Amara had always been a sleepwalker. As a child, her parents would find her wandering the hallways, mumbling nonsensical phrases, her eyes wide open but unseeing. Over time, they learned to guide her gently back to bed, chalking it up to an odd but harmless quirk. But as she grew older, her nocturnal wanderings became more elaborate.
By the time she moved into her own apartment, Amara had installed multiple locks on her doors and even placed bells on the windows. She’d wake up some mornings to find herself in the kitchen, an untouched cup of tea on the counter, or sitting on the couch with her shoes on. It unnerved her, but it was manageable. At least, it had been until the dreams began.
The first dream came on a rainy November night. In it, Amara stood in an empty field, the sky a sickly yellow, and the air heavy with a metallic tang. She could see a forest in the distance, its trees unnaturally tall and twisted. A voice whispered from the darkness, calling her name. “Amara… come closer.” She wanted to run, but her feet moved of their own accord, dragging her toward the woods.
When she woke, her feet were muddy, her hands scratched as though she’d clawed through brambles. She dismissed it as a particularly vivid dream—her overactive imagination, nothing more. But the dreams persisted, each more vivid and terrifying than the last.
One night, she found herself standing before a massive iron gate, its surface covered in symbols that glowed faintly. The whispering voice was louder now, almost pleading. “Come inside, Amara.” Against her will, her hand reached out, and as soon as her fingers brushed the gate, she awoke with a start. Her palms were covered in a fine layer of soot.
Amara tried everything to stop the sleepwalking. She consulted doctors, tried meditation, and even tied herself to her bed. But none of it worked. Each night, she was drawn deeper into the nightmare, and each morning, she woke with new evidence that her dreams were more than figments of her imagination.
The breakthrough came when she found an old journal in her grandmother’s attic. The pages were filled with detailed accounts of similar dreams—fields under sickly skies, twisted forests, and a gate marked with glowing symbols. Her grandmother, it seemed, had also been a sleepwalker. At the back of the journal was a warning: “Do not touch the gate. It leads to the Other Place. If you enter, you may never return.”
That night, Amara tried to stay awake. She downed cup after cup of coffee and paced her apartment until her legs ached. But sometime around 3 a.m., she succumbed to exhaustion. The next thing she knew, she was back in the field, standing before the iron gate. This time, the voice was insistent. “You’re almost there, Amara. Just a little closer.”
Her body moved without her consent, her hand outstretched. She fought against the pull, her mind screaming in protest, but it was no use. Her fingers touched the gate, and a blinding light engulfed her.
When she opened her eyes, she was no longer in her apartment, or even the field. She stood in a vast expanse of shifting shadows, where the ground seemed to ripple like water and the air hummed with an eerie, discordant melody. Figures moved at the edges of her vision—tall, elongated beings with hollow eyes that seemed to pierce straight through her.
“Welcome,” a voice said, and Amara turned to see a figure emerging from the shadows. It was humanoid but unsettlingly wrong, its features blurred as though viewed through frosted glass. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
“Where am I?” she demanded, her voice trembling. “What is this place?”
The figure tilted its head. “This is the Between,” it said. “A realm of dreams and nightmares, of things forgotten and things yet to be. You’ve crossed over, Amara. You belong to us now.”
“No,” she whispered, backing away. “This isn’t real. This is just a dream.”
The figure laughed, a sound that echoed and warped in the strange air. “Dreams are more real than you know. And you’ve been tethered to this place for a long time. Every step you took in your sleep brought you closer. You opened the gate. There’s no going back.”
Amara refused to accept it. She turned and ran, the ground shifting beneath her feet, the landscape changing with every step. One moment she was in a forest of glass trees, the next on a bridge made of bones. The figures were everywhere, watching, whispering, their voices a cacophony in her mind.
She didn’t know how long she ran. Time had no meaning here. But eventually, she found herself at the edge of a cliff, staring into a churning abyss. Behind her, the figures closed in, their hollow eyes gleaming with anticipation.
“There is no escape,” the first figure said, appearing at her side. “You are one of us now. Accept it.”
Amara shook her head, her mind racing. She remembered her grandmother’s journal, the warning not to touch the gate. But there had been more, hadn’t there? A way to resist, a way to…
The symbols. The glowing symbols on the gate. They had been familiar, almost like runes she’d seen in her grandmother’s old books. Desperate, she closed her eyes and tried to remember, tracing the shapes in her mind.
When she opened her eyes, the abyss before her began to change. The churning darkness stilled, replaced by a faint glimmer of light. The figures hissed and recoiled, their forms dissolving into the shadows.
“What are you doing?” the figure demanded, its voice no longer calm but panicked.
Amara didn’t answer. She stepped closer to the edge, the light growing stronger, and reached out. The air was heavy, resistant, but she pushed through, her hand closing around something solid. With a surge of will, she pulled.
The light engulfed her, and for a moment, she felt as though she were falling, tumbling through endless space. Then, with a jolt, she woke up.
She was back in her apartment, her heart racing and her body drenched in sweat. The morning light streamed through the windows, and the familiar sounds of the city drifted in. But something was different. Her hands were clutching an object—a small, iron key engraved with the same symbols that had been on the gate.
Amara stared at it, her mind racing. She didn’t know what it meant or why it had come back with her, but one thing was clear: the connection to the Other Place wasn’t severed. Not completely.
The dreams didn’t stop, but Amara was no longer a passive participant. Each night, she found herself back in the Between, the key in her hand. And each night, she fought to unravel its secrets, determined to reclaim her nights—and her life—from the nightmare.
The battle wasn’t over, but for the first time, she had a weapon. And she intended to use it.