“Not real,” he sobbed to the placid pond.

Kayden wiped sweat from his brow, and saw it shimmer in the moonlight. It just feels so real, his mind groaned. Every breath drew in the musk of the bog, even the tang of his perspiration. He swallowed down the sour taste, shakes sent tremors through him. A crow cackled in the forest, amused by his anguish. Bull frogs rose as one, croaks garbled, but fell silent. Eyes roamed over his body from deep in the black miasma that lurked deeper in the forest.

“How did I get here?” he breathed.

No one answered from the dreary gloom, somewhere between dream and damnation. Shafts of melancholy light revealed little though hid much. Shadows grew, shrunk; yet, ever deeper with every pulse. This dream, he mused, must be a fragment of the past. Part of him wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. A name, his dead brother’s echoed back to him. It mocked in its simple repetition, half curse and remonstration. Tears spilled. Sobs choked each inhalation. The terror in Andre’s eyes lingered, which hung in his mind. His brother’s failing pleas swept over the bog, specter alive still. All beyond the moonlight congealed to a quivering mass that writhed and hated.

No dream had ever been this real, and what he considered awake, it fell short of this damned dream. Kayden coughed, chest rattled, though he felt no pain or illness. Bruised purple light, twin flickers of corrupted sparks, stared back at him in the 1964 Dodge’s glass. His brow turned down. To his reflection he turned as it stared back of a deeper darkness, almost a silhouette. Features were hardened: resemblance to Isaac accused him. Fate was a fickle god, who came for all in the end.

About the island of light he looked: anywhere but at his defiled reflection. A low cry hissed up at him choked by clicks. Young Kayden stared up at him with blistered, burned eyes that had gone blind. Skin sallow, milky pale, it had been badly burned, but looked bleached to the white of bone. Lips gone, the agonized moan lifted up to the defiant moon. Crimson pupils seized adult Kayden with a malevolence of a mad imp. A gibbering curse slipped between jagged teeth, which had broken into shards.

Kayden fell back, foot slipped in the mud, and his feet flew up. Air whooshed out of his lungs, but his eyes flew to the scarred child. Gone, the sound of tortured wails remained, but for a moment, though they faded away seconds later. Alone once again, he coughed, but tried to breathe.

“Am I dead?” he asked Hooper’s Cherry.

The dead feel nothing, right? Kayden felt the deep pain in his chest abate. I’ve had vivid dreams before, but this one is too real. “That candy,” he snatched at a memory, before the gulf of emptiness. I took that drug that tasted like candy. Everything got strange, after that. All memory till Hooper’s Cherry was swallowed by alien light and a deep hiss. Did I have a bad trip? Am I tripping now?

No answer came. Maybe, I’m in Hell or Purgatory or something. The Blackberry Bog was where problems were solved, Kayden knew. “Maybe, someone got tired of my mouth,” he said, thought of Brian who was a veteran, and sat up. An ache crept through sleepy muscles, knots hard until worked out. He rubbed his chest. “I feel like I’m dying,” he laughed, but a chill ran over his spine, despite the bog’s warmth.

A shadow shifted, as moon light pierced the forest canopy. Kayden turned. Deeper in Blackberry Bog, a young man or teenager stopped half hidden in the darkness. La Voison women were said to traffic with the dead, he thought as his mind floundered. They say there is a path guarded by a great serpent. What he always dismissed as superstition, it echoed through the years. Is it the swamp or am I dead or is this a dream? The questions went up as a plea or prayer. I barely recall him, but that is Andre!

Hooper’s Cherry sagged into the earth, which opened its wet maw to devour it. Like an old man sucking a boiled egg, Kayden mused. Light upon Witch’s Pond dimmed, nearly died. Darkness of Blackberry Bog drew closer, as things squirmed inside. Within the mass of darkness, bolts of lightning crawled through the vapor, which almost formed a letter or word. It slashed the mind, divided consciousness from dream, but stunned by its mad wonder.

Kayden staggered away, mind disconnected, body unsteady. Red lines, thin as razors, raced over his emaciated body. He covered his eyes, which ached. Like I looked at something being welded, Kayden cursed. Veins slipped from the bloodless cut, waggled in the air as worms questing. His heart pounded, yet it slowed, eyes drew to his brother.

Little wounds healed, before he could open beech wood eyes. I should try to speak to Andre, Kayden thought, but he forced his legs to move. A shadow moved close to his leg, and moonlight caught bone-white, scarred flesh. “Oh God,” he whispered, but kept eyes upon his older brother, who was younger than him now.

“Daddy didn’t mean it,” young Kayden pleaded, though haunted eyes slid away.

“Always a mean, old,” he muttered, but refused to look down.

“They had a special relationship,” the boy assured him.

Kayden opened his mouth, though only an agonized groan escaped. Fresh tears spilled. He looked down, but the scarred boy was gone. Eyes returned to Andre, who waited next to a doorway. It was from a trail, local tourist spot, where you could walk from top to bottom of Lear Mountain. What is it doing here? It is miles away! His brother turned, moon light caught the angry red marks on his throat. Kayden held up a hand to hail him, but nothing passed his lips.

He rushed forward to halt his brother, but the muck slowed him. Through the old wrought iron archway he stepped, though paused just beyond. Down into the earth, the stairway led ever deeper. Silver light pierced the weave of briars above, yet it was underground. Every step downward brought him no closer to his kin, and the way back faded in the distance. Andre moved downward in a silent grace. Kayden called, sound deadened in this passage, yet it seemed his brother didn’t hear or dared not tarry. Every step echoed back to him, flat and wet. The stones of the steps were cut decades ago. Time had weathered them. Hot humid air slipped down from above, as a rattle wracked the passage. Sweat rolled down his brow, dripped from his chin.