Apologies. I passed out and awoke to an episode of delirium. My soul felt as if it was traveling through layers and layers of ideas, time, and space, convulsing in many sensations, most not standard for human perception. It ended when I tried to take my—well—. Doesn't matter, I failed anyway. Just like the other few attempts.

As for new symptoms, voices are now swimming in my head. The song of the beyond is much more terrifying than the Whispers. Hell, even the Wanderer. But it's beautiful. Much more beautiful. And much more manageable than the other new symptoms, too.

Like how green ichor is leaking from my lips. It tastes sour. Bitter. Detestable.

I'd instead rather drink puke all day then deal with this. What makes it worse is there are occasions of burps and vomits of green and purple globules, pulsating, bursting, and melding to my apartment floor.

Which I can't fucking clean because of this fucking crystalline metal. It's torn through my pants and spread to my hips...as well as the numbness.

That's—about all I have for now. All I can do is type away at my orange, purple, and green shit of a keyboard. Let's—just continue.

Enough of my bitching. On with the story.

********

It was quite peculiar when I passed out from blood loss. I dreamed, which I usually don't do. Rarely in fact. But in this instance, I did, and it felt quite vivid.

The dream started in the haze of a summer night, in a field littered with tame flames; A majestic bonfire was in the center. Figures dressed in cloaks and animalistic masks circled the fire. Some beat drums rhythmically, like syncopated heartbeats, while others chanted, in a tongue as alluring as it was foreign. It was slimy? Abstract, like the names of the Whispers.

Everything was peaceful and mysterious until of course, young shrieks of terror came from within. Voices that begged for freedom. For life. For parents.

I searched for safety, which appeared to be a forest, surrounding the field, empty and safe from the horror that lingered around the flames. But—instead of running, I walked forward, noticing my gun was in hand. The robed figures turned to me, but more importantly, she turned to me, the book in her hand.

Behind her, several individuals were holding knives to the throats of a few little girls. Dead bodies surrounded them. And—dead bodies were the fire. Shit, dead bodies were everywhere. Stench everywhere. Blood everywhere.

The woman with the book stepped forward, silhouetted from the flames. I aimed my revolver, commanding them to stop. They replied with taunts and laughter. She ordered the cultists to ready the sacrifices.

And then—I thought I would be a hero. I Pointed the gun at the woman with the book. She ignored the threat, and so, I fired a few rounds into her chest. But she didn't even budge. No blood, just a wicked grin, and a laugh. She told them to complete the sacrifice. The spell. Which, without another word, the cultists obeyed.

Those damn—fuckers. They slit the girls' throats, spilling the blood of the innocent. Girls who probably had a future! Their shrieks halted as they fell to the floor, gurgling in fear, stopping their cries in terror, slowly fading into silence. The woman threw the book into the bonfire, which burned green, orange, and then purple. Everyone chanted in sync, stomping and clapping to a beat.

I don't know why, but tears followed. That, and an ache of sadness and disappointment. Failure, my fellow friends.

The flames leaped out of the fire, like a beast, sprinting through the bodies of the little girls, then the decomposing corpses, and the cultists, too! They laughed maniacally as the fire passed harmlessly through everyone.

The ground shook and cracked, opening rifts into an abyss, the flames leaping into the darkness.

A roar! Tendrils of green ichor rose from the chasm, beginning to devour the bodies of the living and the dead! I staggered in fear. It felt all wrong! So wrong! I beyond fucked up. Hesitation! Creation!! Annihilation!!! A horrible form emerged, twenty feet tall! Growing! The cultists bowed before their god as tendrils grabbed and ingested them.

It lumbered out of the gorge, tendrils forming several legs, hundreds of dark, orange eyes bubbling from its flesh, and earth burning green beneath its feet, or whatever seemed like its fucking feet. Thirty feet tall!

The field bent beneath its weight, and thousands of whispering sensations swirled around, shrieking. Creatures that looked like fabric flooded the sky! Burrowing spider-like foxes! Dozens of other horrific monstrosities screamed, barked, yapped, and sprinted in every direction! Cutting, burning, tearing, shattering, warping, devouring everything! Everything—but me.

All of the abstract eyes from the form looked to me. Fifty feet tall!! It seemed like an animalistic humanoid; the green ichor blackening, flesh throbbing like a brain. One of its smaller tendrils lifted up and reached towards me. I fell back, trying to get away, but it succeeded in touching me and then. Then. Then.

Then... images of everything. Everything. An infinity that lasted a second. Overwhelming damnable knowledge. Useful. Horrible. Forbidden. Luckily, I remembered none of it. None but one image...

The last image, which was more like a definite feeling than an image. It was a feeling that something was in my pocket. Small and important. I looked to my pocket then back at the lurching abomination. Seventy feet tall, and it stared at me, tilting its head, curiously. I frantically reached into my pocket, confused by the vision, and right as my fingertips touched a tiny metallic object I—.

********

Puke expelled from my esophagus, luckily on the ground and not me. As I shook, I looked down to see a purple-red mixture on an old, wooden floor. I searched my body for wounds from the car accident but found no pain or blood, just a discomfort in my lower spine. Whoever brought me here outfitted me in a cloak similar to the one in the dream I just had. I gave a confusing and sickening shudder, looking at my surroundings. My environment. My new home.

This place I woke up in, it smelled musty and like flowers. Birds sang from outside the only window. And—I was on a bed, in an old room, painted a faded yellow. Two more beds and a couple of nightstands populated the area, but besides that...it was empty. And ugly. They had no sense of style.

Faint footsteps creaked from the floor below.

I started back into my bed, the discomfort in my spine spiking. My fingers felt beneath my robe to examine the irritation, and a chill ran down my spine as I felt a metallic, smooth, round rod, lodged into my back. The hole's thickness is identical to the ones that had burnt into the ground of the Lab; too thick, too tight to remove with my bare hands

The steps entered, I instinctively reached for my gun. Still gone. "Shit." Three individuals, two familiar, one—different, entered.

Professor Weber gave me a broad grin, while Chloe glared. Between them was a hunched-over woman, young, and wearing a white cultist-like dress and cloak. She seemed beautiful and familiar.

I could only see her lips, which leaked an orange, green, and purple liquid; drops began to trickle onto the floor as she grinned a wheezing exhale. When I looked past her she had more than a dozen Whispers wiggling behind her. They were terrifying, but not as scary as the one that the professor initially had. Instead of fear and weird—feelings, I felt nothing but sympathy for these creatures.

They were just examining me, mumbling amongst each other. I pitied them for some reason, like a scared cat or dog. At the same time, though, they were scary. None of them as frightening as the woman though...

"You're a troublemaker, Liam, fucking traitor," the woman coughed, her soft voice sounding familiar. Then. Now. Always. She waved her hand at me; a sensation of warmth traveled down my body, nerves and mind felt calm. I felt—relaxed.

"What's—going—on?" my speech slurred, possibly from the relaxant. She laughed, again, smooth. Beautiful. Familiar.

"Congratulations, you get to meet the cult leader. A high priestess of the Tempest, servant to the Wanderer, Xyalthie, worshipper of the Cogent Titan, Cruymeor, the all-knowing ichor of the Primordials. But to you—Liam," she stepped forward, revealing a knife. "I'm just a bad dream you'll never awaken from."

"What?" I asked.

"Shh—beautiful man. The Witch is talking. You almost fucked up my plans. The Wanderer is the only reason we didn't leave you in your little puddle of puke to die. So, some ground rules.

One. After your melding, you can no longer leave. I'm not saying that like we'll try to stop you, but if you stray too far from me or the book, your spine will be severed. Which, in simple terms, means death."

"Two, if you ask questions about me or our activity, you'll puke. Literally," she snickered. "Ask Miles, he can vouch for that," she looked over to Professor Miles who nodded in agreement.

"Which leads me to rule number three," she leaned in with a grin on her face; a stench of sour decay burned my nose, which made Professor Weber's piss-cologne mixture of a scent smell amazing, but it still was better than the liquid I currently have in my mouth. "You can't stop us. You can't kill us, and soon you'll be with us," she began to cackle. "Punishment for your stupidity."

Her laugh was a type of laughter you'd hear in a film or play. It—gave me goosebumps. The familiarity mixed with madness, which—I never could figure out who she was. I have one theory, but I'll share it later. When you have more context.

She gestured once more, the warmth traveling down to my toes, fading away. She leaned closer, grabbing me by the throat, hands feeling like stone, holding the blade above my leg.

"Now, I'm going to nick your femoral artery, Liam," she smiled as I squirmed in panic. "You have two choices. Die, or accept the meld from Miles. He has the serum, but you have to take it ".

Without even letting me respond—A prick, sting, and a sharp pain.

Blood pumped out of my leg. A rush like ice ran through my veins as adrenaline started to kick in. She dug the knife deeper, all of it was sickening.

"Ease him in," Professor Weber's fearful voice spoke up. The Witch and the bitch turned to him, expecting him to continue. She dug the knife a little further, irritated.

"Oops, did I say a few minutes? I meant only a couple," she smiled, tilting her head up. A bandage covered her face with green and purple staining where her eye sockets would be.

My leg gushed blood, I grunted in pain, my heart beating even faster. "It's better to have an ally than a foe when we ascend, my lady," Professor Weber bowed his head.

She froze in thought, sighed, and nodded, pulling out the blade. "You're—right. I'm sorry, Liam. The anger consumed me once more. What you took from me will be meaningless in the beyond. After tomorrow, you'll stand beside me, beholding the beauty of the Wanderer, the vision of the Titan," She turned around and left the room. "Take care of him, Miles. Him and that traitorous Whisper of his."

"Traitor?!" Professor Weber snapped. "Bvoz-kik was just obeying orders!" the Witch ignored him.

I tried to cover the wound; blood squirted through the webs of my fingers with each heartbeat.

"Wait! Why not kill them both now?" Chloe's bitchy voice stopped the robed woman. "He ruined our front! Our back door is fu—"

"Our?! Mine. Not here, Chloe," the Witch glared at the bitch and continued walking.

"Miles, if he survives, I want you and Chris to teach him the ropes. It is what the Wanderer desires," she exited, Chloe following closely behind, glaring at me.

Professor Weber smiled at them both as they exited; his grin faded as soon as they reached the stairs. He mumbled to his side, giving a nod, and pulled out a syringe. The liquid in the syringe had the same color as the one dripping from the witch's mouth.

My heart raced faster; my head began to feel woozy from panic, more blood squirted out. Breathed, faster, and a high-pitched wheeze occurred with each breath, and sweat streamed down my brow.

"Thank fucking god," Professor Weber chuckled. "Inject yourself with this." In fear and anger, I glared. The blood soaked through my robe and streamed down my leg. "Mr. Turner, she's right, if you don't do this, you'll die," he spoke more sternly, halitosis reeking just as horrible as before. "Let me guess; you had a dream?".

I winced in pain, "How do—you know—about—"

"Don't. Never speak it aloud. To anyone. Even to your Whisper."

"My—Whisp—"

"She hit an artery, Mr. Turner. Please inject yourself, fellow friend, you'll be too weak to do it if you hesitate" he commanded, but fear kept me still, my hands soaked in blood, flashbacks from the accident made me quiver. "I need you alive. My wife, the answer is—I—," he stopped himself. "The answer to what happened to Lexi is here, Mr. Turner. You die now, and her fate will forever remain unknown. Your fate will remain unknown. And—I'll never get to see my wife again."

"How—?" Sweat and saliva streamed down my lips. I recognized my stubbornness and fear and attempted to slow my breathing.

Everything was fucking nuts, but all I could do was trust him. Trust him or possibly die.

I stared at Professor Weber as the fear kept me indecisive. Professor Weber grabbed my off hand and pulled it off of my leg. I attempted to resist, but his flesh felt of concrete, unable to resist. He pried open my fingertips and put the syringe into it. "Don't let her win this fucking dance, my fellow friend."

In his eyes, I saw sadness. Loss. Fear. Genuine, fear.

The crazy fucker was being honest. Never let your arrogance be your downfall, fellow friends. The cocky will always trip up sometime. And if it doesn't seem like it, well—karma's a bitch.

I controlled my breathing as best as I could. Fear swelled in my eyes as a headache and spinning invaded my skull.

"I—don't—want—to die," tears welled up. I closed my eyes in fear as I fell back, feeling faint. "I don't—."

"Damn it, then don't! I don't want you to die either! Do it!"

I struggled to pull off the safety cap, but Professor Weber aided me. I held it above my arm, shaking profusely, trying to get a good aim, and thrust the syringe into my arm pushing the plunger flange.

The liquid burned as it traveled into my bloodstream; the pain caused me to drop the syringe, which the floor shattered. My body seized, and I collapsed on the floor, shaking in response, spine snapping, popping, shifting.

Then, it stopped. Peace. No more pain, except for the mild discomfort.

"Is—this?" I noticed something in the corner of my eye, an eel-looking shadow with a bulbous head over my shoulder. When I looked directly at it, it was gone. Reddish-blue ichor sealed my wound, and the blood along my leg and robe faded as my flesh soaked up the blood.

My eyes looked towards Professor Weber again, and the eel-like shadow was back into sight, I looked towards it again, gone, kept double taking, trying to understand the shape of the thing. The Whisper. My Whisper.

It seemed to be a cold gray, having a tail, traveling around to my back, while the body grew to a bulbous head with large, nostril-like holes peppered around the top. A small mouth-like hole and teeth, no bigger than a quarter resided on the tip. It slithered around, the head larger than my own.

"Yeah, I told you they were real," he smiled, sitting on an adjacent bed, sighing, combing his fingers through his greasy hair. "Damn, you—really had me there," he chuckled, like—a real joyful laugh, emerging from eons of sadness. Eons of pressure. Eons of fear.

Tears streamed down both of our faces.

"Welcome to the cult, Liam," his eyes closed, tears dripping to his lap.

"Tell me about Lexi and the—," nausea filled my stomach, cutting me off.

"Shh. Let's—just—relax. Okay?" He looked over to the window, smiling at a couple of birds, sitting on a tree outside. My eyes looked to the birds, too. I ignored the Whisper and laughed.

I could've died then, just like at the pond. Like actually dead. Not able to write. Not able to teach. Not able to warn.

You never forget almost dying, fellow reader. You never do. Then. Now. Always.

Some of you know what I mean, and you others, well, good luck, fellow friends.

As for what I felt during that moment while I laughed at the birds...

Absolutely pissed...

I was lustful for truth. Gluttonous for justice. A fearful man, ready to take on the cult. Sure, I almost died twice, but it was clear as day. She said I couldn't stop her, well, I disagree.

Claire and James are envious of one trait I possess that they do not.

I'm. Really. Fucking. Stubborn.

Let the dance begin, witch.