Trent woke up from the nightmare, gasping and crying. I’m not dead. I would never, I wouldn’t do that. He dug his hands into his arms, holding on as hard as he could to keep himself from shaking too harshly. That was too real. That was too close. For a moment, the dream’s image of Sharon came into Trent’s mind, and he stifled a broken sob. I can’t stay here much longer. I need to get out. This place isn’t safe anymore.

Has it even been that safe at all?

Slowly, a plan began to form in his mind. I’ll call Sharon. Afternoon, she’ll be off work by then and I can tell her what’s going on. Maybe she won’t believe me, but it’s the only chance I have at getting out of this fucking place. But I can’t just leave and act like a nervous wreck. They might be watching me. Someone is watching me.

Trent clenched his arms a bit more and looked around the room, looking for anyone that may be watching him. No, not yet, but later. I need to act calmly, casually. Go about my day normally, and don’t attract suspicion. Then get to the field and call Sharon. Satisfied with this half-baked plan, Trent took a deep breath and managed to get himself out of bed.

After brushing his teeth and eating breakfast, Trent thought about what he should do to kill time until the afternoon. Could draw a bit in the office. Not much else to do aside from walk the trails. And after yesterday's “encounter,” I’m not feeling too safe out there. Trent walked over to the office door, an odd tension overcoming him again.

Is someone watching me?

Trent tried to remain calm and ignore the building knot of dread in his stomach. This is fine, I’m just freaking myself out more than anything. He grabbed the doorknob and slammed the door open as hard as he could, finding that nothing had changed from before.

Just psyching myself out. Nothing has happened yet. Trent walked around the office for a moment, not finding anything moved or tampered with. Once that was confirmed, he settled down at the art table. It’s been a good while since I did any folding crafts or something like that. I wonder if Sharon left any good paper here. Trent unfortunately didn’t find any fancy origami paper left out on the desk, so he had to make do with what he had to make a paper crane.

Dammit. Trent could hardly remember how to make the infernal bird, and with a lack of an internet connection, he had no choice but to work excruciatingly slow on folding some paper. Near completion, he had messed up somehow, and in frustration he crumpled it up and tossed it across the room. Trent was starting to get bored, so he left the office to go and get his phone from his jacket to see if it was lunchtime yet.

It was in fact around 11:30, so Trent decided he’d make himself a heavy lunch: a decently sized bowl of ramen noodles with whatever seasoning he had brought and could find around the kitchen, plus coffee cooked in the fireplace. I’ve never had coffee anywhere but the coffeemaker. He scrambled around the kitchen, boiling the water for his noodles and trying to find the percolator Sharon had shown him last summer. There it is. Taking it down from the cabinet, he examined the pot, noticing how worn it was.

Sharon told me it was part of her father’s old camping gear, something he’d use on family trips. I don’t see why they needed to take many trips since they lived in the same rural neighborhood we did. Different strides for different folks I suppose. Trent quickly prepared the coffee pot and went over to the fireplace in the living room, which had a small rack on it for cooking pots and various other tools. For a moment, he completely forgot his troubles, the stress that his work had always brought with it, his mother’s sudden passing, even the stress of this gone-wrong vacation was all wiped away as Trent happily cooked his lunch.

Post eating his lunch and finishing his coffee, Trent started washing the dishes, trying to tidy up after himself as normally as he possibly could. However, the sickening dread returned, pushing itself into his shoulders and pressuring his chest. He found himself almost struggling to breathe as the invisible feeling pushed harder and harder inwards- as if this incorporeal sensation was trying to invert his ribcage.

JESUS FUCK!

Trent dropped the plate he was scrubbing in the bubbly sink, and it's loud CLINK nearly made him collapse in fear. He put down the sponge he was holding and clutched the sides of the sink, as he was taken away to a fuzzy, uncomfortable memory of being in front of this very sink before.

Is this a memory or is this happening now?

Trent gripped the edges tighter, feeling the pressure in his chest worsen, and his vision began to slowly fade away. The entire kitchen had become darker, as if the power went out an hour after sunset.

Can't tell if this is real or not.

Trent could barely make out the patches of red blotting various sections of the sink despite his frame being hunched over it. Breathing at all felt like the air was coated in needles that would stab at his lungs once they passed through his throat.

Is that blood?

Is that my blood?

It occurred to Trent that he had must have been vomiting and coughing blood.

It's everywhere. Hurts to breathe.

Trent’s hands, pale enough from holding onto the sink, were also covered in blood, though it looked much drier. He could hardly move his head from side to side without summoning a nauseous feeling.

Oh god, what the fuck is happening?

Trent's body felt as if it was being weakened to the point of death, and suddenly, his knees buckled from underneath him, and as he lost control, his head slammed into the sink.

FUCK!

Trent suddenly emerged from the strange experience, gasping for breath as he realized he’d nearly slipped on the floor while still tightly gripping the sink.

That wasn't real. Right?

Trent let go of the sink, standing up with ease, breathing normally and painlessly. I need to leave this place soon as possible. And Trent did not give that awful experience a single second thought.