The End of the Dream

Chapter 3

You made it as far as the stairwell before sinking down and crashing your weight into the banister, head in your hands.

"A lot to take in" was an understatement.

It set your mind in turmoil, thoughts being pulled ten different directions at once as you tried to piece together the fragments of information you'd been able to glean from Mark.

One thought kept forcing its way back to the forefront. There wasn't enough evidence to confirm the notion, you told yourself. But nor was there enough evidence to deny it.

The sick, sinking conviction in your stomach wouldn't be dissuaded. It felt true. You couldn't explain how. You just knew.

You were supposed to be dead.

"Corporeally challenged," Mark had called you. That made it sound an awful lot like you had been... a ghost, or a spirit of some kind. For a while, at that.

And then there were all his allusions to body hopping. The corpse you had woken up next to, the "you're lucky I got you that body as intact as I did."

Mark—though you couldn't even begin to fathom how—had taken your soul and shoved it into a recently deceased corpse to bring you back. Hadn't he?

All because he needed you to bring back some stupid fucking crystal for him.

You didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. It was just so absurd, completely impossible. Maybe Mark was just an extremely disturbed individual, and you couldn't take a word he said at face value; that was a more realistic explanation than you being... what did that make you, then? Basically a zombie?

And, just to add insult to injury, the process had stripped you of all your memories and sense of self.

You choked on a laugh, your lungs aching. Somehow you were finding it difficult to get enough air in, no matter how rapid your breaths became. They were very rapid.

Alright. Perhaps you were getting a little hysterical.

Fuck! What were you supposed to do with that realisation, though?

There was nothing you could do. Forcing a few slower, deeper breaths, you pushed yourself back onto your feet. Later. Later, there would be time to process, and figure out what the hell you were meant to do with a situation like that.

For now, though, you needed to get you bearings, and, ideally, figure a way out of the Manor before Mark swooped in to drag you off on whatever 'adventure' he decided upon.

The stairs spiralled back down to the foyer. Hesitation gripped you—you didn't exactly have great memories of that room in particular. But you shook it off and descended.

Not a thing was out of place, no hint remaining of the carnage that had been there but a few hours prior. The table had been righted, a fresh vase and flowers displayed atop it. No blood. Not even the lingering scent of it, nor any cleaning products that may have been masking it. All that was missing was the mirror—that had been removed entirely.

Although the experience with the window cautioned your steps, you approached the front door anyway. It would be foolish to not even try.

You gingerly reached for the handle, ready to snatch your fingers back at a split second's notice.

Nothing happened. Locked, of course, but otherwise nothing.

You weren't sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.

The corridor to the right wound away into the back of the Manor, to another staircase and then several bedrooms. You knew that route; that was where Mark had led you initially. Another corridor exited left, cojoined with a large cutout wall and what looked like a living area beyond. The lounge itself was sunken, with a pair of marble steps leading down from the foyer.