Terror. A dimension mirroring the living one--but morphed to reflect the imagination of its Overseer. And the current Overseer... has refused to relinquish her power for centuries, tormenting her souls--"terrors"--into becoming... zombies.
Arielle f...
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Arielle's eyelids were sticky as she sought to pry them apart. Her head throbbed, her brain pounding inside as if equipped with hammers, fighting to escape from its trap in her skull.
"Ugh," she mumbled, her lips struggling to separate, her saliva foul-smelling. Like when one woke from a long sleep, having kept their mouth shut for hours.
She had no clue how long she'd been sleeping—and she only assumed she'd been in slumber-land because she sensed her body at ease, lying flat on a bed. No—something harder than a bed. Something firm and painful; a floor?
Her eyes opened in haste and she found herself staring into a muted but bright gaze curtained by braided locks of black hair, and a forehead of smooth, dark skin.
"What the fuck?" She heaved, sitting up straight, and shoving the intruder off her. At once, blood rushed to her head and she cringed, massaging her temples and sealing her eyes again. "Where am I?"
The man who'd been leaning over her grunted, and she twisted towards the sound of his throaty noise, eyes reopening to analyze him. It took her a few moments, but he soon became familiar to her. Though sepia-toned and confused, his gaze was one she'd peered into several times before. And his large, rugged body was one she'd hid behind, held onto, and even jabbed a finger into on a few occasions. His squared shoulders loosened as he issued her a quick smile; one of recognition, of semi-relaxation. They knew each other, and there was no need to feel alarmed.
"Oscar," she said, her memories returning to her. Her surroundings became clearer, and she gaped down at the floor beneath her. There it was—the faint chalky outline, still intact, showing her death silhouette.
She was in the house, the place she'd died, the location she'd been stolen from, but returned to. And Oscar had returned with her.
Terror. The word repeated in her mind, over and over, worsening the pangs of pain in her scalp.
"Give it a second," said Oscar, his baritone voice somehow soothing some of Arielle's ache. It was familiar, friendly, and eased her into her new situation.
She'd been returned to the Void, her home. Where she belonged. She'd ran through Terror, confronted fiery-haired zombies, made friends with Oscar, hid under bridges near rivers of flowing blood, peered up at a blood-red sky. She'd conspired, lied, been lied to, feared for her after-life. And she'd bumped into Benny, introduced herself. And Jade—she'd found her, confessed her feelings, concluded her business. Then been ripped from her forever.
"Jade," she said, her voice croaky.
Oscar nodded. "Overseer of Terror, as far as we know."
"That was..." she sucked in a breath of the stale but routine Void air, "quick. Quicker than I'd expected." She tousled her hair, subconsciously checking it for fire, and twisted to look at the stairs. No flames, no ice—nothing but black and white and gray. She smiled. "Damn, I thought we'd have to climb through mud and sludge and scale down tunnels to get here. And that it would take ages."
