#mystery

Jacky's Prince Of Dreams 1.5+ Psychic Crime Fiction by Andre Michael Pietroschek Disclaimer: No warranties!

My dad Don may as well have been dead this past year. Hell, you could make the argument he may as well have been dead for nearly the past fifty… ever since his brother Tommy passed away from cancer in 1973.

Feedback "This, too, shall pass." — Persian Proverb . . I woke up lying on the cold floor, my cheek pressed against splinters. No wind. No storm. No voices. Just quiet. Dry, suffocating quiet. Dust drifted in the shafts of pale light like falling ash. My mouth tasted like old rust. I stood slowly, my footfalls creaked loud in the emptiness, and wandered into the bedroom. There, resting on the bed, was my notebook.

It’s a late September night, and I’m walking to the Londoun Gateway to catch my train. Sure, it’s midnight, but my cousin Iora called me and told me to get over there immediately. She said she found my dog. My dog Crustin went missing a few years back, and I’d almost forgotten about him, until today. My first thought was: NO WAY! Crustin’s been missing for YEARS, and he’s ALIVE?

Between December 2041 and February 2042, twelve isolated incidents of extreme violence were recorded across six states. Each case involved a first-time offender with no prior criminal record, no psychological instability, and no identifiable motive. The victims varied: spouses, colleagues, children, strangers. Yet the offenders’ demeanour during the acts remained disturbingly alike: calm, focused, deliberate.

“Dad… is that you?” I don’t know why I asked. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the weight of everything tonight — too much, far too much. My father groaned. His voice was hollow. Raspy. I gripped the desk to steady myself, hands trembling, staring at the hood that hid his face. “How did you get up here?” My voice cracked. Living alone was a mistake. “Find. Your. Sister.” His tone was sharp, the same stern cadence he used when anger boiled beneath his words.

Stacy was a diligent office worker-meticulous and thorough. It was a typical, sunny summer day, just like any other. She sat at her desk, buried under a pile of documents to sign and a long list of emails to send. Nothing indicated that her peace was about to be shattered. Her colleague, Michelle, walked into the office, announcing that there was an issue with the ventilation system and that the computers were running louder than usual, though no one knew why.

There are stories that cling to the edges of reality, rumors whispered in bars by old sailors with trembling hands and distant eyes. Stories of ships that drift into the harbor with no crew, no signs of struggle... just eerie silence. But until last week, I thought they were just that... stories.

For three days after I found the rabbit, nothing else had happened. That frightened me more than the noises had. The woods had gone quiet. Not truly quiet. The birds still called in the mornings. Cicadas screamed from the trees in the afternoon. At night, the frogs took over the creek. But the other sounds stopped. No howls. Not footsteps beneath my window. No knocking against the walls. Nothing watched from the pasture either. Nothing moved in the tree line.

“Sir, we found a body!” I trailed toward the frantic yelling of my Assistant Officer. “Jesus Christ, the smell is unbearable!” The living quarters reeked heavily of thick rot and sharp iron. The overwhelmingly pungent odor hit me like a physical wall, forcing me to step out of the room immediately to catch my breath. “What are we thinking?” I asked, steadying myself before stepping back into the doorway. “What do you mean, Sir?” My Assistant Officer shot me a genuinely puzzled look.

By the end of our first week, father had stopped talking about Boston. That was how I knew he was happy. Every morning he woke before sunrise, dressed without lighting a lamp, and went outside with an axe over one shoulder. By breakfast, he had already split enough wood to last us for several days. He repaired the barn roof. He cleared the weeds from the garden for mother. He even found an old plow beneath a pile of rotten boards and spent the better part of two days repairing it.

Father did not sleep that night. Neither did I. After the fourth call faded into the mountains, he checked every door and window in the house twice. Then he pulled a chair beside the front door, laid the shotgun across his knees and remained there until morning. Nobody talked much. Mother took Thomas into their room. Evelyn stayed downstairs. She sat wrapped in a blanket near the stove, occasionally looking toward the windows whenever the house creaked.

“Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it.” — Matthew 7:13

I remember one day, slumbering comfortably. I was experiencing a great dream. Full of colors, and bright lights. But that's when I woke up in the middle of the night. I was sweating, everywhere, and anywhere. I wiped my head clean, and noticed something strange. My door was slightly open, showing the light outside. Then I got a frightful epiphany, I must hide. The next day I fell fast asleep, exhausted from work. But the same thing happened once more, Woke up, sweaty, door open.

“Beneath the world’s frail skin it breeds, Where stars lie drowned in the deep; For centuries, with scorn, it heeds The ones who whisper to the sheep.” “Beautiful view, isn’t it?” I pulled out an earbud and turned toward the speaker. “Sorry, did you say something?” “The view,” the man beside me repeated, using his beer glass as a pointer. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” “Yes, you’re right indeed. Prost!”

The release wing door buzzed before it opened. There was no ceremony to it. No applause. No relief. Just a metal door that opened and closed without emotion. Daniel Danvers stood beside his car in the visitor lot, cigarette balanced between his fingers, smoke unraveling into the cloudy afternoon sky. The gravel shifted under his shoes when he adjusted his stance. He checked his phone again. No new messages from Alexander.

The Text Did Break a Little but I Hope It’s Still Readable Enough or Whatever

As darkness fell and the researchers at the Michigan laboratory finished their work and prepared to leave, something was happening that none of them were aware of. In one of the electric crucible furnaces, where they had been experimenting with creating new, extraordinary substances, something was bubbling restlessly. It seemed to have spiraled out of control, yet no one noticed. Almost all the staff had already gone home, leaving only Mike, who was notoriously slow and phlegmatic.

Sara and Tom scrambled through the castle corridors, hoping to find Roy. They checked everywhere, but he was nowhere to be found. Suddenly, Tom spotted Roy between two suits of armor-huddled, trembling, and paralyzed with fear. "Man, why are you shaking like that?" Tom asked. "I... I... I saw her..." "Who did you see?" "The Mourner... I mean, the ghost of the Mourner. She was gliding down the hallway, "Man, why are you shaking like that?" Tom asked. "I... I... I saw her..."

Someone asked me, “Who are you?” I answered quickly, “I’m glory.” But they smiled. They looked into my eyes, not kindly. “No,” they said, “Who are you?” The question didn’t leave. It followed me home, sat at the edge of my bed. Who am I? Who is glory? I try to think. A depressed soul? Too easy. A tired one? That’s just the surface. Glory. Glory. Glory. I’m limited by my problems, That I can't see past them. Glory. Glory. Glory. Say it enough times,