The Field In the Middle of Nowhere ✔️

My throat is burning. I'm struggling to breathe properly and my body is fighting back. Enough of this bullshit, it screams, but I don't know how to pick my body up off the ground and breathe properly.

The sensation of a cool hand presses down on the back of my neck. I feel the chill down my spine and air floods my lungs. I cough and sputter, breathing in ragged gasps of air. The fog is thick here and I am alone in a barren field.

"Hello?"

A silhouette molds itself out of the fog. Another person? I wave my arms, run towards them, but I can't get any closer.

"Hello?"

"Never look behind you."

The voice of a man roots me to my spot. Whoever stands in the distance turns, and I can only imagine they are looking at me. The voice comes again, as clear as though someone was standing right next to me.

"It can catch you if you turn around," he says. "Don't turn around. If you turn around, you will never be able to leave this place."

"Where am I?" I ask. The fog seems to creep closer. My hair sticks to my forehead. I try to take a step, and I feel like I am wading through a river.

"Nowhere," he responds. In the distance, the silhouette begins to take shape. It becomes something more than a black smudge on grey canvas, "and everywhere. Someplace, and no-place."

The figure in the distance begins to grow steadily closer. The hairs on the backs of my arms stick up. "How did I get here?"

"Come here, I can help you," he tells me. "We can help each other get out. But you can't turn around. He's there. Don't turn around."

More pleas come from nowhere. The fog thickens and it is hard to breathe again. I trudge forward, straining to keep my eyes focused in front of me. Shapes of people in my peripheral. I'm tempted to follow them, see what they really are, where they are going.

"Don't turn around," that voice repeats, hopeful, urgent, and I listen. My throat burns. The rest of my body is ice cold but my throat and chest are on fire.

"How did I get here?" I ask again.

"Just don't turn around," he insists. "I can tell you how, but you need to come here."

The silhouette in the middle of the field draws ever closer. A thin, spindly silhouette, yes, but human...right?

"The souls of the damned get sent here," he screeches in  nasally voice that turns my blood cold. I am maybe six feet away from him, it, and I suddenly wish I could run away.

The suspended coat turns to me, a pocket watch swinging on a chain that parts the fog around it. The collar of a long jacket is turned up, around...nothing. Ghastly eyeballs stare into mine. Globs of nerves twitch behind the eyeballs, which are lidless and unblinking. There is no mouth to form the words:

"Don't turn around."