My brother died in his sleep at the age of 26.
That's what my parents said anyway, to anyone who asked—but his body lingered. When they found him, he was still warm, his heart still beating. The doctors who examined him told us he was brain-dead. They were never sure why. No signs of trauma, no aneurysm or stroke. Just ... gone. Only the hospital's machines spoke for him.
I used to think death was loud. Screaming sirens, a sudden gunshot, or a last cry of anguish. I often ruminated on that, sitting in his hospital room. It was also when I realized I had likely spent more time with him unconscious than conscious.
My parents told me I followed in his footsteps. Talented student. Active in sports and clubs. A little violent, but not without cause. Then they stopped saying that. Started pointing out how different we were—even down to the most inane details. All they could come up with though, was how I liked cats or how camping was my favorite activity. Within the year, they settled for just not talking about Rowan at all.
It was one of those early evenings where most nurses dragged their bodies along, hands practically scraping the floor in a false stupor. No one wanted to be there, least of all me, but we still were.
Looking down at him—it made me realize the worst part of it all was that I never really knew him.
I mean. Nine years apart, hell. He was entering high school when I was in kindergarten. When he left for college, I was still in elementary school. I knew about him, but only in the ways we were similar and secondhand from my parents.
He visited occasionally, for holidays and my birthdays. For my seventeenth – the last one he was conscious for – he got me soccer cleats and a crowbar. He said my name, and it sounded so natural. He hugged me for the exact right amount of time.
I loved him.
But I didn't know him.
And he didn't know me either.
How was it possible for him to pretend he wasn't losing his memories for five years? I got the first hints packing up his apartment early into the hospital stay — once it was clear he would never leave that bed. His room was filled to the brim: workout equipment, an electric piano, tuba, canvas, tennis rackets, basketball, shoe collection, a full-length bookshelf, and pieces of art that had no business being in the same apartment, much less the same room.
The paintings made me laugh—so absurd was it that I didn't feel guilty for the relief it brought. The first piece was framed in that weathered bronze-gold color trim I tended to see in museums. The contents of the frame were distinctly modern, given how it depicted a portrait of notorious film director Lars von Trier painting himself on a canvas within the canvas. The second piece was far simpler, a cheap plastic frame with a painted man smirking–gesturing over his shoulder with a thumb–with the text "get a load of this guy" on display.
That's it. One look at that and the weeks of little else but frustration and anger were broken by laughter. The reprieve didn't last long. If anything, it stopped me from packing on autopilot as I became increasingly aware of all the strange choices that decorated his room—like how the perfectly made bed was a bright lime or that the books on the shelves were full of only empty pages.
I found his pill bottles in the desk drawers, some were labeled—completely unopened. I didn't know how to pronounce the labeled ones, but I noted the name down. 'Quetiapine'. Antipsychotics. 'Galantamine'. Used for memory loss.
Most pill bottles didn't have labels and were practically empty.
I remember I ended up smuggling the pills to the doctors, explaining that I didn't think Rowan was taking his prescribed medicine and instead taking the other pills. I asked them to keep it a secret from my parents unless it became relevant.
It never did.
The second hint was his journals.
"Who is Allie?
Dorian's Mother,
Empathetic,
Protective (security-oriented)
Organized,
Loving,
Coordinated,
Problem Solver.
Who is William?
Dorian's Father,
Steady,
Assured,
Measured,
Task-oriented,
Enforcer,
Protective
Philanthropy loving,
Quiet.
Who is Joey?
Dorian's Best Friend,
Strong,
Loyal,
Caring,
Protective,
Athlete.
Who is Dorian?
There was nothing underneath my name. I closed the journal and packed the rest away within piles of tangled sheets.
Once everything was put away, Rowan's old roommates helped me carry his stuff to the car. I've never been good with faces, but something about them struck me. Even now, thinking back on it, I can't recall a single detail of how they looked. In my mind, they're just vaguely person-shaped. I like to think it's the expression I can't seem to remember that caught my attention. I was just surprised other people could grieve him.
My brother was in the hospital for a year before we pulled the plug. No one even cried. Our tears had long since run dry.
Rowan had a will made at some point. There were some belongings, but they were largely personal items. Memorabilia, pictures–so many pictures–journals and a set of old VHS tapes.
I wasn't going to read the journals again. Whatever it was, I didn't want to think about it. The VHS tapes were no better. Just static–endless flecks of noise.
It was oddly relieving to see only static.
I didn't expect that relief to last long—they couldn't all be static, but tape after tape, that's all I found. At first, I thought my TV was broken, but even when I packed them in a box and hauled them to Joey's house to use his VCR, it was the same result.
Eventually, I gave up and went to see an old coworker at a film shop. He kept the tapes his full shift and checked them in between customers. I remember how his frown deepened with every new video, and by the end, he was as frustrated as I was.
They were all recorded on. He checked the magnetic layers to confirm it, but for whatever reason, Rowan had recorded static on every tape. Then, my old coworker offered to buy them.
I'd like to say that I immediately said no or that I jumped at the opportunity, but in truth, the offer made me pause, and in the end, I couldn't sell them — I couldn't bear to part with them.
I put the items in a box under my bed after that. Some nights, I'd take out the box, wondering if there was something – anything – I could glean about the brother I barely knew. I always dared myself to look again.
I never did until tonight.
My eyes blinked open to a dim room. The already meager light from the nearest rusted streetlamp fought against my blinds to peer in. Only the occasional flash of lightning managed to tear through and illuminate everything. There wasn't much to see. My room was bare besides the necessities. The one item that stood out was the old TV in the corner.
Restless and more than a little annoyed at my lack of sleep, I turned to my alarm clock. 1:45 AM. I hadn't gotten more than thirty minutes of sleep in total all night.
The off-campus apartment was cheap — an ancient brick building that still used boiler heating with no temperature control. It was the annoying time of year between winter and spring when the temperature oscillated between frigid cold and scalding heat. That day, I was stuck with burning heat and no way to open my window without practically flooding my room in the torrents of stormwater from outside.
With a sigh, I lifted the blankets and stood to turn on the lights. Normally, I could go back to sleep with some effort, but my mind had wandered, and now even the rain sounded like static.
My eyes sunk into the space beneath my bed, barely catching a glimpse of a cardboard box with piles of VHS tapes and journals.
I tried to ignore them. I stretched, got water, and even drew a little bit, but no matter what I did, eventually, I found my blank stare, turning to the space underneath my bed. Shame welled up, sending a shot of adrenaline through my system. It gave me just enough courage to retrieve the box.
There was a sudden, intense desire to open the window and dump everything out into the rain. I didn't want these. I had no desire for them in the first place. I reached for the tapes anyway – studying their outlines, hoping I'd missed something before.
I turned one over in my hands, popping open the lid and running my fingers along the inside, where they scraped harshly against etched grooves. I furrowed my brow, pulling out my phone and turning on the flashlight.
"J4-P123" was carved into the top. My frown deepened. Looking at the journals, each with only a number to distinguish itself. I picked up the one with the large "4" across it and flipped to the 123rd page.
Mission: The House on the Empty Hill
Objective: Investigate the source of the screams from the abandoned house.
Location: R & D
Mission Type: Survival
Time: 2 hours 30 min, 1 hour if Wallace is saved.
Completion: In progress
Initial Report:
A supernatural event that suffers from bleeding. Difficulty of the mission relies on transfer between the Dream and the Waking World.
Traps exist; the creature possesses the house itself.
Inside the house is a separate pocket of space. Far bigger inside than outside.
The family pictures watch you. They follow you into the waking world.
Watch the associated tape.
My throat locked up as I shut the journal. The words were so concise, matter-of-fact, and clearer than anything I had skimmed from the first journal. Unrealistic delusions, visions, and rambling uncertainty I could wrap my head around, but not when they were so coherent.
J4-123. I returned to the tape, almost tripping over flat wooden floors as I scrambled to my old VHS player. I carefully rewound the VHS and placed it inside.
Remote in hand, I hit play, studying it intently.
It was just static. Maybe there was a pattern? I rewound the video and started again. Moving frame by frame. Again. 2x speed. Again, 0.5x speed. Again and again and again. Until—
[Once More]
My heart seized as the static made words. I froze, not daring to look away. I traced the words, committing their position to memory, and paused the tape. Still there. I pulled out my phone and began recording, never blinking the entire time.
Had that always been there? Had I just missed it? Finally, there was something!
I tore my eyes away from the screen to look at the recording, and to my infinite relief, the words were there, plain as day. A second wind of jittery energy filled me as I scrambled for the remote and other tapes. I began repeating the slow, grueling, methodical approach for every single video.
At some point, the light of morning peeked through my window. I debated skipping class. College was for socializing, not learning, and I didn't feel the desire to do much other than triple-check the tapes.
It was a text message from Joey that pulled me away. Nothing complicated or particularly insightful. A simple question of if I wanted to study for finals together.
The tapes weren't going anywhere; the evidence on my phone proved that much. Rubbing static from my eyes, I went about my morning routine: eat eggs, brush my teeth, shower, get dressed, and head to campus by bus.
Flatly put, I was exhausted and could constantly feel a migraine at the corner of my vision where streaks of static had yet to dissipate. My mind was hazy, eyelids heavy as I tried and failed to pay attention to one of the many review sessions. My only saving grace was that the Professor recorded her lectures, so I could watch them back if needed.
By the time midday hit, I was essentially a walking corpse, and no amount of vending machine energy drinks saved me from my exhaustion.
Then it came time to meet with Joey for finals prep, which went horribly.
"You good Dorian? If you need to get some rest, we can do this another time." He sat back, clearly frustrated at my disjointed but perfectly accurate explanations.
"I just don't get what you're not understanding," I shot back, maybe a little too tersely.
"Yeah," he muttered, leaning forward to stare at the practice problem, "I bet."
A mixture of shame and irritation grew from my chest into my arms as I balled my hands into fists. I almost spat more words of irritation at him. It was so hard to keep that knot down, and I had to constantly remind myself that out of everyone from my old friend group, he was the only one who had stuck around after Rowan's death sent me into a spiral.
"Look. Man. I'm sorry. I'm just tired." The words fell from my mouth. I suddenly felt like I had to explain. Like I needed to validate his decision to stay my friend. "I looked through Rowan's VHS tapes and I saw a message in them, and I stayed up all night trying to find more."
Joey slowly eyed me with a concerned look. His mouth opened, hanging for a moment too long while he was no doubt trying to come up with a response. Joey seemed to recognize that, too, because he tried to hide it with a deep breath a second later. He could only breathe in for so long. "Hey. You really gotta get that stuff out of your apartment. Not saying you get rid of them." His hands rose in a placating gesture, "but keeping them at your parents' or storage… it might not be the worst idea."
It's a conversation I'd had many times. We were just rehashing old ground, but this time, I had something to show for it. I pulled out my phone, found the video, and slid it over to Joey.
He frowned, angling his head to try to get a better view. "What am I supposed to be looking at here?"
My frown matched his. I stood and walked around towards Joey's side of the table to get a better look before jabbing my finger out. "Right there. 'Once More'. In the static."
Joey looked from the phone to me and back to the phone. I impatiently traced the words. He slid the phone back to me.
"Get some rest, Dorian."
The pulsing migraine flared behind my left eye. The static grew out from the screen, spreading out to the entire left side of my vision, leaving me half-blind.
I breathed in. Sharp. The pain stabbing into me combined with a bubble of indignation, and I almost yelled a response.
"No." Joey cut me off. "You told me before that you trust me. That if you start spiraling again, you'll listen to me. Time for you to prove that, or if you're a liar."
Fuck. I had agreed to that. But it felt wrong here. Manipulative. How could he not see it? It was right there. I looked into his eyes, and a spark of anger hit my heart. Ah. He thought I was crazy, that I was seeing things just like Rowan.
"Look," he continued before I could lay into him. "I have a few more classes this evening, take my dorm keys and go for a nap."
He tossed me the keys, and I sighed, muttering an empty thanks before we parted ways.
Maybe Joey was right — I did need sleep. Another wave of pain hit and the static in my left eye faded but had yet to fully disappear as I made my way to the dorms.
I had to walk in behind another person; only active resident IDs could get me into the dorm rooms, and since I didn't live on campus, it would have otherwise been a bust.
Unlocking his third-floor dorm room, my head had hardly hit the couch when I was out like a light.
It didn't feel like I fell asleep, though. It felt like a restless attempt. I tossed on the couch, and suddenly, I was wide awake and full of energy. Before I could even react, I saw something in front of my eyes.
[System Activation Complete.]
[Welcome toThe Endless Dream.]
[Your journey will unfold in time. Trust the process. Progress is inevitable. Death is never permanent. If you ever feel lost, remember – the System is always here to guide you.]
[Be patient. Things will make sense soon enough.]