I dream of plains where the ground is stone masks.

Their faces do not leer, but watch.

Who built these places, who are those others with lanterns scrambling away?

I begin to form a sound. I squawk. A man nearby clucks back. He's handsome. Strong. We are both numbstruck.

A horrible snarling sound out of the dark. Another. How many of them are out there?

Running feet, shadow upon shadow. I shirk away from it stumbling in the long grass. Falling down next to a crying woman. She's...

It takes just a few more seconds to realize that it is me on the reflective surface of the impossibly tall spire-stalk. I gasp. My lantern breaks and splinters spilling burning glass on my calves. I'm not interested in the shadows anymore.

Can they see in the dark? I see lantern light after lantern light winking out around me as I push myself against the stone looking glass. Gasping for air.

Just a long sharp crack in a stone face. Feeling the edges of its facade with my fingers I know that it is not smiling. I bite my lip and and pull. Blood flows through fingers that clutch the makeshift dagger. And I stand up.

A beacon of light stumbles towards me. It's a lantern rolling. The handsome man is being dragged into the voices.

I try not to look at his fading face while I pick up the lantern and run.

But I do. And I wish I had not.


Inspired by the brilliant hellscape by Adam Poots and "friends"