Katya Borozova and the Dreamer Eternal

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZqgOl8Sxjq4

Katya Borozova and the Dreamer Eternal

Part I

When Simon Dewitt jerked up in bed during the wee hours just after midnight, he was drenched in a cold sweat. When one awakens from a dream such as this, one will often come back to one’s self, rationalize one’s experience, and try to fall back into more pleasant dreams. If one is particularly rattled, they may possibly read a book or acquire a warm beverage to calm one’s nerves.

Simon did none of these things. Instead, he threw the damp covers off, meandered in a half-conscious daze out of the bedroom, and in an almost morbid panic, grabbed his paints and brushes and threw himself in front of a half-finished canvas.

A half-an-hour later he was breathing just as hard as when he’d started, and was now covered in paint. But the canvas was complete. What was on it made him shudder, but it was complete.

He paced back and forth for a few minutes, trying to decide just what to do with it. Because the truth was that he had no idea what he’d just created. The thought crossed his mind to grab a lighter and simply burn the damn thing.

And yet, a few minutes after that he was throwing on his coat, and, protecting it under his arm, was running out into the somewhat foggy night.

But this was not a mad dash to nowhere. Simon knew exactly where he was going. Athain College. It was, of course, still the middle of the night, but maybe, just maybe, the person he was looking for might still be there.

It was only a five minute walk to the campus from his apartment, but it felt like longer. He was still in a haze from the night’s happening, and so the streets of Loeilham twisted and coiled around him, everything shimmering unnaturally from the mild condensation.

Finally, his feet met the comforting squish of the green. He looked upwards, and was delighted to see a light on in the window he was looking for.

This particular building was very dark, and his footsteps echoed hollowly as he dashed down the halls. He paid it no mind, far too intent on not getting lost or falling over. He almost failed both of these goals on several occasions. Yet in the end, panting, he found himself in front of the door he’d been looking for. The plaque screwed into the dark wood read: “Gerhart Angell, Professor of Archaeology.”

He knocked, maybe a little more desperately than he intended, and started for the doorknob even before he heard the grunt on the other side.

Stumbling in, the interior was small and cluttered. There were so many books and charts that they spewed from the shelves and rested on every surface imaginable. That made it a little difficult to discern in the dim light just who it was behind the large desk. But one thing was clear: it wasn’t the professor.

Simon wheeled back towards the door, but no, he had entered the right room.

“Can I help you?” the person behind the desk glanced up blearily. Now that she was looking directly at him, it was easier to tell that she was a petite woman with mousy brown hair, which she blew out of her eyes as she tried to get a better look at him.

Sheepishly, Simon took a step into the room. “I’m looking for Professor Angell…”

Her expression turned a touch pitying as she saw the confusion that marred his face. “Sorry,” she said. “You missed him by about this much. He just left for a dig in Egypt.”

“Oh… oh, that’s...”

“I may be of some help,” she offered. “I am his assistant, after all.”

He was having trouble placing her accent, which was not helping. Simon shook his head. “No, it’s not about a class or… or anything… the last seminar of his I took was about, uh… three s-semesters ago…”

She was clearly beginning to notice how out of sorts he was, for she sat up straighter, pity turning to worry. “Then what did you need?”

“Help,” he stated simply, “with this.”

He nearly threw the painting onto the desk. It was making his skin crawl just holding it. The woman looked down at it for a moment, then turned her gaze back to him, frowning. “Sir, this paint is still wet.”

“I know. I just painted it.”

“And you know this is the archaeology department, da?”

“I’m from the art history department,” he tried to explain, “but I know that no one’s there this late, so I came here.”

Her frown deepened. “I do not think you are understanding. I don’t usually work with things newer than about a thousand years old.”

She tried to slide the painting back to him, but he stopped her. “Please, I… I just painted what I saw in a dream.”

He cringed, knowing that there was no way these words would change her mind. But when he opened his eyes, it was only to see her staring down at the painting again.

“What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t. It’s Simon. Uh, Simon Dewitt.”

“Mr. Dewitt, how familiar are you with occultism?”

He shook his head. “I have a passing acquaintance, I suppose, but not much more.”

“Interesting,” she muttered. “These symbols here… and the colors… green and purple…”

Her head shot back up suddenly, her expression entirely altered. With twinkling eyes, she grinned up at him. “My name is Katya Borozova,” she said. “I believe I may be able to help you.”

~ o ~

When Simon next awoke, the sun streaming through the half-broken blinds, he wondered if the whole of last night hadn’t simply been some extension of the same long, convoluted dream. Then he sat up and nearly toppled back over again. His head throbbed. It was in that very specific, sharp way that occurs when one acquires very little sleep.

Blinking in the harsh sunlight, Simon fought against the knife repeatedly stabbing through his brain, and tried to remember when and how he’d gotten back home. The entire series of events rested in such a haze that it was proving quite impossible to ascertain any sort of logical sense from them. He wasn’t even quite sure who he’d spoken to. It hadn’t been the Professor, but beyond that…

Simon stumbled out of the bedroom, hoping that maybe getting something into his slightly queasy stomach might help him remember. As it turned out, breakfast was not needed, as just beyond the door lied an undeniable reminder.

In the middle of the old wooden floor, a young woman was squatting in front of a large assortment of books, papers, and canvasses, in the center of which sat of course his half-an-hour nightmare piece.

She didn’t notice him for several seconds, before reaching to the side for her cup of coffee. Her gaze paused on his feet for just a second, then traveled slowly all the up to his face. “Oh, you’re awake,” she said before turning immediately back to the sprawl. “I met your rat. Or at least, I assumed he was supposed to be here.”

“Sort of,” was all Simon could really mutter, as he wracked his brain trying to remember why she was here.

“He was very sweet. What is his name?”

“Uh… Bastard.”

The girl gasped, looking up at him. “Why would you name him that way?” she asked. “He really is the sweetest rat. He let me kiss his little head.”

“What? How?” Simon frowned. “All he ever does is bite me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Then maybe it is you who is bastard?”

“I—” Simon felt his cheeks turning red for reasons he could not quite determine. “We’re getting off track,” he frowned.

“Oh, I suppose you want to know what I’ve been doing since you passed out on me.”

“Well, yes, but before that,” he gulped, running a hand through his already tangled hair, “I’m going to be honest with you, uh…”

“Katya.”

“Yes, Katya. I… last night was, uh, a bit of a panicked haze and, uh, what exactly happened?”

The other corner of her mouth raised as her smile grew a little more concerned. “Ah, right. I would be a little more worried, but last night you did look very not good.”

“Thanks. I remember going to the Professor’s office…” he prompted.

“Well, I looked it over, the painting, I mean, and I asked if there were any more like it…”

“And I told you I had more at home.”

“So I followed a complete stranger back to his apartment in the middle of the night,” she giggled. “Thank you for helping to carry the books, by the way. You are more able than you appear.”

He wanted to make some sort of comment, but she was clearly foreign. Maybe she didn’t realize she was sort of insulting him. Plus, she was all the help he had.

“We worked for a little while, but you practically fell asleep on the floor so I told you to go to bed. And you have been asleep for the last…” she craned her neck around to look at the clock by the door, “… four hours?”

Simon was horrified. “I left you alone for four hours?” He’d be besides himself with anyone, but it was even worse that she was a young lady.

But Katya just shrugged. “I didn’t really notice. This has all been so interesting…”

“Uh, right. All of this…”

Katya scooted to the side, and he sat down next to her. “I’m going to ask again while you are more coherent,” Katya stared at him with almost caramel-colored eyes. “You are sure you have no experience with occultism, or ancient mythologies…”

“I mean, I am in the art history department,” he shrugged. “I probably know a little more than the average person, but I usually study Enlightenment-era pieces.”

“Hmm…” Katya frowned down at the spread of materials. “Then this is very strange.”

“In what way?”

“In many ways!” She pointed to one of the smaller canvasses. This one was mostly a splattering of letter-like symbols scrawled in his untidy hand. “Do you have any idea what this script is?”

Simon shook his head.

“It’s Enochian,” she grinned, then, when he looked confused: “It’s apparently the language of the angels, but I’m pretty sure some alchemist just made it up.”

She pointed to another canvas. “This one has what looks like hieroglyphics, and I think these dots might be constellations. These images here I have no idea whether they’re writing or just images. But the most striking one of all are the circles.”

“The circles?”

“They’re all magic circles. All of your canvases feature them. And I’ve managed to find an origin for nearly every one, most from medieval manuscripts.”

She flipped through one of the old books laid out open on the ground, and shoved it in his face. And indeed, there was a striking resemblance between the diagram in the leather tome and his hastily-scrawled brush strokes.

“But that’s not all they have in common,” she beamed up at him. “They’re not just any old magic circles. They’re all summoning circles.”

“Summoning circles?” Simon heard his own voice hitch a little. “For summoning what?”

“Oh, all sorts of things, it looks like. We have everything from demons to angels to elementals. There’s only one exception.”

“What’s that?”

She pointed to the middle of the pile, his canvas from last night. “This one. You see this shape here?” she traced a circular pattern towards the center. “This seems to be it, but it’s, well… irregular.” Upon seeing his expression, she explained. “Most summoning circles are largely symmetrical. But this one has some… odd shapes on the top…” And indeed, the jagged lines towards the top seemed to break the circle. “There’s a few discrepancies in the rest as well, but nothing as bad as this one.”

“I probably just painted them imperfectly. They’re from dreams, after all.”

Katya’s eyes widened. “I wanted to ask about that. I never got a chance to last night. You said you painted all of these after having bad dreams. That’s why I took an interest. Before he left for his expedition, Professor Angell had been… studying others dreams. He had me take notes on a lot of them, but I have no idea why. Do you remember yours?”

He had to think about that one for a second. “I… hmm. I think it’s usually very dark. Kind of suffocating. I think I’m deep underground. And there’s a voice with me. It’s different every time, but its always saying the same thing.”

“Which is?” Katya prompted, after he fell silent.

“W… th… a… sorry, I… I can’t quite wrap my head around it, if I’m honest. It mostly sounds like gibberish to me. I know there’s more to them than that. A lot more, I think. But I… I can’t seem to recall it…”

“A voice…” Katya thought. “You think someone’s there underground with you?”

“Or something.”

“Something like this?” she asked, pointed once again to his most recent canvas. It was hidden beneath several layers of lettering, circles, and paint splatter. But now that he squinted, it seemed as if there was almost some sort of shape, or shadow, lurking behind those lines. He wasn’t even quite sure it was made of paint at all. The sight made him shiver.

He checked the other canvasses, and although some were fainter than others, each one had what seemed like this same shape emerging from behind everything else he’d done. It, for some reason, felt very familiar to him.

“Yes,” he muttered, an odd ringing beginning in his ears. “Just like that.”

~ o ~

They worked, there on the floor, for several more hours, only taking a break to run back to Angell’s office to retrieve some of his aforementioned dream documents. Simon held the book for Katya as she translated the Enochian and hieroglyphics, but it all mostly came out as gibberish. Still, she held onto the several sheets of paper they filled, just in case, she said.

She was a very odd girl. Simon noted that right away, but there was almost something… charming about her forwardness. It was calming, in a way. Girls usually made him so nervous. Maybe he was just finding it easier because they had something between them and weren’t just trying to create conversation in a vacuum.

However, as the sun began to dip a little in the sky, casting a nearly eerie orange pall over the city, they found themselves frustrated. After all their work, they had nearly nothing to show for it.

“Well, I’m sorry I wasted your time,” he sighed, but Katya just shrugged.

“It gave me something interesting to do. I learned how to translate Enochian, which I’m sure will be very useful in the future. And the Professor will be happy to have more data for his dream project. I will check on that, by the way,” she glanced over at the box of papers that they still hadn’t touched, which was sitting in the corner of the room. “But after all that, I could sure use a drink.”

“What do you—? Right, you’re foreign.”

“Foreign? What does…?” her eyes widened. “I forgot, no alcohol in this hellscape of a country. The tightwad police allows no fun to be had.”

Simon shrugged. “Well, the people in power right now think that, at least. But if you’re really desperate, I might know a place.”

A small, mischievous smile broke out across her face. “I did not take you as the type to ‘know a place.’”

“What? Why not?”

“Because you are a little… dorky,” she finally decided.

“I may be a dork, but I’m also an artist,” he insisted. “I think ‘knowing a place’ is sort of a qualification for artistic deviancy.”

Her smile grew slightly lopsided. “Are you trying to impress me?” she asked. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He was developing a pretty bad headache, most likely from the stress and lack of sleep, but she wasn’t wrong.

So they headed down the stairs and out of the rather old building. The East Bank streets were already growing quiet at this time of the evening, and so it made for a rather peaceful walk. Here, closer to the river, the culture clash between the two halves of the city was a little less extreme, and the old buildings were lop-sided and crumbling, even though all of them were less than a hundred years old. Many of the college’s students resided in this neighborhood, as rent was cheaper and within walking distance of the campus. That also meant it was the most likely place this side of the city to find some fun.

Although even Simon had to admit that from the outside, Ms. O’Reilly’s Tea Shop did not look all that “fun.” It was the sort of place old ladies occupied to trade the latest gossip. Unassuming outside, kitsch inside. But that made it the perfect place to hide booze, didn’t it? Plus, Ms. O’Reilly was a member of the IRA, so she had more to hide than just some booze anyway.

“Hullo there, Simon, love,” she gave a little, furtive smile at him as they entered. “The usual, I take it?”

He nodded, and Katya looks impressed when stooped, shawled Ms. O’Reilly didn’t even blink at her presence. She didn’t know that the old Irishwoman just made it a policy to not ask questions.

She led them to a door behind the counter and shut it gently behind them.

Beyond, the atmosphere was very different. The lights were low, and a thin haze of smoke pooled up towards the ceiling. Scratchy jazz played from a record somewhere, which was more than enough to fill the small space. Besides the two booths shoved in the corner, the bar was the main piece of furniture, and dominated the room. The wood of the counter was dark, almost black in the dim light.

The man at the bar looked up as they entered, slightly silhouetted by the lights illuminating the liquor display behind him. “Welcome to the Smiling Goat,” he grinned pleasantly, his round spectacles shining in the dark.

“Heya, Cowell,” Simon waved and sat down at the bar. Katya followed suit. She didn’t want to look like she’d never been in a bar before.

“Oh, this is Katya,” Simon gestured to her as the bartender, Cowell, looked over quizzically. “She’s at Athain too, over in the archaeology department. She’s been helping me with a… project.”

“Charmed.” There was something about Cowell’s grin that rubbed her the wrong way. “I ‘own the joint’ as you American’s might say.”

“Don’t lump me in with them,” Katya grumbled.

“Ah, forgive me. Didn’t realize you were also from across the pond. Hmm, Russia, maybe?”

“That’s right.” She was a little surprised. Most didn’t clock it immediately.

“Well, I s’pose you’ll want vodka then, or is that rude of me?”

Katya rolled her eyes. At herself, not him. “No, you nailed it on the head. The cheap stuff, please. I need a good burn.”

“I’ll just have a beer, thanks,” Simon added when Cowell glanced back over to him. “You still got that good stuff from Chicago?”

“Nearly out, but there’s a little left.”

After saluting playfully, Cowell turned back to the bar.

“So, you seem to be a, uh, ‘regular’ here,” Katya observed. Now that there was nothing between them, conversation was proving a little more difficult.

He shrugged. “Sometimes, with friends. You meet a lot of people here that are interested in art. You know, the Bohemian crowd.”

“That reminds me,” Katya said, nodding at Cowell as he passed them their drinks. “You are an artist artist. You paint,” she added when he looked confused. “So why are you in art history department?”

“Well, you’ve seen my work,” he sighed. “It’s not very… good.”

Katya frowned. “Who told you that? Odd, maybe, but not bad.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Of course! Just because not everyone understands it doesn’t make it inferior.”

“Well… thank you,” he smiled a little. “I haven’t heard that from a lot of people. So I thought: well, if I can’t make it, I might as well study it.” He rubbed his temples. His headache was getting worse. He hoped the alcohol might help.

Katya frowned, opening her mouth to interject again, but he didn’t let her. His face was growing a little too red the more they talked about him. “And what about you?” he asked instead. “Russia, was it? You’re a long way from home.”

“You’re… not wrong about that,” she smiled, nearly mysteriously. “I didn’t necessarily… get along very well back home. So I came here.”

“Oh, that’s right. I heard things have been kinda loony since the revolution.”

“The Rev…? Oh, right, of course. If I’m honest, I haven’t lived in Russia since before the revolution. But I don’t like to think about that much. What I’ve been doing here is much more interesting!”

“You’ve been working with Professor Angell, right?”

His eyes were beginning to glaze over a bit, but Katya didn’t really notice. “Oh yes,” she said, “I only had a few credits left and, well, I don’t really have anything to do after school, so he offered to make me his assistant and we’ll see where that leads. He’s really studying some very interesting things. That’s why he’s in Egypt right now. There’s been a tomb recently found for one of the founding members of some sort of cult and… Simon, are you alright?”

Clearly, he was not alright. His cheeks, previously bright red, had over the past minute grown exceptionally pale. He’d been blinking repeatedly, and as she closed the distance between them, concerned, he began swaying on his chair.

“I’m just… a little light-headed,” he tried to stand, but much to both Katya and Cowell’s shock, Simon’s head abruptly hit the counter.

Katya’s gaze shot over to Cowell, who looked just as surprised as she was. “Even he’s not that much of a lightweight.”

But before they could so much as blink, Simon started twitching. The twitches near immediately increased in pace, until he was practically convulsing on the counter. Cowell ran around and together, they grabbed him as best they could, if only to try to prevent him from hurting himself. He flopped nearly as much as a caught fish.

“We’ve got to get him to a doctor,” Katya insisted. “I have no idea what’s happening right now.”

“I can call,” Cowell said. “Let’s get him back to his apartment.”

Yet as the two began to drag him towards the door, Katya nearly dropped him.

“Hes osmec, hes osmec,” he mumbled incoherently. “Hes si het isr’ft.”

A sinking feeling began worming its way through her gut. At this very moment, there was no way to be sure, but as he continued mumbling incoherencies, she couldn’t help noticing that the nonsense nearly resembled that gibberish they’d decoded from his paintings just this morning.

~ o ~

“Are you sure there’s no one else we can call?” Katya asked from the door of Simon’s apartment.

“If there is, I certainly don’t know them,” Cowell shrugged. “I’ve only ever seen him with a few casual acquaintances. No family that I know of.”

“And I didn’t find anything to the contrary in the apartment,” she sighed.

Cowell looked sympathetic. “I’ve called a doctor, he should be round in a minute, love.”

Katya didn’t much care for suddenly being put in charge of a bedridden near-stranger, but there wasn’t much else she could do, was there?

Cowell turned back once to give her a little wave, but now that she saw his face in full light, something itched at her.

“Wait!” she called to him. “I… need to ask you a question, Mr. Cowell.”

“Oh, please, just Cowell is fine.”

“Cowell,” she glanced up at his face, suddenly feeling very cold. “We’ve met somewhere before.”

It wasn’t a question, and Cowell didn’t seem to take it as one. He smiled down at her, and then whispered, in perfect Russian: “The weather’s a little warmer here, isn’t it?”

Part II

The eerie calling of the whippoorwills sets his skin on edge as he drags the sacrifice through the forest. She’s crying, her face a mess of tears and snot. She’s fighting him as well, dragging her feet and squirming as best she can with every step. “Let me see my father!” she keeps screaming, “there’s been a mistake!” He’s been told not to listen to anything she says. His guilt will only ruin the coming glory.

The clearing is just up ahead of them anyway. There’s a hush of expectation, anxiety, maybe a little bit of fear in the crowd. They are not wearing robes, or hoods, or any other sort of suspected garment. Large hats and downturned gazes are enough to keep these ordinary peoples’ identities a secret.

The only person wearing a robe is the man perched upon the hill at the edge of the clearing. He raised his hands in supplication as the girl is placed in front of him. She calls for her father again, but one glance under the hood of the priest is enough to silence her. Nothing to be done now.

She still struggles, but he holds her down upon the altar as the priest slices her from neck to abdomen, blood and viscera spraying into his and his partners’ faces. She screams, but not for long. Or if she does, he doesn’t hear it.

For deep under the earth, something is laughing. Giggling and whispering directly into his ear, filling his head with utter nonsense that threatens to tear his skull asunder.

He is down here too, deep below the world, choking on dirt with every labored inhalation. But he is not alone. It is not just the voice, even now piercing his mind with static. It is so vast under the earth, so dead and cold. And so he fights, grasping at handfuls of sand and mud to try to claw his way out.

He is forced to stop when a series of cold, rubbery fingers wrap around his neck. The dirt enters his mouth as he opens it wide, instinctually trying to gasp for breath. He is choking, choking.

“You cannot stop this,” the voice whispers…

~ o ~

Simon shot up, coughing furiously. For a solid minute, he struggled to make sense of anything around him. His heart pounded in his ears and his mouth was so dry it felt like he was still choking on sand. But finally, he rallied enough to force his vision back into focus, at least as much as he could without his glasses.

Soft sunlight streamed into his bedroom. It looked to be about mid-morning. How… how did he get back here? The last thing he remembered, it was late into the evening, and he had gone down to the speakeasy with…

A loud clatter made him nearly jump out of his skin. Turning towards the noise, he found a large stack of books strewn across the floor, and a very surprised Katya Borozova standing in the doorway, having just dropped the aforementioned books the moment before.

“You’re awake,” she stated bluntly, and the wideness of her eyes concerned him.

“How long have I been… out?” he blinked rapidly with embarrassment.

“Three days.”

“Three—?” Simon tried to stand up, but was caught by a sudden wave of vertigo and plopped back down again.

Katya abandoned her books and approached the bed. “You’ve been delirious with a fever this whole time, ever since you collapsed at the Smiling Goat.”

“And you been here?” he would admit he was a little mortified, so much so that he ironically did nothing to prevent her from feeling his sweaty forehead.

She simultaneously looked a little frustrated and amused at his question. “Well, there’s no one else, is there?” It also came out a little more pointed than she maybe intended.

Simon looked down at his clenched fists.

“No…” he said. “Not really. Thank you…”

Katya looked like she wanted to say something, but instead she reached down to pick up her books.

“Let me—” he made to stand.

“Don’t you dare!” she snapped. “You haven’t eaten in three days and if you collapse on me again so help me god…”

He remained sitting, feeling like a bit of an ass. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Her face softened a bit. “I’ll make you something to eat, then we’ll talk.”

A few minutes later she delivered unto him a few pieces of toast with jam. They were a little burnt. He had the distinct feeling that cooking was not one of her strong points, but he ate them without complaint. It made him feel a little less light-headed, at least.

Katya mostly sat in silence in a nearby chair while he ate, but as soon as he was finished, she blurted out: “Do you have any idea what just happened to you?”

He shook his head slowly, still chewing on his last bite of toast. “Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”

“Did you have any dreams?”

She asked that just as he was swallowing, and he coughed a little as he nearly choked. “Why would you ask that?” he muttered finally.

“You were… saying things… in your sleep.” she admitted. “I wrote them down.”

Grabbing a notebook from a nearby table, Katya found a specific page and passed it to him. Simon stared down at the paper in his lap, blinking profusely. “Is my… brain broken?” he asked after a solid minute.

“If you’re seeing nonsense, then no. Your head is screwed on just right.” Katya smiled. “But doesn’t it look like rather familiar nonsense?”

He looked at it closer. “Come to think of it…”

“It’s the same,” Katya’s eyes glowed, but she didn’t specify. She just handed him a second notebook. Scrawled upon these pages were the exact same words in the exact same order. But above that were the letters in Enochian, and the hieroglyphics, and several other alphabets they’d found on his canvases.

“I… I have no explanation for this,” he admitted.

“Nor do I!” she grinned broadly as she said it. “But I have a few ideas. I’ve been stuck here for the last three days, after all.”

“Like what?”

“Like… no, wait.” Katya’s face scrunched up as she berated herself. “You just woke up twenty minutes ago. We should make sure you’re really okay first. Can you stand?”

Simon nodded, a little disappointed that she was holding back. But he wasn’t lying, since eating his toast his light-headedness had mostly receded. Katya insisted on helping him, which was for the best, as he was still a bit shaky.

“Mmm, maybe you should take a bath first, too,” Katya commented. “You do not smell so good.”

He was about to reply with something no doubt scathing, but then he caught a whiff of himself and had to agree with her. Katya looked a little worried about the prospect, but he insisted that he was fine.

“Alright, I’ll let you alone, but I will be very upset if you hurt yourself.”

It was totally fine. Despite a small amount of shakiness, Simon didn’t feel any worse than a morning after a little too much to drink. The steam from the bath helped with the remnants of his headache, and he actually felt quite refreshed now as he met Katya back out in the main room.

“You look… fine,” she commented.

“Should I not be?”

“I would think you would at least be sore from all the thrashing.”

“Alright, you’re really going to have to fill me in on… everything.” He almost found himself a little exasperated.

“You’ve been in the throws of some bizarre fever for the last three days. You were muttering gibberish to yourself and thrashing around so bad you nearly hit the floor several times.”

“I… that’s why you’ve been so concerned.”

“I’m finding it odd how suddenly you are fine.” Katya looked just a little disturbed. “You are sure this has never happened to you before?”

“As far as I’m aware.” For some reason, he felt embarrassed about not having a more exciting answer for her. “But I doubt the two of us will make much progress on that front. What have you been doing all this time?”

“Well,” Katya began, “the first thing I did was telegram the professor. You know, since he was researching strange dreams and such. His response was, and I quote: ‘Keep an eye on him, stop. Could be valuable subject, stop.’”

“Happy to have his concern,” Simon frowned.

Katya shrugged, grinning sheepishly. “He may have a point. Most of what I’ve been doing is going through his box of dream research.”

“And you found something?”

“Many somethings,” she admitted. “You are not the only one having strange dreams. I was helping a little here and there, but I had no idea his research had been so… extensive. There are dozens of accounts in that box of odd dreams. All from the past two months.”

Simon plopped down on the sofa, confused. “But why document it? Everyone has strange dreams all the time.”

“Not like these,” she explained. “Most of those dreams were variants of the exact same things.” Katya reached into the cardboard box, pulling out a neat document. “Athalia Brown, thirty-seven, housewife. Repeated dreams of being buried alive, while a voice speaks to her in gibberish. Joseph Thayer, twenty-six, solicitor. Has dreamt five times in the last month of being somewhere dark and cold. Voice whispering in his ear, can’t make out the words. Mary—”

“Let me guess: dreams of being underground, spoken to by a faceless voice.”

“Well, yes, but actually there’s more to this one.” Even Katya looked a little surprised. “Some place dark and cold, whispering voice, but this time, there is a hooded figure who cuts her open before she’s buried underground.”

“A… hooded figure?” the hairs on the back of his neck raised, though he didn’t quite know why. Simon thought about it for a second, almost had it… nope, it was gone.

By this point, Katya was digging through the box again. “Actually, this one’s a little different too… dark place, whispering voice, but then there’s mention of being in a crowd full of people who wouldn’t look at each other…”

There it was again! That strange itching feeling.

“This one here mentions being in the middle of the woods.”

“Katya,” Simon interrupted her suddenly. “I think I remember something.”

“About what?”

“About the dream I was stuck in for the past three days. The darkness and the voice were the same as they always are, but there was something before that…”

Once the words started coming, they didn’t stop. Simon remembered it as he went. The clearing in the woods, the girl screaming for her father, the blood-hungry crowd and the carnage they watched with rapturous gazes.

The two started frantically digging through the box, and as they did, they found more and more notes of scattered fragments that meant nothing on their own, but when put together, seemed to construct Simon’s complete dream.

“This is almost… scary,” Katya admitted.

“I… I think it might be… real.” Simon didn’t really know why he felt that way.

“Like a prophetic dream?” Katya seemed a little skeptical.

“Maybe… I don’t know,” Simon struggled to put it into words. “It almost feels like a warning. I think it’s happened here, and it’s happening soon.”

“Well, there’s one good way to make you sound not insane,” Katya sighed. “It is also my least favorite thing in the entire world.” She held up one of the documents. On the top was the name, age, and occupation of the dreamer, and also a phone number to contact them. “Telephone calls.”

Of course, not all of them had phone numbers, not all of them had phones. But of those that did, they picked a few at random and attempted to call. They quite annoyed the operator in doing this. When the first one rang for too long Katya was relieved, but then the next one did as well, and the next. They must have called ten people and not a single one of them answered.

“They’re all there,” Simon muttered. “It’s happening now.” He realized that he probably did sound insane. But it was a feeling deep down somewhere past his gut. Something visceral. He knew this was true. He could almost see it happening behind his eyelids.

“Alright,” Katya tried to stay rational. “Say you are not wrong, and there is a cult sacrificing a young woman right now: where are they? How are we to know?”

Simon didn’t have an answer for her, and glanced over towards the window on the far side of the room. But then, he froze. Blinked a few times. “Katya…” he said softly. “I think I might actually have an answer to that…”

His canvas, the one that had started this whole thing, was resting on the sofa. Simon picked it up and held it up to the light.

“What are you doing?” Katya asked as he repeatedly raised and lowered the painting.

“Well, I just remembered,” he said, “you commented that the magic circle on this one is odd. I think it’s because it’s not a magic circle at all.”

Frowning, Katya pressed her face close to his to see what he was looking at. Her mouth dropped open.

“It’s the view from this window.”

Just as he said, the jagged upper lines of the “circle” perfectly matched the outlines of the buildings and beyond that, the tops of the trees that started near the edge of town.

“I left it for myself. It’s happening that way.”

Katya’s frown grew deeper. “And you’re really sure about this?”

He nodded. “What do you think we should do?”

“Call the police, probably.” It was the most normal thing she’d said since they’d met. “What can you or I do against a whole crowd of people?”

“Do you think they’ll believe us?”

Katya froze, then she seemed to think of something. “Yes, I do believe they will.” She ran not over to the telephone, but once again over to the cardboard box. “This whole thing started with a suicide,” she explained. “The… victim left writing that looked like, of course, hieroglyphics, at the scene, so the officer in charge of the case contacted the professor. I’m sure his name is in here somewhere…”

She dug around for a minute, before finding a single piece of paper. “Ahh! Here it is. Detective Le-grass? La-grahse?”

Simon glanced down at the paper, which turned out to be a letter. “Looks French,” he commented. “Probably La-grahse.”

“I never learned French,” Katya clicked her tongue. “They tried, but it never stuck.”

Before he could ask about the specificity of that comment, she picked up the phone and dialed the police station. Simon put his head next to the receiver so he could hear as well.

“Hello?” Katya said in response as someone picked up the line. “I’m looking to speak to a, uh, Detective Legrasse?”

“Speaking,” came a deep, husky voice.

“My name is Katya Borozova, I’m the assistant to Professor Gerhart Angell.”

“Borozova? Oh, yes, I’m sure the Doc mentioned you. How can I help?”

After taking a deep breath, Katya explained everything they’d found as quickly as she could. And when she was done, there was silence for just a moment.

Then came a deep sigh. “So, it’s happening again, huh?”

“Again?” Katya and Simon glanced at each other in confusion.

“South of town, you say? It’ll take us a while to mobilize, but we’ll be down as soon as we can.”

And before she could get another word in, he hung up the phone. Luckily for him, Katya looked just as confused as Simon felt. But that expression was quickly departing in favor of a new one: a clenched sort of determination.

“Katya…” he began, “what are you thinking…?”

“That the police are not going to get there fast enough,” she admitted. “I mean, it all could be happening right at this very moment, for all we know.”

“It could, but like you said, what would you even be able to do to stop them?”

“I don’t know, but would you try to stop me?”

Simon sighed. He’d only just become acquainted with her, but he was already well aware that Katya was more a force of nature than a person. “I’d say that I’m going with you.”

“Really?”

“You’re so short, you’d get trampled by the crowd.”

Katya frowned. “That wasn’t very funny, Simon.”

~ o ~

Loeilham had been carved out of the thick northern forests, grown up on the logging industry, so it made sense that it was still surrounded by such. Less than a mile out of town the roads and fields gave way to trees, and this was where Katya and Simon found themselves struggling southward. Unconventional though it was, Simon supposed they were lucky Katya was wearing pants. He found himself falling a little behind her.

“I wish your dream had been more specific,” she complained as she scampered over divots and fallen trunks. “It could have at least told us how far we would be going.”

“I don’t know if that’s how this kind of thing works.” Simon wasn’t quite panting, but he was getting close. “Besides, it might not even be real.” Now that he was out in the fresh air, he was starting to think that his panic had been a little silly.

“No, it is.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You were so confident about it earlier. It seems out of character for you to be so certain.”

“Well, gee, thanks.”

They continued in silence for another minute, before Katya turned back for just a second. “But I’m glad you came with me.”

“So, what exactly is the plan here?” Simon asked. “We’re unarmed, and up against a full crowd. And no offense, but I don’t think either of us stand much of a chance.”

“The only thing we need to do is stall them until the police get there. They shouldn’t be that far behind us. If the sacrifice doesn’t happen, then no one will do anything they’ll regret.”

“Regret? Aren’t your priorities a little backwards?”

“Explain.”

“I mean, I thought we came here to prevent anyone from being killed?”

“We are.”

“But you sound like you care more about the cultists.”

She paused mid-stride, and didn’t say anything for a moment. Simon waited.

“It’s not that I don’t care about the sacrifice, I do. But no one ever thinks about the cultists.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, usually in situations like this, there’s one or two people that are actually the lunatics, and everyone else somehow becomes involved. Maybe they’re vulnerable and looking for somewhere to belong, or they don’t take it seriously enough until it’s too late. Maybe they’ve been coerced into it… It’s not their fault they’re here. Especially if our hunch is correct and these people are your fellow dreamers, I doubt they’re quite in their right minds. I doubt they’d want to do what they’re doing… I just don’t want anyone else to have to feel that guilt.”

There was something strange about the wording of that sentence. Simon opened his mouth to ask when off in the distance, they heard something. It sounded almost like… chanting.

Katya put a finger to her mouth and pointed ahead of them, to where light was visible through the trees, rendered more prominent against the growing gloom. They crept forward as quietly as they could, and the chanting grew louder. It was still gibberish, but oddly familiar gibberish.

Through the last layer of trees, they spied a large crowd gathered in a clearing. It was just as Simon had described in his dream. None of them were wearing robes or anything of the sort, just large hats or other head-wear that kept their identities vague. The whole thing seemed almost a bit impromptu. Even the lights were just a few electric lanterns.

On the far side, on a little hill, the only robed person was leading the chanting. It was nearly a drone, the same thing repeated over and over again. That same phrase that Simon had muttered in his delirium: “Hes osmec, hes osmec. Hes si het isr’ft.”

Katya glanced over, half-expecting Simon to start repeating it right along with them. But he mostly looked horrified, staring at the scene like he’d already seen it before, and knew exactly how it was going to end. He probably did.

She felt him tense suddenly, and as she turned back to the scene, she noticed the crowd parting as a young woman was dragged through. “Please, somebody, find my father,” she was begging. But no one was listening to her.

Just like in his dream, she was dragged up to the hill, where the robed man was holding the knife. When she was brought close enough, she caught a glimpse of the man’s face, and stopped screaming for her father. Instead, she now just wailed in despair.

The chanting rose to a frenzied fever pitch, the man raised his knife… and Katya was no longer next to Simon. Quick as a flash, she had scrambled into the clearing and up the hill, and had grabbed the man’s arm.

He fought against her, attempting to force the knife downwards. “Don’t…” she muttered. “Don’t do this. You are making a grave mistake.”

The man didn’t seem to hear her at all, and he was much stronger than she was. Simon started forward, though he had no idea what he was actually going to do…

But before he could take a step, a firm hand gripped his shoulder. Just as he turned to see a pair of kindly blue eyes meet his, a whole coterie of men in blue burst into the clearing. The police had arrived just in time.

One officer quickly disarmed the man with the knife, and Katya fell to her knees. Simon ran to her, and mostly managed to catch her.

He didn’t get much out in the way of words, however, as just then the officer with the kind eyes approached them. “Are you Katya Borozova?” he asked her, and she nodded weakly. “Good,” he nodded. “We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

~ o ~

The police cleared up the scene fairly quickly. It was a bit of a long march to the paddy wagons parked on the edge of the forest, but before long, all of the would-be cultists were carted away for questioning. Later it would be discovered that most of them were incredibly confused about what they were even doing out there, and all commented that they’d almost felt as if the whole thing was some sort of terrible dream.

Since most of them proved to be useless, it was Simon and Katya that spent several hours being questioned about their involvement in the affair. It turned out, of course, that the officer was Detective Legrasse, and he listened quietly as the two explained everything that they knew, though for some reason Katya insisted that she had dragged Simon home and called the doctor by herself. When they were done, Legrasse simply sighed. “Then the doc was right. It’s just going to get worse.”

“What do you mean by that?” Katya frowned.

Legrasse stared her down appraisingly. “Look,” he said. “It would be best if the two of you just returned to your studies and forgot any of this ever happened.”

“I would like very much to do just that,” Katya’s frown intensified. “But I still have some questions. Why, among all these dreamers was Simon the only one to become ill? And why does it seem only he got the full picture of these dreams? Also, why did this happen in the first place? Is something… bigger behind it?”

Legrasse seemed a little overwhelmed by her interrogation. “I can’t answer any of your questions, because I’m just as stumped as you are. But I’ll inform the doc of your concerns. For now, why don’t you two get some rest?” He gestured over to Simon, who, now that the adrenaline had worn off, was nearly falling asleep in his chair.

Katya was disappointed, and was grumbling something about telegramming Angell herself as they headed out into the evening streets.

By now it was dark, and their breath froze in the chilled air. Though they made to start walking, Simon paused.

“Katya,” he said, and she turned back. “I… I just wanted to say: I think I may be the most clueless one here, and, well, if you hadn’t shown up when you did, I don’t know what I would have done.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she smiled. “You’re the one who found me, remember?”

“Right, still… thank you.”

She stared back at him for a moment, and for once, it seemed like she was at a loss for words. “You’re welcome,” she said finally. “But you know, if you want to pay me back, we never did finish that drink…”

He had to laugh at that. “You’re right. We never did. My treat?”

“As long as you do not collapse on me this time.”

They both laughed at that, and Simon realized he was smiling. He felt like he hadn’t in a very long time.

“It’s a deal.”