Chapter 1: The Dream That Wasn't
John was suddenly here.
Everything around him was consumed by darkness—so thick, so complete, that the very concept of space felt irrelevant. Yet, he could still see. Not in the traditional sense, but as though something allowed him to perceive through the void itself.
Instinctively, his gaze lifted.
Above, the sky churned in a violent spiral of black clouds, twisting unnaturally. They pulsed—slow and rhythmic—like a colossal entity breathing.
Watching him.
A deep, primal fear gripped his chest. He took a step back, body tense, but the ground beneath him felt wrong.
His foot landed awkwardly, and he stumbled. His hands shot out to catch himself, but instead of stone or dirt, he landed on something fine and brittle.
'Crunch.'
He froze. The sound had been too sharp, too distinct.
With shaking fingers, he touched the ground—expecting cold stone, damp earth. But all he felt was sand.
Black sand.
His breath hitched as he let the grains sift through his fingers. It was weightless, unreal—something that shouldn't exist.
Then, the voice came.
A sound so deep, so distorted, it felt like the universe itself was speaking.
"WONDERING SOUL?"
The words weren't a question. They were a call—a declaration drenched in eerie certainty. John's pulse roared in his ears as he snapped his head upward. The clouds twisted violently, condensing—forming.
A massive hand emerged, its fingers impossibly long, clawing downward toward him. The sky trembled as the appendage reached, stretching further, consuming the space between them.
"No—"
The world cracked.
John woke with a gasp, his body jerking upright.
His shirt clung to his skin, drenched in cold sweat. His breath came in ragged, uneven bursts, as if he had been suffocating moments before. His hands trembled.
"Just a dream... just a dream..." he muttered, voice barely audible.
But even as he whispered it, he knew—it wasn't just a dream. It was something more.
His eyes darted across his dimly lit apartment in London. The familiar sight of his desk, his suitcase, the scattered books on his shelf—it was all normal. Yet, he wasn't.
His body remembered the dream.
The crushing fear. The unnatural voice. The black sand slipping through his fingers.
"Why does it always feel so damn real?"
This wasn't the first time. He had seen this place before—many times, in fact. And each time, the dreams grew clearer, sharper. As though something was calling him deeper into that abyss.
His phone buzzed sharply, yanking him from his thoughts.
He glanced at the screen. 'Uncle'.
A rare call. With a deep breath, he answered.
"Hello?"
"John, come home. Now."
The urgency in his uncle's tone made his stomach twist.
"What? Why? What's happening?"
"I'll explain when you get here. Just get on a flight."
There was no hesitation. No room for argument. A sense of dread settled in his chest.
"Fine. I'll book a flight."
The airport was packed. A sea of weary travelers, murmuring voices, flashing departure screens. John walked briskly through the crowd, dragging his suitcase behind him. His mind wouldn't stopvreplaying the nightmare—the voice, the spiral sky, the looming hand. Was it connected?
His uncle's sudden demand. The dreams growing stronger. The unshakable feeling that something was pulling him toward a truth he wasn't ready to face.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered under his breath.
Still, as he handed his boarding pass to the flight attendant and stepped onto the plane, the feeling didn't fade. It only grew stronger.
John settled into his seat, resting against the window. Outside, the city lights glowed against the midnight sky. Beside him, an elderly man in a worn-out coat adjusted his bag and turned slightly toward him.
"Heading home?" the man asked.
John blinked, momentarily thrown off by the unexpected conversation.
"Yeah."
"Big occasion?"
He hesitated. "I... don't know. My uncle just told me to come back."
The old man hummed, eyes flickering with something unreadable.
"Dreams brought you home, didn't they?"
John stiffened.
A chill ran down his spine.
"What did you say?"
The man smiled faintly, tapping his fingers against the armrest. "I see it in your eyes. The lost ones always look the same."
John's breath hitched.
"Lost...?"
The man didn't answer. Instead, he simply turned away, gazing out at the sky.
The flight attendants made their rounds, offering beverages and snacks. The routine of travel brought a brief sense of normalcy.
But John couldn't shake the conversation.
As the plane ascended, as the city shrank below him, something deep within him shifted—a realization lingering just out of reach.
He took out his old diary.
The worn pages greeted him, filled with years' worth of dreams—each one vividly documented, each nightmare eerily familiar. His fingers traced over the ink.
Flipping to the first page, his name stared back at him.
John kaping.
He sighed, leaning back against the headboard. This wasn't a new dream. The same feeling had haunted him before, gripping him with a strange certainty—that whatever he saw, whatever chased him in the dark, wasn't just imagination.
He picked up his headphones, scrolling through songs, letting the music drown out the tension settling in his chest.
He was going home.
But for the first time, he wondered—was he returning?
Or was he being called back?