The malevolent Czar of Nome had been raised from his cursed slumber. Now with power so wretched, yet so powerful, deluded with a raging vendetta.
Oz was his objective. He shall be king. Upon his side, would be the blessed Lady Glinda, the woman he h...
There was an answer. Not of man. Not of voices. Not of words. Responded instead by the distant thunder. A deep grumble of the storm.
Again, it echoed. Seeping from the walls. Creeping amongst the shadows. The mantra. The chant. Brewing into a curse. Awaiting damnation. Still, it was ambiguous to her ear. Foreign to her tongue.
Dorothy knew what loomed over her was wickedness. An inevitable, familiar peril as she walked. Her steps echoed, twisting, and entangling amongst the faraway voice. Inching closer and closer towards it. A dream? No. A nightmare?
No.
This felt different. This felt personal. More than lucid. Not a product of her mind. Behind the scenes was a manipulator. Somebody who pulled the strings and pushed the buttons. Everything here was carefully placed. Meticulously thought out. In accordance with her memory.
A cold shiver crept up from her legs as she stepped on the tiles. Not the wooden floor of Edward's chateau. Not the sanctuary that she thought safe.
What was left of the warm comfort she felt just moments ago, wafted away, like the mist in the early morning, gone along the rising sun. Now, she felt immense discomfort. A tainted pearl of wisdom, so mercilessly forced upon her, of the red-eyed monster that lurks within the shadows, plastered with a sharp-toothed grin. Solely there to gnaw on her drifting courage.
Nowhere in sight—
(Yet he's there. It's there; waiting for me.)
The hall has lost its former shape. Once grand and wooden, now cold, bricked, and tiled. the floor crackled into grey, terracotta tiles peppered with traumas that revealed the concrete within. It continued to change the farther she goes. More and more familiar as she studied.
And there, by the end of the hall, stood the door. A golden plaque was nailed on the wooden board, dotted with burnt marks, oscillated, barely hanging.
DIRECTOR OF SAINT THELMADORA PRIVATE CLINIC AND ASYLUM: HOME OF WAYWARD AND LOST SOUL
The door opened, emitting a loud creak that gradually crushed her soul, bit by bit as it resonates. Within, she strained to hear, was a voice. Warm and soothing. Calling out. Aware of her presence.
"Come in,"
She was granted no other option.
No back doors to an escape. Just the office, and the man that sat on his leather seat, waiting.
Dorothy entered.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Let's sit down and you can tell me why you've come all this way, and what I can do to make you happy."
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
