. But… maybe. Maybe it was the fear and the desperation that gnawed at his insides, maybe it was the slap, or the sudden sense of purpose that surrounded this hallucination which felt like the first semblance of hope after so long having only despair.

He rubbed his face, the sting from the slap still there, real, not imagined. He looked up at the man again, his mind already unravelling but still holding on by a thread.

“I’m listening,” Aster said, though every part of him screamed that this was absurd, that it didn’t make sense. “But I’m telling you, if you’re some ... twisted hallucination….”

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

The man ignored Aster’s words as he started “You are on the Astral plane, this world has more influence on your world than I can feasibly explain at this moment, just know that you have been afflicted by a type of infection, a parasite that is slowly driving you to your death which will occur on your twenty-first birthday, three weeks from now” making sure he still had Aster’s undivided attention he continues.

“I have been helping you, protecting you from the worst of its effects, but it’s worsening, and I can’t help you for much longer. Listen carefully, if you wish to survive this parasite, you’ll need to come seek me! I have a house three blocks from here.” The man explains “The keys are hidden under the third brick on the fourth step, the address is 7 Heart Lane. I won’t be able to reach you again. You’ll have to find me on your own. I’ve left instructions for an elixir that can help you cross over as well as some assistance to help you make it. If you gather the ingredients and follow the instructions, I can explain more. But for now, wake up.”

Aster blinked, confusion still clouding his thoughts, but something deep in him—a dark, nagging instinct—told him not to ignore the man’s words. As his mind tried to make sense of it, the world around him began to shift, the alley slowly blurring into a strange, indistinct haze.

He blinked again and found himself lying on the ground, the damp, bitter cold biting into his skin. The sensation of warmth he had felt earlier was gone, replaced by a deep, hollow chill. He lay there for a long moment, still struggling to wake fully, as if his body was dragging him back into a half-sleeping state.

The man’s words echoed in his ears. Cross over. Find me.

It was insane. He was delusional.

He closed his eyes, the weight of exhaustion too much to resist. The pull of slumber was almost unbearable, like a gentle lullaby coaxing him to surrender.

“What a strange dream,” Aster muttered to himself, his mind slipping again, seeking escape in sleep.

But before he could let the darkness fully consume him, a sharp slap struck his cheek.

Aster’s eyes shot open wide, his breath catching. The alley was still there, the mist gone, but now the world felt even more real, too real. The sting on his face was undeniable. The sensation… that wasn’t a dream.

With a soft groan, Aster sat up, the coldness of the night seeping into him. His heart hammered in his chest as he stared into the rainy night. The man’s presence was gone, but his words—the instructions, the house—still lingered in the air like smoke. Aster didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. The line between what was real and what was a hallucination was more blurred than ever.

But that slap… it was real.

And somehow, he found himself getting to his feet, despite the overwhelming exhaustion. He didn’t know why he was doing this. He didn’t know if it was the last vestige of his sanity or a desperate need for meaning, but the words kept echoing in his mind.

Cross over. Find me.

“I’m not crazy,” he whispered to himself, though his voice wavered, betraying his uncertainty.

His feet moved on their own as if guided by something invisible. Aster didn’t know how, but he was already walking toward the unknown.

Aster’s hands shook as he lifted the third brick on the fourth step of No. 7 Heart Lane. Beneath it, the cold, metal key glinted faintly in the dim light. He stared at it, his mind sluggish, trying to process how, or why, he was doing this. His body felt weak, his muscles aching with exhaustion, and the damp chill from the street air clung to his clothes. He barely had the mental capacity to process how absurd all of this was—he had just barely made it the three blocks to get here. Twice, he'd been motivated only by another slap from his hallucination of a man.

Shivering uncontrollably, he placed the key in the door, his hands trembling so violently that it took three attempts before it finally slid into the lock. With a deep breath, he turned it, hearing the satisfying *click* as the mechanism inside gave way.

The door creaked open slowly, and Aster pushed past the fear gnawing at his chest. Barging into someone's home. What if there's a family inside? A kid? What if I scare the shit out of them?

But he was too far gone. Desperation had a way of clouding logic.

Inside was nothing like he expected. The hallway stretched out before him in an elegant, almost regal fashion. High ceilings, wooden floors that looked like they’d been polished to perfection, and soft shadows playing on the walls from the streetlight outside. Three doorways branched off from the passage, but the house was completely dark save for the faint shadow of his own form, cast on the floor by the soft light outside.

Aster swallowed. "Hello?" he called out, his voice awkward in the silence, uncertain. “Hi, I’m not a murderer... and if anyone is here, I’ll leave?”

There was no reply, just the stillness hanging in the air. He waited a beat, then sighed. Maybe no one was home. Maybe it was *his* house now, for all intents and purposes.

He took a few more steps in, and his foot splashed in a small puddle of water on the floor. He blinked and looked down at his dripping shoes—how had he gotten so wet? It didn’t matter. His teeth chattered as he scanned the space, feeling awkward and alien in this stranger’s home.

Next to him, a light switch beckoned. He hesitated but then flipped it. The hallway flooded with a warm, amber glow, the light soft and inviting, like something out of a dream. But that didn’t make him feel safe—no, it only made him feel more exposed.

Still, the cold seeped into his bones, and the feeling of water running down his legs made him uncomfortable. He needed warmth, something to anchor him. A bathroom, maybe?

He found the door, which opened to a spacious bathroom with a massive shower. Without thinking, Aster rushed toward it, already undoing his wet clothes as he went. He turned the hot water on low at first, not wanting to shock his system, but the heat felt like a searing brand against his skin. It didn’t matter; the burn was better than the biting cold.

For thirty minutes, he stood there, letting the water wash over him, slowly thawing his chilled body. But it wasn’t just the cold he was trying to escape—it was everything. This house. The hallucinations. The strange man.

Finally stepping out of the shower, water dripping from his skin, leaving faint footprints behind as he made his way to the mirror. Aster stopped, staring at his reflection for a long moment, letting the silence settle around him. Almost twenty-one, but to him, he looked much older. His features were a blend of both parents—his mother’s deep, dark complexion melding with his father’s lighter skin, creating a warm beige tone, like cappuccino swirled with cream. His nose was strong, a trait inherited from his father, while his lips were full, soft like his mother’s. His eyes, a gentle brown, were the most striking reminder of her.

But beneath the surface, the wear of time and stress was evident. The bags under his eyes were a constant reminder of sleepless nights, and his hair—still damp—clung to his forehead in wild curls, untamed and rebellious. His beard was no better, scruffy and barely managed, as if he had given up the effort of keeping it neat long ago. He sighed, the reflection staring back at him more like a stranger than a person he recognized.

He blinked, staring at the foggy mirror. A man in a dream… told me where to find house keys in a secret spot… and told me to live here until I could make a magical elixir to contact him again…

‘Nothing weird about that," he muttered to himself in disbelief.

Aster’s breath caught in his throat, and he let out a harsh laugh.

“Fuck that… that’s... extremely weird!”

He suddenly felt very, very naked. The weight of the strangeness of it all pressed down on him, and he quickly wrapped a towel around himself, ignoring the wet clothes in the corner. There was no use in putting them on—they’d just make everything worse.

Stepping out of the bathroom, he called out again, his voice almost sounding foreign to him in the quiet, “Helloooo? Anyone here?” His words felt desperate, more of an invitation to himself to feel something other than the anxiety gnawing at him.

The house remained eerily silent.

The interior was well-kept, almost... sterile. Soft brown sofas, white walls, carefully placed carpets to break up the monochrome aesthetic of the place. The high ceilings gave the home an air of grandeur, and artwork hung tastefully on the walls, like something from a catalogue. It felt... impersonal. Like a place no one truly lived in, just staged for someone who could afford it.

As his eyes scanned the space, he couldn't help but notice the sense of emptiness in it all. His mother had taught him how to read class and taste like a book—something to notice, something to recognize. This home screamed upper-middle class with refined tastes, but it was so meticulously done, so... *empty*.

Aster had to force himself to think about something else before he spiraled. His wet skin, the cold sinking into him again—he couldn’t keep standing around naked like this. So, he moved toward one of the doorways he assumed led to the bedroom area, the light flicking on automatically as he entered.

The room was spacious, with a neatly made gray bed in the corner. On the opposite wall, massive closets stood open, revealing dozens of sets of brand new clothes, all in his exact size. Aster froze.

‘The coincidences just keep coming.’

He pulled out a pair of trousers and a shirt without thinking, slipping them on almost mechanically. His mind couldn’t keep up with the absurdity of it all.

On the verge of death only hours ago, he was now standing here in a stranger’s house, dressed in clothes that fit perfectly, all based on instructions from a man who might, or might not be a hallucination.

Aster collapsed onto the bed for a moment, trying to sort through it all. “A man in a dream… told me exactly what to do. Told me to come here... and now I'm supposed to brew some potion, contact him again… Nothing weird about that, right?”

He groaned, running a hand through his hair. “No. Fuck that. This is so messed up.”

As he pondered this, his mind kept wandering to the list. The man had mentioned a list of ingredients for a potion, instructions to contact him again. ‘If the list is real, then this couldn’t be a hallucination, right?’ he thought to himself.

His heart began to race. He needed to see it. He couldn’t back out now, not when everything else had come true. The list. The elixir.

He rushed toward the kitchen, hoping to find the yellow note the man had mentioned. Sure enough, when he entered the living room, there it was—tacked to the fridge with a small magnet. The page was yellowed with age, and the heading, scrawled in large, looping letters, read: ‘Astral Potion’.

Aster’s heart beat faster as he reached out for the paper, his mind filled with questions. ‘If this is real... if this is the recipe for the elixir, could he really drink it?’

The question lingered in the air as he studied the ingredient list—DMT was the first on the list.

He stood there, frozen for a long moment, wondering if this was the moment he truly lost his mind.