Deadman's Grove

“Go to sleep and do not wake! Flee and hide from it; do not let yourself be there,” it said, but you did not listen, as the voice meant nothing, a figment of your imagination. How wrong you were; you should have listened. 

The night the voice spoke, you lay awake in bed, later than usual, to defy the voice’s command. It persists, “Go to sleep and do not wake!” But you’ve made up your mind, the voice will not sway you. 

There is a crack in the once-pristine window, and before you can contemplate how it formed, a bolt of lightning crackles through the sky, imitating each zig and zag of the crack. You shudder, and a dreadful horripilation arises, like an army assembled to confront a great evil.  

Another fright, through the window, you can see a fire at your neighbor's house, which has always had brown shingles, but they are blue now, and the house is a story shorter. 

Why didn’t you listen? A sudden urge grips you as the words blare through your mind. In duress, you sprint clumsily down the stairs and to the door. With a deep breath, you open the door to the street. But there was no street, just a plain field with houses in it. 

You find yourself walking toward the fire, though you don’t recall anything after opening your door. There is a different voice with a staticky baritone sound and sinister inflection. As opposed to your mind, this voice speaks through the air. 

“Jump into the fire. Cast yourself into the embers of your failure.” 

You do as told. The inferno wraps its arms around you, and you writhe as if trying to escape the unwelcome hug of a stranger. There is a moment of pure agony, but the fire turns to a smolder, and you look at your palms and the rest of yourself, all unscathed. You return your gaze to the house, but there is a small grove in its stead. 

Wild geraniums, Dutchman’s breeches, and Virginia bluebells coat the ground where oak trees have not set their mighty stumps, a moment of beauty soon interrupted. With a tremendous thud, a man strikes the ground, having fallen from the tree tops. His eyes scream disappointment and fear, and his pulse shouts death as you place your fingers against his neck. He wears a partially unzipped weatherworn jacket, forming a ravine to his chest where a crinkled note sits. 

I am the dead that allows death. Why didn’t you listen? You cannot die now, you’ll be trapped here, in this purgatory, this hellish tree of life. To not know death is to know agony. 

You flee, trying to return home, but an infinitely high bark wall enwreathes the grove. No matter how many times you raise your fist or throw a rock against the wall, it remains the same.

Forced into a lively grave for failing to listen, you are forever in Deadman’s Grove.