Pine Valley

 

"A man clutching his chest in fear at the base of a jagged black mountain surrounded by pine trees and white fog, featuring a spectral boy made of mist and a floating skull with fangs.

The Dreamer of Pine Valley

Hey you. Yes, you, the one about to read this. I want to ask you a question: do you believe in dreams? I don’t mean your ambitions—the dream of owning a car, a house, or getting a degree. I don’t mean that dream of a promotion at work, or a trip to Paris. I mean the dreams you have while you sleep. Do you believe they come true? Do you believe a nightmare about being chased by a skull could actually happen?

Some say dreams are another world where our spirits live—a place between the living and the dead. Others say they aren't just dreams at all, but a reality we inhabit while we sleep. Do you believe that? Well, let’s see how true it is as we dive into the story of Emeric Manro.

Emeric Manro was a man of thirty who lived a quiet life in the small town of Pine Valley, nestled at the base of the Screaming Mountain. It was a town surrounded by pine trees that seemed to sway to the mountain's cry. Locals said the mountain had been screaming for a thousand years, and the pines swayed only to keep the melody.

The Screaming Mountain was a mass of black rock that billowed smoke on hot days, bathing the town in a thick, white fog. People whispered that if you touched the fog and the mountain at the same time, you would be cursed forever. No one knew why, and no one wanted to try. Superstition isn't a joke in Pine Valley; things tend to happen when you least expect them.

Emeric was a quiet man, loved by a few and ignored by many. He lived a content life, helping others and ensuring the town never lacked raw materials for production. But he was hiding something. He feared that if the townspeople knew, they would burn him or banish him. At first, he didn't take it seriously, but as it kept happening, he realized he had something inside him he couldn't explain.

Emeric’s dreams always became reality. He had premonitions of things before they happened. It all started one night when he was late coming home from the hills near the Screaming Mountain. It was dark, and he was groping his way slowly, trying not to stumble and break a leg. He was almost at the bottom of the hill where the road links to Pine Valley when he felt a cold brush of wind on his neck.

He stopped and listened, but all was silent. When he moved again, the coldness returned, and his breath turned to fog. He knew it wasn't natural. He remembered the warnings about the mountain, pausing to wonder what was happening, when a voice like a rusted hinge whispered in his ear: "It has begun."

He froze. "Who’s there?" he mumbled. Suddenly, he felt a searing heat in his chest. He couldn't understand where the burning was coming from. He tried to scream, but the heat was so intense he choked. He fell to the ground, knowing his time had come because the drop from the hill was so great.

Then, he woke up in his bed, panting and clutching his chest. He was covered in a cold sweat. "How did I get in my own bed?" he asked himself, wondering if it had been a dream or if reality was playing tricks on him.

That was how it started. He began "feeling" things before they occurred. He got a strong feeling that his relationship would end in disaster within a day or two. If anyone else had told him that, he wouldn't have believed them. He and Shelly were practically one soul; they loved each other fiercely. He tried to dismiss it. "That’s just bullshit," he muttered. How could they separate over a mere feeling?

Two days later, it happened. He and Shelly were over. They had a row so bitter it felt irreconcilable, and they went their separate ways.

Then, he had a dream that a neighbor’s son would be turned into fog by the mountain. He woke up sweating. What kind of dream is that? he wondered. That morning, he saw the boy heading toward the hills with a friend. He started to stop him but held himself back. "People have bad dreams all the time and don't believe them," he mused. "How can I take a dream seriously?"

He let the boy go. That night, the family raised an alarm. The boy hadn't returned. Emeric joined the search party, and that dreaded feeling returned. It wasn't long before they found the boy—or what was left of him. He was a shape made of fog, weeping and wailing into the night. They stood there, frozen, as the boy sang a mournful melody about how the fog had given him something but taken his essence in return.

"This isn't right," Emeric whispered when he got home. He was terrified to tell anyone, fearing what they would do to him. He sat in the dark, afraid to sleep, not wanting to see what came next.

In his next dream, he stood in a clearing by the stream that curved around the mountain. He heard voices. He moved closer and saw a group of men. They saw him at the same time.

"Manro, what are you doing here?" asked Levy, one of the town hunters. "Was I not supposed to be here?" Emeric replied. "Of course not. This isn't real," Levy said. "What isn't real?" "I don't know," Levy replied. "I dreamed I was here, and something came out of the stream and ate my hand."

Emeric woke up to the sound of a scream. He hurried outside to see people rushing toward Levy’s house. He followed them and found Levy’s wife wailing. "I don't know what happened!" she cried. "We were just sleeping, and the next thing I know, he's screaming and his hand is gone!"

Emeric left, unable to hear any more. He went home clutching his chest as the heat inside grew hotter. He collapsed on the floor, struggling not to scream, when he heard the voices—thousands of them.

"You want it to stop?" one asked.

Emeric couldn't speak; he only nodded. A face appeared—a rotten skull with two long fangs.

He woke up screaming at the top of his lungs. A hand restrained him gently. He tried to swat it away, but then he heard a soft voice, full of love. "Calm down, Eme."

He froze. No one called him Eme. No one except Shelly. He counted to ten and opened his eyes. He was in his bed, and Shelly was sitting beside him, her hand on his chest.

"Shelly?" "Yeah. You gave me the fright of my life with that scream." "Are you here? Are you real?" he asked, reaching for her, but he felt his consciousness fading. "Of course I’m here, Eme. I’m real."

Then, blackness took him again.

When he woke next, he was alone. "Shelly!" he called, but there was no answer. He hurried out of bed and ran outside. He saw Levy walking by and paused. Levy had both of his hands. He waved at Emeric.

"Morning, Manro! How are you doing?" "Levy?" "Yeah, heading to the stream now. Got hunter business to attend to." "The stream?" "Yeah. You okay? You look pale." "Have you seen Shelly?" Emeric asked impatiently. "Now, why would I see her? Are you really alright, man?" "Shelly! Where is she?" "Wow, man. The whole town knows you and Shelly broke up. She left for the Black Mountain two months ago."

"What?"

"Yeah, sorry," Levy said, turning toward the stream. "Don't go to the stream!" Emeric yelled, but he turned back to his house and suddenly—he woke up in his bed again.

This time, he just sat there, unable to tell which world was a dream and which was reality. He could only hear that nagging voice in his mind: "It has begun, and it won't end until the debt is paid."

He put his hands over his head with a groan. "What is happening to me?" "What are you muttering about?" a voice asked.

He looked up. There she was, standing in the doorway. "Shelly?" "Yeah. Get up, lazybones. Breakfast is ready."

He sat on the bed, mouth agape, not knowing what to do—and not knowing if he was awake or if the nightmare was just beginning.

What would you do if you were Emeric Manro?