Nightmare Child

By Ian K. Sylus

Stare down the physical representation of everything your terror calls home. Celeste St. Clare awakes beneath a tightrope, gazing upon the fragmented world around her. The only clairvoyance through a sea of beasts and psyche-shattering realizations is a man in a ruined suit, claiming to have control over the landscape before her. Nightmare Child delves deep into the uncharted mind, ripping through the emotions and enigma that we call 'being human'.

This book was formed from a deep desire to understand the complexities of a depressed and anxious mind. Ian is an optimist by nature, never really understanding depression and anxiety the way he thought he should. Through this journey, this embarked voyage into every corner of fathomable dark places, it has become apparent that the most sinister of pasts, and most tragic of present days, all have one thing in common--they either eat you alive or you hit the ground running. Chewed-up, spit out, ready to take on the next inner-demon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian K. Sylus
• Release date: Jun 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311923738

Ian K. Sylus

Ever since I was five-years-old, I have been in love with words and their structure. Nothing is more freeing than fleshing out the universes in my mind, the characters in my heart. Bringing an entire world to life and watching it engulf the psyche of my readers is the best adrenaline rush there could ever be. Sharing ideas, exploring possibilities, hearing theories and discussing the basic compounds of etymology and inspiration--that's what makes me a writer. What makes me an author is the reader, it's you."You and I live these adventures. Let your imagination flow into mine."

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Nightmare Child

Ian K. Sylus

Nightmare Child

Ian K. Sylus

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2016 Ian K. Sylus

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Chapter I: Familiar Darkness

Celeste awoke in a haze, lying on the gray, rocky ground. The world as she knew it came flooding back to her, or so she thought. It was a strange feeling, she felt weightless, thin as air but dense as diamond. The staleness in the atmosphere, coupled by the brutish aroma of sulfur and smoke wasn’t completely describable to her, it felt like a dream, but everything was all too real. She didn’t know whether or not to feel afraid or just intrigued, and after rubbing her eyes to ensure what she saw before her would not shift, she sparked to a fully alerted state.

As she arose from the ground, dusting off her legs, she moved her hand side to side before her own eyes. Was this strange place real? She wore a pair of gray skinny jeans with a tear on the right knee, a midnight blue tank top, and a black denim vest, ripped at the shoulders, of course. A light scarf of black draped across her neck, tied at the edge of the collar of her vest. Her boots were covered in a thick layer of mud and caked-on oil, often gathered from treading around her home. A very unique feeling of pins and needles jolted her left leg, which had fallen asleep from her position on the ground.

The ensemble was particularly interesting because since she’d become fourteen-years-old, she hasn’t touched these clothes. That much she was sure of. They sat where they always did: tucked inside her second drawer. The image of that old oak wardrobe stayed persistent in her mind, but she couldn’t feel the worn finish, nor smell the fresh linen in her memory.

She brushed her dark brown hair out of her eyes; it ran long, nearly halfway down her back. The visuals before her seemed unreal, like CGI in a science-fiction movie. She stood on a stone citadel, marked with a barrier formed by stalagmites. Around the edges of this citadel were floating chunks of land, all made of the same dark gray stone she had awoken atop of.

There were a dozen of them, hanging around like stars in the sky. The backdrop of space between them and around them was reminiscent of satellite images she’d seen of the stratosphere. The trapped image between dark and light, the very barrier between two worlds. The only thing in this unusually flat stretch of land was a full-length mirror standing upright on its own. She checked behind it where there weren’t any supports. Absolutely nothing to hold it up, and it wasn’t embedded in the ground.

Quite a fancy place, idn’t it? a raspy voice said.

You startled me, Celeste said, turning around to find nobody there.

Look up, love.

What are you doing up there?

Standing atop a tightrope, there was a man donned in a black and white striped suit. Only, it was tattered, like it was fifty years old. His fedora hat was a little too crooked, and his hands, though he wore fingerless wool gloves, were covered in soot. It was an odd mix, but it suited his devilish smile that bore spiky yellow teeth. His face had mild scruff, a three-day growth at best, and his eyes were different colors.

What am I doin’ up ‘ere? Well, I live up ‘ere.

But you’re on a tightrope. That wasn’t there a second ago.

Oh, but it was. You just refused to see it.

Celeste gazed at the rope this man was perched on. He resembled an old gargoyle on a church tower. She glanced over her left shoulder to find that the rope came from the stratosphere-like abyss, the source was unavailable to see. To the other end, it followed the exact same suit—limitless.

How can you live on a rope?

Because that’s my name, you see.

Your name is Rope?

Mr. Rope, thank you very much.

Okay, Mr. Rope. If you live up there, how do you get food or water?

I don’t need it, love. I just live up ‘ere. That’s all that I do.

Must be lonely.

Not really. I’ve got a good ol’ spectator’s view of the whole place. Really quite charming, actually.

Celeste took another moment to study his eyes, the right one was green and the left was gray. She tilted her head for a moment, and ran her tongue across her own teeth in her mouth. It was the sight of his, that persistently grotesque smile. It made her thank her dentist for the first time in her life.

Heterochromia? she asked.

Nah, just a messed-up eye.

You’re very technical.

Well that’s one way of putting what I am.

What is this place, Mr. Rope?

Don’t really know. Never really asked myself that.

You’ve never asked yourself where you are? Not even once?

Nah, never ‘ave.

How long have you been here?

Haven’t counted the days. Such an inquisitive lil’ one, you are.

Celeste turned around to gaze upon the mirror. It had gone from full-length to exactly her height: five-foot-three-and-a-quarter, down to the last hair.

Alright, what are you?

Ah, asking what, not who. Now we can start digging.

I don’t understand. And this place, you said you’ve never asked yourself what it is. Is it still earth?

This place measures not in time, you know what I mean? It’s more about measuring in accolades and teardrops.

That’s… peculiar.

Tell you what, love, why don’t you touch that mirror? Go ahead; shove your ‘and right through it. It’ll answer a whole bunch of questions.

Celeste gently moved her fingers toward the glass, fearing it would to shock her like a joy buzzer. Her fingers touched the mirror and it rippled like water. The image distorted, and her hand went through it. It came out clean on the other side, only feeling wet where it directly touched the glass.

Phony mirror, huh? she asked, turning to Mr. Rope as she removed her hand and felt her wrist.

That’s right. But you saw right through it, didn’t you? Kind of funny, really.

Are you even real?

Me? Why, I never! I’m as real as this very tightrope you see me perchin’ on.

If you’re real, and this place is real, then where does this rope lead? You must know if you live up there.

Quite the sarcastic joker we ‘ave ‘ere, huh? I’ve never been down that end, and I ain’t never been down that end neither. I’ve just been sittin’ here, waiting for you.

Then that must mean this place is a construct of my own, designed to make me see what I want to see.

Is this what you want to see then? A man in a suit levitating in the sky?

Well, no.

Then how can this be your construct?

Well, what can this place be then? It’s defying the laws of—

What laws? There are no laws here.

Then I should be able to do whatever I want, right? Despite gravity?

And why would you get to do that?

This is a dream, so I control the playing field.

No, love, this is a nightmare. You ‘ave no control and you ‘ave no hope.

Celeste didn’t know if she was frightened by those words or angered. The small chunks of land levitating around this citadel were beginning to move very slowly in a clockwise direction. A light wind blew across her face. She wasn’t even sure if there could be anything other than empty space here, void of a proper air supply. If she could breathe, a gust shouldn’t seem that uncommon. With the realization of proper atmosphere and gravity, it all suddenly became more realistic. When he said nightmare, everything shifted a bit in her head.

If this is my nightmare, I just need to wake up.

"I never said it was your nightmare, now did I?"

So what, I’ve fallen into someone else’s?

You’re simply in a nightmare. Can’t we just leave it at that?

No, I’m not satisfied with that.

Well I am.

You obviously know far too much, don’t leave me in the dark like this. If you’re a separate entity who can view from a third-party perspective, silently claiming to know nightmares beyond this, wouldn’t that make you your own person?

Well, Aristotle, I already told you that I’m real, just as real as this rope. You’re goin’ mad already, aren’t you?

I’m getting answers. You didn’t deny knowing other nightmares. You’re spectating, as you said before.

You’re going mental there, darling, I can see it in your eyes! Mr. Rope grabbed onto the rope with both hands, dropping his weight off of one side and swinging around it completely. He let go as he came around, and landed on the tightrope on his bare tip-toes. I’m gonna ‘ave fun tearing you apart.

"Then would that make you the nightmare?"

The only way you’re gonna get an answer is by goin’ through that mirror.

Celeste turned around and gazed upon a horrific vision of herself. She jumped back. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. It was her in the mirror, only her eyes were pitch black with purple rings around them. Her arms were cut up and bruised, and her attire was tattered and appeared to be damp with oil. The blackened Celeste followed her movements as any reflection would.

There’s no way I’m going through that thing, Celeste said as she turned to Mr. Rope.

Oh really? And why’s that?

Because of that— Celeste turned to the mirror, but the entity was gone.

Because of what lies in wait on the other side? That’s fear, love—and it’s a deadly sin.

What are you talking about?

In this wonderful place, there are three deadly sins.

I thought there were seven?

I was never one for reading books, weren’t I? Count ‘em—three deadly sins. Fear, sanity, and charity. Step on through that mirror and avoid them at all costs, or it won’t be pretty.

Celeste turned back, and the entity was there again. The appearance seemed to work on an inverted stitch. Every other time she looked back at it, it was gone. She turned away and faced the wall, and turned back—the blackened Celeste was still there. Her thoughts ran rampant for a moment about solutions. She turned to Mr. Rope and turned back, and the entity was gone.

Was it control, coincidence, or was it defying sanity as a deadly sin? Time would tell, and it was time she found out what was going on. There were three deadly sins to think about. Three constant tricky tactics that would ultimately define or destroy her in this messed-up world. She couldn’t believe Mr. Rope, but what else was there to believe? That she was victim to an uncontrollable nightmare of her own? If this was her nightmare, then why couldn’t she control him? Were simple thoughts not enough to do it? A few dozen had already crossed her mind, ways to silence or distort him, but to no avail.

After a nice deep breath, she allowed her foot to collide with the water-like mirror. It disappeared through it, and she closed her eyes as her face met the liquid, and gasped as she brought her vision to life on the other side. The lighting faded down to a dim candle flicker. The walls were rough and made of concrete, the same as her basement back home. What was happening?

Chapter II: Colder Than Crimson

This place was eerie and damp, the epitome of fear. It made sense that it would be the first sin she was cast into. The width of the concrete corridor was exactly wingspan. Her arms reached out and her very fingertips bridged the gap. It felt as if it narrowed the farther she went.

There was a deep-rooted part of her conscience that screamed to turn around, but what would she be returning to? At best, that voice was her primal instinct, her survival tactics. Fear was not an easy thing to beat, and the possibility that the blackened Celeste was trapped within this mirror land only drove that fear deeper.

The corridor opened to a perfectly square room. It held a gas lantern hanging from the hilt of a knife, which was stabbed into the wall. There was a picnic table in the middle, brown with chipping red paint, and a familiar feel of weather damage. It was identical to the one in her backyard, which hadn’t been used in ages. This was a perfect replica she could touch, and the last time she used it was a couple of years ago. So why does this resemble her memory and not the actuality of the increased rot due to the elements?

She could not stop believing this was a dream--her dream. Even if it was a nightmare, it was still a construct designed by her inner-workings. How else could this end up here, this table? It was all so bizarre. The table was recognizable, but the things it hosted weren’t familiar in the least.

There were journals with waterlogged pages and old maps covered in a bundle of wilted leaves. There was a special place, a split in the wood she always used. When she was forced to sit around boring conversation and a charcoal grill, she would roll silver marbles down the grooves, aiming to get them trapped in the knothole near the umbrella opening.

She shifted the leaves around, trying to see if the marble she’d left was still there. She felt the silver touch her skin, but as she wedged the piece out, it wasn’t what she expected at all. Instead, it was an ornate silver button with a small handle in the back for threading. It had the Roman numeral IX etched on it.

After a moment of examination, she noticed no dirt or wear had come to it. As she placed it in her vest pocket, she felt a ripple as if she’d just passed through the barrier again. The wall on the other side of the picnic table, which previously posed a dead-end, now opened into a crudely carved cylindrical tunnel.

The path ahead had no flickering light at its visible crest, no way to see more than a foot in front of her. Celeste grabbed the gas lantern, and began to trek through the cavern corridor. With each step she took, there was an echo of a distant argument.

You’re just like her in every single damned way. That’s what I hate about you. You’re a sickening excuse for a human being.

The scornful words echoed down the corridor. Celeste felt a second presence. There was no response, merely an unsettling silence. There was a stampede of pacing, one pair of feet that were in constant motion. It came from the shouting voice. It was a man. His words became clearer as she neared the source.

You’re a disgrace. You stand there just like she used to. Fight back you pathetic creature!

The voice grew aggressive, and Celeste stopped in her tracks. A loud sound of fist hitting flesh rattled her bones, and it sent a gust of howling wind barreling down the tunnel. It brushed past her, reducing the flame in the lantern down to an ember. It wasn’t exactly logical, but neither was the shriek that followed and produced a stronger gust. The flame died out entirely. Nothing in sight but pure blackness. Her palm was invisible before her, and the sounds had stopped entirely.

It was eerie yet again. Celeste refused to move a muscle. The walls were made out of phosphorus rock, the texture was familiar. She struck the edge of the open gas lantern against it, creating desperate sparks between her muttered words, damning her attempts. One last strike, and it birthed a live flame. The lantern lit up the room, and the sight just inches away from her face was terrifying.

She remained still, more out of blinding horror than bravery. It was blackened Celeste, wearing a white dress stained with splattered blood. Her eyes, black as pitch, were unmoving and directly in front of Celeste. Her hair moved on its own, as if she were underwater. A few seconds passed where Celeste could barely breathe. Then her frightened exhalation fully surrendered her to the knowledge of her sin, and sin gave way to an ending.

Blackened let out an unearthly wail, nearly numbing eardrums and nerves. Celeste turned and ran. Tears threatened to run down her cheek, but she wouldn’t let that happen. Blackened levitated behind her, gliding through the air to catch Celeste’s heels and drag her back. The rough make-up of the tunnel caught her footing, and she tripped, landing on her stomach. There was barely enough time to stand up. She flipped herself over and gazed at the incoming ghastly figure that resembled her.

Instinct took over, and she hurled the lantern at the wall to the right. Blackened’s hair caught aflame instantly, soon catching to her wisps. Celeste arose and began running again, only to be paralyzed in pain. She fell over, leaning on the picnic table. She screamed at