VisceralImagination

Did you know tens of thousands of people die in their sleep each night? Most of them succumb to natural causes like heart disease, stroke, or just plain old age. But in that vast group of the fallen, a small subset of them have perished with no explanation at all. Hell, I've heard some have outright disappeared. The funny thing is they all shared one curse that led them to such a demise.

“I still have nightmares about my mother,” I told my friend Zack on a frigid October night in downtown Mystic. “She’s running through the Darién jungle from a man dressed head to toe in camouflage. His face is shadowy and deformed. I can’t see my mother’s face, but I can hear her scream.” Zack’s face was as pale as mine, flushed with goosebumps. “I…don’t know what to say.”

It was the morning after I had said my vows in the shield hall of the Twilight Gate when I first doubted my decision to join the Asundrian Order. A strange notion, I know. Who ever heard of a doubting Sentinel? After all, there are only two types of people in Asunder: the honorable few with unwavering dedication to the cause, and those who gambled away the prerogative to question their choices; no in-between. In truth, there are probably far more stories like mine - bland, told a thousand times…

"What do you mean, 'you're almost there'?" Ralf's voice was barely audible through the prattle of the nightly downpour. "Past the exit sign." I leaned closer to the phone holder. "I'll be there in 20 minutes. 30 at most." I tried to come up with a quick estimate how long it would take to unload the hodgepodge of furniture and crates from the estate sale, but Ralf cut me off. "It's Friday, Frank." A pause, then: "We said Saturday."

I consider myself a pretty average resident of Indianapolis, Indiana. I was born and raised here, went to school here, and I'm currently attending Martin University to earn my degree in Environmental Science. Just like my dad always wanted. I enjoy motorsports and home makeover shows, and I love me a good sugar cream pie. I've been called a 'Midwestern stereotype' more than once, but only by new acquaintances from uni. By people who don't know I haven't always been this way.

We had been sailing for months after departing from the port of Whitehill, and had left even the most remote hunting grounds of the whalers behind weeks ago. The charts put us northeast of the Forsaken Islands, but their bleak shores were not our destination. Our route led us farther north than most men had ever sailed, across the desolate black waters of the Northern Sea.

There were six of us when we left the trading post and traveled in the western direction, following the river in the shadow of the Inech mountains. The market we had visited was one of the few places in the world where a ragtag group like us did not stand out from the crowd.

I don't want to burst anyone's bubble, here… so if you believe in haunted "Lost Episode" legends and enjoy living in that world, maybe this isn't the post for you. Don't get me wrong - I hate when people complain about "lack of realism" in entertainment, and I think all kids need to believe in Santa and the Tooth Fairy for as long as possible, but… this is different.