"Which that false fruit that promised clearer sight
– John Milton, Paradise Lost
Had bred; then purged with euphrasy and rue
The visual nerve, for he had much to see;"
Dreams are an interesting and misunderstood space, littered with roaming phantasms of countless description and purpose, capable of caressing an unsettled mind or rending it utterly to tattered shreds. No realm hides more danger than that of dreams, yet visions and answers experienced here become relegated to storybooks, forgotten and underestimated. But reality is a fickle mistress, and ultimately bows and scrapes in feeble supplication when confronted with the arrival of sleep. Thus legends are born: The Sandman, The Boogeyman, Hypnus, Morpheus, avatars and spectres great and small. All of these and more witness the hasty arrival of Kyle Cemtes as he bursts through the veil as if thrust by the Hand of God. So violently did Kyle appear, shockwaves warped the Dimension of Altered Sight to its very end; not one unconscious mind missed the subtle ripple, though none would remember.
The new arrival was engulfed in an imposing shroud and the message was clear: Kyle was a pariah, an untouchable and likely unwilling resident carrying with him a Parasite. None of this mattered to the boy, as every iota of recent memory lay obliterated by such rapid onset of slumber. Kyle's Lucidity returned gradually, hindered as the contents of his cranium still vibrated with shock. But that was really the only thing abnormal about the situation; once asleep and accustomed to condition, the circumstances mattered little.
Finally his mind's eye opened, and all Kyle could see was rubble of abandoned buildings haphazardly strewn over a desolate half mile. He could only guess at the extent, as everything was blanketed in a damp and patchy fog, drifting and obscuring structures mere yards ahead. The entire scene practically roared of exaggerated decay, mired in an aura of loss so complete, Kyle felt forlorn simply gazing upon the tiniest shattered brick. No matter where he looked, left or right, up or down, a foreboding halo radiated from the spectacle, draining his resolve and depressing his will. Cheery place, bring the whole family!
No matter the sheer calamitous potency leaking from every edifice, Kyle was pulled as iron to a magnet, and he walked. Each footfall drove a plume of dust around his battered sneakers. The displaced dirt produced not a light shuff, but the creaky echo of old boards long past the point of snapping. Faint hollow cracking noises filled the air, causing Kyle to suppress an urgent desire to scream. He slammed his eyes closed and simply breathed for a few rough seconds, refusing to move in fear of further disturbing the ground. But as always in times like this, other more arresting predicaments presented themselves and forced action.
A few feet to Kyle's left, a dull and exaggerated metalic groan broke the silence he so desperately craved. It was followed swiftly by a high-pitched squeal, metal on metal at its absolute worst. Kyle froze where he stood and shook, his eyelids mashed so strongly closed he was mildly afraid of permanent damage to his eyes. The sounds of course continued, undaunted by Kyle's outright refusal to acknowledge each bone-chilling creak and whine. His breathing was reduced to shallow rasps, each a truncated pant critically flirting with outright panic.
But as Kyle listened, an obvious pattern in the industrial sounds emerged: high sqeek followed by a low struggling groan, driven by a sharp clinking. Kyle knew that succession of notes, though eerily distorted, as a playground swing-set. Essentially every child born within the last two centuries recognized that distinct and enticing melody. An authentic swing complete with steel supports and chains hanging from guide-loops into any one of a staggering multitude of saddles. God! Scared out of my mind by a swing. Dad would never let me live this down!
Kyle shook his head and opened his eyes, quickly turning his body to face the source of the unwelcome raucous. Just as he expected, a dilapidated swing stood in distinct contrast from the surrounding ruins. Thick with rust, one chain support dragged lazily in the dirt while the other grated loudly against the top loop, wailing hotly as the gritty rust and ancient iron clung together in protest. A thicker patch of mist engulfed the playground, though the harsh melody continued unabated. Invisible in the haze, light echos of children as they giggled and played forced Kyle to gulp and hastily avert his scrutiny. An abandoned playground was one matter; ghost children frolicking there demanded undivided apprehension.
And yet it seemed he'd never lack another object or wonder to gaze upon here. After mentally retreating from the impossibility of a haunted playground, his eyes settled upon a larger building in the distance that failed to completely collapse upon itself. Though mottled by the pervasive gloom, one structure clearly stood apart. All around him were crumbled skeletons of houses and brick storefronts dashed to splinters and discarded heaps. Occasionally he'd catch the glimmer of broken glass embedded in the dirt, remains of doors with their hinges yanked halfway out, basements filled-in with a hazardous assortment of debris as the structure sagged and sank into the foundation. Most of the wooden construction had been effectively atomized, reduced to a thin pile of moldy planks perched over former crawlspaces, stone stairways reaching into yawning nothingness. Kyle was surrounded by unmitigated destruction and havoc as only time can inflict.
Yet among the devastation, the distant spire that caught his attention was remarkably untouched. Had Kyle been in school and someone finished elaborating such a scene, he would have immediately declared shenanigans to prompt any manner of proof. Though still blurred and opaque, there was a conspicuously intact building about one hundred yards from his present location, seemingly mocking the less fortunate siblings that succumbed to the ravages of advanced antiquation. Kyle could only imagine the rude gestures each would display at the haughty building, were any in a condition to complain. Arrogant or not, that single undisturbed bastion of solidity was undeniably his next destination. Searching each mass of wreckage would take countless days and likely reveal no clues beyond what he inherently and mysteriously knew: this was ancient ground. Everything he needed was straight ahead, a beacon amidst rocky shores.
When Kyle resumed walking, he winced slightly as the ground again bemoaned his passage with cracks and groans, lamenting even the lightest steps he could manage. Presently he forged ahead, forgetting any pretense he'd held about staying quiet. This whole place embodied sheer insanity, so why shouldn't the ground react like a badly maintained hardwood floor? So what if fifteen horror movies worth of ghosts played tag a few yards to his left? Who cares if the entire environment painted a picture straight from the trusty cliche of an abandoned town? Nothing made any modicum of sense, so why not just stalk unashamedly toward the single aspect that resisted the established and twisted logic to which everything else adhered? All things considered, it made perfect sense.
But as he came closer to what was probably either a church or an old schoolhouse, he noticed his augmented sense of resolve wasn't weakening the outright banal force the entire area exuded. He didn't feel any safer emboldened by understanding and nonchalance. Worse, Kyle's new bravado seemed increasingly manufactured and brittle, especially when he noticed the sky was darkening. He felt as if immersed within a rift in sanity, and things both sinister and malevolent lurked behind every pebble, awaiting an excuse or permission to consume his very being. It wasn't just paranoia; he knew it was true as confidently as he knew his own name. There were no tentacled beasts or ancient horrors unknowable by Man in this place, no demons or even wraiths drifting in the fog. Something altogether more dire glared at and through him, prompting a very sincere and intense desire to hide.
Still he walked. Really there was nothing else he could do. There was no shelter from the crawling feeling through his body, for life lost all meaning and resembled an empty facade. Kyle's only hope, the single thought drawing him forward to the apex in a sea of oblivion, revolved around blocking the infernal gaze boring through his soul.