Beauty's True Definition - Jade Crossroads (best books to read ever TXT) 📗

The Rise of Nightmares

Not for the first time, I find myself alone in the darkness.

A long corridor stretches out beyond my line of sight. Just a trick of the light. I reassure/ remind myself. I know this, I have traveled down this hallway before, but I still can’t persevere in the face of my foreboding. It does not help that I know what lies just ahead. I always leave something of myself behind when I have these dreams. when I leave the world, to sleep and find myself in strange, threatening and ominous territory.

It’s all the same. The same dread, and hesitation, and always I venture further, deeper into the unknowable, despite my misgivings. I walk towards what I hope is the end of this hall, too many times I have imagined that I would venture on, only to find there is no true end, that I will wonder its length forever, no longer able to find where I began.

But it ends, just as it always does, where a grand arch greets me with it's ornate sketchings of beings only attributed to mythology, nymphs, naiads and dryads, and sea creatures wave and dance and glide across it’s stony face, but they glare down at me it seems, waiting, their apprehension filling the air. Below this arch, great fortress doors mark the end of my long trek, and the renewal of my worst nightmare. It is happening again, and I am helpless to stop it. Even now, hand outstretched to lift the door handle and enter, I can feel that something changed, something is different about this dream, I fear what this could mean.

The pervading cool of the dense metal knocker foretells what I might endure. The metal bites into my palm as I strive to hold onto this second, even another moment spared is enough, I do not wish to face him again. I hear rustling on the other side now, I fear that he knows that I am here, and that he is, for the first time, awakened from his sleep. I wish that I was more afraid. Perhaps then I would be paralyzed by it, and not venture forth against my own accord, pulled by the dream. Instead I am drawn ever forward, though I would fight against it, all proves in vain against this unnamable beckoning. My sense of foreboding only increases the longer I stay clutching the knocker, and in the darkness, my hand begins to move and the door begins to creak, as I push my way forward into the depths of pitch blackness and the source of my horror.

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Publication Date: 09-27-2015

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