Once upon a time, you dreamt of traveling. It was a constant dream, one that would sit in the back of your mind even while you were exploring forests and climbing trees. Whenever Grandmother spoke of her travels—and the stories she’d collected during them—the dream would buzz, like a fly trapped in a glass jar.
When you turned eighteen, and started preparing to leave for college, the dream’s buzzing became furious. Soon, that door would open for you, and you would be able to see everything—or, at least, as much as you could.
But then, the creature finally stepped out of the shadows—wearing the face of someone you loved, someone who once took care of you; someone you trusted.
Now, just thinking of the dream—for it is still there, resting in your head, though weak—frightens you. The outside, especially anywhere in the forest, is now danger. Anything can hurt you. Don’t even dare to sleep, or relax somewhere. No place is safe, not even Grandmother’s house.
However, sometimes, whenever you see an open door, the dream starts to call to you. Sometimes, you are tempted to answer.