Psychologically, dreams are defined as "subjective memories of what we experience while sleeping" or "vivid, visual sequences of imagery that occur at regular intervals during sleep" as outlined in studies by Kithing et al. and Russel et al.
These scholars describe dreams as fragmented narratives shaped by the brain's attempt to process emotions, memories, and sensory stimuli during REM cycles. Yet, for all their clinical precision, such definitions fail to capture the visceral, almost mystical quality of dreaming—the way it dissolves the rigid boundaries of time, space, and identity. To an ordinary person, dreams are less a neurological phenomenon and more a descent into a realm where reality unravels.
If you were to ask someone untethered to academic jargon, they might describe dreams like this: They are the colors of the waking world melting into shadow, then into a deep, velvety black. For a moment, there is nothing—only weightlessness in silence. Then, images imperceptibly begin to stir like ripples on still water. Shapes form without effort, scenes bloom from the darkness like ink spreading through liquid, and logic slips away as dreaming takes hold—fluid, surreal, and unbound by reality.
Yet, as I stand here now, I know with chilling certainty that this is no dream. The scenery around me is too precise, too tangible, to belong to the hazy logic of sleep. My bare feet press into cold, uneven soil, and the scent of pine and woodsmoke stings my nostrils.
Behind me, a dense forest stretches endlessly, its canopy swallowing the horizon. Before me lies a village, rustic and primal, its ring of oak-and-stone huts encircling a roaring bonfire. The flames claw at the night sky, casting jagged shadows that dance like specters across the ground.
This place is foreign, yet unnervingly complete. These are not the fragmented vignettes of a dream or the half-remembered edges of a memory. I've never seen such a village, never conjured it even in childhood fantasies. But what disturbs me more is my own body. I raise a trembling hand, and in the firelight, I see skin stretched taut over skeletal fingers, knuckles protruding like knots on a gnarled branch. My arms—frail, unfamiliar—shudder as I clutch at the rough fabric of a tunic I don't recognize.
"Hmmmm,"
The sound is wrong. My voice is higher, softer, tinged with a life I haven't possessed in years.
But how? A moment ago, I was falling. The memory hits me in fragments: the wind screaming in my ears, the dizzying blur of skyscrapers, the pavement rushing up from 36 floors below. But the impact never came. Instead, here I am—alive, but not alive; myself, but not myself.
How much time has passed? I wonder, though the question feels absurd. Time here feels suspended, the air thick with a silence that hums like a plucked string. The villagers—if that's what they are—move in a slow, rhythmic procession around the fire. Their chants, low and guttural, seep into the night. I count a dozen figures, maybe more,
No, actually, they're not humans. Humans don't possess traits like long pointy noses and ears. Not those were goblins. Not the hunched, cackling creatures of fairy tales, but something worse—sinewy, sharp-limbed things with skin like spoiled leather. Their eyes glint in the firelight, yellow and unblinking, as they circle the blaze in a jerking, uneven dance. Some gnash needle teeth; others drag clawed fingers along their arms, leaving thin trails of blackish blood. Their voices rise in a discordant chant, guttural and wordless, more animal than language.
Then I see it.
"Shit"
Among the logs in the bonfire, a shape writhes—a human silhouette, limbs contorted, mouth agape in a soundless scream. It's a woman, definitely human. Another body lies beside it, small, charred and motionless, the child. My stomach lurches. This is no ritual of reverence; it's a sacrifice. The fire crackles, devouring flesh with a grotesque hunger, and the acrid stench of burning fat fills the air, deceivingly delicious.
"W-What the fuck???"
Instinct screams at me to run, but my legs refuse to obey. Is this the afterlife? I think wildly. A punishment? A purgatory? The goblins' chanting swells, their tempo frenzied now. One figure breaks from the circle, turning a curious look toward me, turning into a sly grin. I freeze, I catch a glimpse of eyes—pupils dilated and narrow, irises a feverish yellow.
He raises a clawed hand, pointing directly at me.
The world snaps into focus. This is no dream. Dreams don't carry the metallic taste of fear on your tongue or the blistering heat of a fire yards away. Dreams don't trap you in a body that isn't yours, in a world where death is both an end and a beginning. I stagger backward, my new frail frame trembling, as the figures begin to advance. Their chants morph into howls, their masks gleaming like grotesque trophies in the firelight.
The forest behind me offers no refuge—its darkness is too absolute, too alive. But the alternative is worse. I turn and plunge into the trees, branches tearing at my skin, the goblins' cries echoing like a hunting horn. My breath comes in ragged gasps, each step a collision between terror and disbelief.
"This can't be real. This can't be real."
But it is. And as I run, the truth settles over me: I did die. The fall—it was real. Yet here I am, reborn into a nightmare that defies explanation. A world where fire consumes the living, where ancient rituals unfold under a moon that hangs too large in the sky. A world that demands answers I don't have.
The bonfire's glow fades behind me, but its heat lingers, a reminder of the horrors I've witnessed. And as the forest swallows me whole, I realize with dread that this is only the beginning.