Gallows Of The Dreaming

Gallows of the Dreaming

~ Chapter One: Freeing the Endless ~

~ 18+ | Minors DNI | AFAB Reader | No Y/N ~

Chapter One | AO3

Disclaimer: I do not claim to own any characters from The Sandman comics or Netflix series. This is purely creative writing.

Warning: Future chapters may contain graphic depictions of sexual acts and gore. I will note which parts to skip for each chapter if you’d like to avoid that content, so be sure to read through my notes.

*Please skip to the first plain galaxy banner if you'd like to avoid gore. Though it will be referenced throughout the chapter.*

Word count: 5.1k

Chapter warnings: Graphic depictions of gore, subtle nudity, foul language, mentions of abuse (verbal), the Burgess family (need I say more?).

A/N: Hello! So either I fat-fingered the post button accidentally or Tumblr decided this post has been in my drafts for long enough. I hadn't intended on posting this until I was finished with chapter two (so they could come out simultaneously) but here we are. Nevertheless, I hope this is worth the read for you guys. I wasn't fully satisfied with my initial posting of chapter one so I figured I'd fix it.

I've taken the liberty of creating a tag list of anyone who liked my first post so you guys aren't out of the loop. Some tags are in the comments because for some reason it wouldn't save a few of your usernames toward the end of the post. If you'd like to be removed, please DM me. :)

As always, feel free to comment, send in any questions, and like/re-blog this post. Enjoy!

-Kathryn ;)

DO NOT re-write, translate, copy, re-post, or claim my writing as your own. Thanks!

Here in the darkness, you lay, a puddle of frozen blood and aching bone. Bitter winds have turned your lips a bale shade of blue, your body bare and vulnerable to the will of the elements. There is no source of warmth or comfort, no savior to come to your rescue. The hairs on the back of your neck stand tall, intuition warning you of the presence that stalks in the shadows, watching - waiting. 

Dread, like water, sinks into the pit of your stomach as the all-consuming darkness condenses around you, tightening - suffocating. You can’t breathe - can’t think, instinctively thrashing against your confines. 

“Plea- Please,” You choke. “Stop!” Tears frost around your lashes. You kick and claw at the air until your vision begins to fade, limbs falling numb from lack of oxygen. 

Finally, the invisible force relents, lifting the pressure from your lungs as it drops you onto the misty floor. You gulp down the dry air and roll onto your scraped hands and knees. A faint, glowing orb of light forms in the distance. You crawl in its direction, legs too weak to stand. Each movement sends a sharp pang throughout your body, but you press on, hopeful that the light will provide shelter - warmth. Faint whispers filter through your ears. Your name, a repeated mantra from two distinct voices, circling your figure in the shadows.

“See her.” A deep, honey-coated man’s voice coaxes through the thick fog. For all you know, it could be leading you to your death, a moth to a flame. A part of you no longer cares, yearning only for relief. The closer you grow to the light, the louder the other voice becomes. The shrill, piercing cries of a woman calling for help. Perhaps she’s like you, trapped here in the darkness, alone - afraid. Though uncertain of your ability to assist the woman that calls, you hasten your pace.

At last, you find your source of light: a large glass dome. Inside, a rather unique raven flaps its dreamy, ink-black wings as it hammers its beak against the glass in a desperate attempt to escape. You want to set it free, but it’s as though the glass has been blown and stretched around it, completely encasing the bird. You reach up, entranced by the creature, fingers mere centimeters away from the dome when the man’s voice returns, startling you from your daze. 

“See what they have done to her.” He commands, tone laced with disgust. You fearfully oblige, watching the raven as she continues her assault on the glass.

“Who trapped you here?” You ask against your better - rational - judgment. How could it be possible for a raven to speak? As she opens her beak you’re half-convinced your nonsensical thoughts are somehow correct. 

A long, ear-splitting caw erupts from the bird, her body bursting - splattering - against the glass. The harrowing thump of her corpse hitting the base of the dome rings throughout the sudden silence, and the scent of gunpowder fills the air. The sight burns itself a permanent hole in your memory, tremors wracking your limbs as you soak it in. She’s mangled, white belly stained red with splatters of her blood, now and forever entombed in her glass cage. Rattling with shock and adrenaline, you find the strength to push yourself onto your feet, stumbling away from the glass, a helpless child in the black abyss. 

“Help!” You cry, shrill and piercing. You wail until your voice gives out, unable to produce more than a hoarse whisper. You’re not sure who you’re pleading to. The man’s voice? The entity that follows? Whoever - whatever - it is, grants your request.

 Shadows shift and spin, whipping your body in every direction until you’re left swaying dizzily in a long, dimly-lit hallway. The warm flicker of tall, golden candle stands reflects off dark wood walls and floors, melting your frost-coated lashes. Recognition sits on the tip of your tongue, but you find yourself at a loss for where exactly you’ve seen this place before. Blue, satin-cloaked figures glide past you, funneling through an ornately-carved door at the end of the long hall. 

“Here in the darkness.” They chorus over and over,  the room vanishing as quickly as it had formed. 

You’re awake and grasping your sweat-soaked pillow, pushing yourself upright. A wave of relief washes over you as you soak in your surroundings, realizing it had only been a nightmare. Your dreams were rarely pleasant, but somehow this one felt different - lifelike. You could still smell the gunpowder, feel the smoke in your lungs, and see the blood. So much blood. Too much to have come from such a small bird. You run your hands through your hair, scratching your scalp as you reach for the phone on your nightstand. Ten o’clock.

“Shit. I’m late.” You’re practically jumping out of your sheets to get dressed, knowing you’ll never hear the end of it from Mr. Burgess. 

Six months ago, Paul hired you as a live-in caretaker for the crotchety old man, too exhausted mentally and physically from handling his long-term partner’s care on his own.  A position you were wholly underqualified for. It hadn’t been the job itself that caught your interest, but the man you’d be working for. Alexander Burgess: the only surviving son of one of the most controversial magical practitioners in history - Roderick Burgess. As an avid student and aspiring professor of occult history, the temptation of having access to all of Mr. Burgess’ inherited relics was too mouth-watering to resist. This would be your once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to not only live inside the very mansion that housed the Order of Ancient Mysteries but to discover the secrets they’d left behind. 

With the help of a few embellishments to your resume and a bit of charisma, Paul accepted your application. For the most part, you’re only here to assist Mr. Burgess when Paul cannot. While a few years younger, his age has not been kind to his mobility. Day after day, you find yourself reminding Paul that he should look after his health as well as he does his partners’.  

Mr. Burgess is often stubborn and resistant to the helping hands around him, even before your arrival. Though, he treats you a great deal worse than Paul. There have been many days in which you’ve found yourself questioning whether or not your research was worth the constant blows to your dignity. 

Two months ago, after an especially difficult day on the job, you’d nearly handed in your resignation. Paul had caught you sobbing in the kitchen after a spat with Mr. Burgess in which he’d called you an assortment of foul names while attempting to climb down the grand staircase on his own. Paul managed to talk you down, comforting you with a cup of chamomile and a few kind words - as always. Once able to think clearly, you decided you’d stay, assisting only as needed. Once again, your research became your priority, as you’d intended in the first place. You’d no longer allow the sour words of a bitter old man to squander your chance at recognition. 

 You push aside the residual anxiety from your nightmare, slipping into a comfortable pair of black boots and your coat before heading down the hall to your bosses’ shared room. Paul greets you with his signature smile, ever the early bird.

“Good morning, Paul.” You return his smile half-heartedly as your attention shifts to Mr. Burgess who is attempting to shimmy himself off the bed and into his wheelchair. You squat beside him, stabilizing the chair with one hand and holding the other out for support should he lose his strength. You know better by now than to touch and assist unless asked directly, having had your hands smacked away too many times to count. Paul must have helped take care of his morning hygiene tasks as Mr. Burgess is already dressed and visibly exasperated. 

“I’m sorry I’m late.” You apologize to the men, but mostly to Paul. Mr. Burgess angrily mumbles something about not needing your assistance. You share a knowing look with Paul and wordlessly move behind Mr. Burgess, too exhausted from your fitful sleep to engage in his antics. You push his chair out of the room, down the ramp that connects to the end of the hall, and toward the library where they share their early hours each morning.

Much to Paul’s dismay, as the chair rolls to a stop, Mr. Burgess shakily pushes himself up and onto his feet, shambling toward the loveseat. Paul, instantly at his partner’s side, places a gentle hand beneath his elbow for support. The older man grumbles his dissatisfaction but refrains from swatting him away as they situate themselves, hungrily eyeing their steaming trays of breakfast on the coffee table. 

“Is there anything else I can do for you two?” You ask tentatively, cupping your palms together in front of you. You’re hoping they no longer require your assistance, eager to escape the perpetual gloom of the mansion, feel the crisp fall air against your skin, and rid your mind of the gory scene your nightmare burned into your memory. Paul’s thoughtful gaze remains on you for a moment, studying the dark circles beneath your eyes and the tense curl of your shoulders.

“That’ll be all for now, thank you.” He says appreciatively. Mr. Burgess simply waves his hand, shooing you away. You resist the urge to roll your eyes and nod to Paul with a tight-lipped smile, hurrying away before either man can change their mind.

A subtle nagging resistance tugs at your gut, slowing your steps and forcing you to take in your surroundings. Ghostly flashes of cloaked figures float around you as you stand stock-still in the center of the hall, the ornately-carved door of your nightmare looming ahead of you. This was why it had felt so familiar, you’d walked this hall every day, but had never paid any mind to the door. What secrets lie beyond it? Stewing with curiosity, you tear your vision away, directing it toward your bosses. What if it hadn’t been just a nightmare? What if it had been a premonition? What if?

“See what they have done to her.” Echoes the voice inside your mind as you warily eye the two men in the library. You watch Paul dote on Mr. Burgess, carefully wiping a splotch of jam from the corner of his mouth. Paul could never. Not with a heart as big as his. You’re sure of it. You shift your focus to Mr. Burgess as he drinks deeply from his teacup, his stare vacant, far away from that of his loving partner. You’d undoubtedly witnessed the old man’s verbal mistreatment, and had often been the recipient yourself. 

While working for the couple, you’d taken the liberty of flitting through the many family records and memoirs available in their library. Mr. Burgess had tucked anything that so much as mentioned his father’s name into a dark, dusty corner. Out of sight, out of mind. As you flicked through the countless pages, you began to understand why.

 There were nearly as many detailed accounts of abuse toward the young Alexander Burgess as there were rumors of seances and sacrificial ceremonies. You’d attributed Mr. Burgess’ sour disposition to his troubled upbringing, unhealed from the traumas he’d endured. But, could that prove him capable of what you’d witnessed in your nightmare? 

You scoff at your train of thought, slipping your hands into your pockets. It’s been ages since you’ve allowed yourself to become so affected by a nightmare. You turn away from the men and continue your path, tucking the notion under another fold in your brain for later dissection.

Strolling through the property gardens had eased your nerves, but the flames of curiosity were not so easily snuffed. With sleep refusing to take you tonight, your restless legs carry you through the sleeping halls of the mansion, down the creaky stairs, and into the place you feel most at home - the library. 

Your fingers skim the spines of old, leather-bound books, searching for answers within their abundant pages only to come out empty-handed. Not a single book has offered confirmation for your suspicions. Frustrated, you now sit at Mr. Burgess’ desk, poking about the numerous drawers and personal items. Nothing of use in those either. 

“Fuck it.” You stand and pull the top drawers completely from the desk, dumping them into the leather chair. Your fingers skim the edges of the wood, searching for something - anything. Antique, hand-crafted desks like this almost always have secret compartments and hide-aways, right?

 Just as you’re near your wit's end, ready to submit to the fact that it may have just been a nightmare, your fingers brush across a loose button of wood - almost unnoticeable. You press down, delighted to hear the quiet click, and see the base of the compartment lift. Your nimble fingers pry open the lid, snatching out the typewritten documents inside, and devouring them with greedy eyes. 

You hold in your hands an incomplete memoir, written by a man named Dr. Hathaway, detailing a particular interaction he’d had with the Magus: a title Roderic Burgess insisted to be addressed by. Dr. Hathaway had come to the Magus in an act of desperation with a stolen grimoire he’d gained access to through his high standing with the museum that kept it. 

This spellbook - the Magdalene Grimoire - contained an incantation that could summon the Angel of Death, binding it by the laws of magic to the will of its summoner. The Magus had sought after the book in the hopes that he may force Death to resurrect his eldest, most beloved son, Randall, who died in battle. Though Dr. Hathaway initially refused the Magus’ requests for the book, after his own son, Edmund, fell in battle, he felt he had no other option. 

With an aching heart, he relinquished the book into the hands of the Magus who called upon his Order of Ancient Mysteries to begin the ritual. Dr. Hathaway goes on to describe the terror he felt whilst witnessing the act, as well as his disappointment when they realized their attempt had been unsuccessful. They hadn’t summoned Death, but they had summoned something. 

The documents trail off into unfinished sentences. You presume this to be the fault of Roderick Burgess, not wanting any more bad publicity. In the eyes of many, he was a fraud. Surely, Alexander wouldn’t have gone through the daunting task of rounding up and hiding away his father’s collections if there hadn’t been some level of truth within the writings. You fold and tuck the pages into the side of your bra for safekeeping, and return the drawers back to their original, tidy state. If they’ve still got whatever Roderick summoned locked away, it certainly isn’t a raven.

 You slump into Mr. Burgess’ chair, resting your elbows on the desk and your forehead in your hands. If not a captive entity, then perhaps they’ve got the Magdalene Grimoire behind that door, just beyond your reach. It would make perfect sense to preserve such a powerful artifact in a safe space of its own, rather than leaving it to rot on a shelf. 

You’d be lying to yourself if you didn’t admit the fact that this is the first promising lead you’ve discovered in your six months of working here. Therein lies the rub. If you’re not careful, you could lose your job or far worse if they truly have someone - something - held captive. You squeeze your head in your hands, weighing the risk against the reward. You owe it to yourself - to the world - to discover the secrets of the Order of Ancient Mysteries. And, if someone is being held captive, don’t you have a moral obligation to help them? 

“I’m probably going to regret this.” You sigh to yourself, standing from Mr. Burgess’s chair to head, once more, down the dreaded hall. As your hand grips the doorknob, apprehensive second thoughts ebb away at your confidence. Are you truly willing to put everything on the line for the slim possibility that you might find something of value? What if you find nothing? What if you get caught? What if?

“Oh, come on!” You lecture yourself, clenching and unclenching your fists, feet shifting from side to side as you strain to build back your courage. You quickly wipe your sweaty palms against the thin fabric of your satin night slip and twist the handle.

The door swings open to reveal a spiraled, stone staircase descending into darkness. A frigid draft blows over your body, spreading goosebumps across your flesh. The image of the raven, bloody and lifeless, flits across your mind’s eye. But, it’s too late to turn back now. You’ve made your decision. Shivering, you push onward, one hand on the damp wall for guidance as you follow the spiral down. 

The sight that greets you as you round the corner makes your skin crawl, fingers slotting through the gaps of the black metal entrance gate to keep yourself upright. Four grey columns lead up into high, blue-colored arches. In the center of those columns hovers the very same glass dome you’d seen in your nightmare, suspended by silver chains over a circle of chipped, painted runes. A man, pale and statuesque lay in place of the raven, his legs tucked into his chest. There's a stillness to him that both unsettles and excites your senses, his skin emitting a pearlescent, otherworldly glow beneath the white light that sways above the dome. 

 He doesn’t move a muscle as you muster the courage to take the final steps into the room. Your legs don’t stop their advancement until you’re mere inches away, eyes widening at the prisoner’s condition. He has nothing, not even a scrap of fabric for warmth. No food. No water. Left bare and alone to rot away in the cell. 

You breathe deeply, your head spinning from the revelation. At worst, you’d expected to find taxidermied animals and strange spell ingredients, or ancient books. At best, the Magdalene Grimoire Dr. Hathaway had mentioned. You didn’t truly believe you’d find someone - a man - locked away like an animal. You’re so close you can see your reflection on the surface of the glass, wondering if he’s even alive. He’s so still, the subtle rise and fall of his chest barely visible. 

Obsidian eyes overflowing with glimmering stars lock onto yours. You stumble back at his sudden movement, tripping over your own feet. He watches you, eyes fixed in a hardened glare, irritated by your disturbance. He has every right to be. Here you are, outside the glass, gawking at him as though he’s nothing more than a museum exhibit. 

“I’m- I’m sorry.” You stammer. “I don’t mean to stare. It just didn’t look like you were breathing so-” His eyes narrow on you, cutting your sentence short. You clear your throat nervously and change the subject. 

“How long have you been down here?” He remains silent, unwilling - or perhaps unable -  to answer your question. 

If the writings of Dr. Hathaway were accurate, the answer could be up to a hundred years. Though, based on the youthful appearance of the caged man, you’d have never come to that conclusion on your own. He’s unlike anyone - anything - you’ve ever seen. Messy, pitch-black tendrils of hair frame the angular structure of his face, drawing your focus toward prominent brows and wild, swirling eyes, like compact portals into the cosmos. 

“It’s strange,” You continue, determined to get answers - or any response - out of the stranger. “I had a dream about your cage the other night.” You watch him carefully, searching for any sign of recognition. His scowl turns to a look of curiosity, interest piqued. He watches you carefully as you anxiously pace in front of him, detailing your nightmare. 

“There was this beautiful raven with a white belly. She was beating herself against the dome, trying to escape.” Lithe muscle raises him to rest his weight over his forearm. He listens intently, face virtually pressed against the glass. He hasn’t looked away from you - hasn’t blinked. 

“Was that your doing?” Yet again, he refuses to respond, words held behind a dam of unchanging silence. You want nothing more than to hear his voice, to solidify the obvious connection between this stranger and your nightmare. There’s a persistent, pulsating pressure at the front of your brain. You swear it’s coming from him, as though he’s trying to pry into your mind and see the image for himself. 

“Look,” You press your fingertips into your temples in an unsuccessful attempt to rub away the pressure. “I won’t hurt you. I just need to know who - or rather, what - you are so I can get you out of there.” 

There’s a visible struggle behind his eyes as he weighs the potential consequences of placing his trust in you. From your position, you don’t see what more he has to lose. At worst, you’re another greedy, selfish mortal, seeking to use him for his powers - whatever they may be. At best, you’re his only shot at release. Several quiet, lengthy moments pass, and you realize you may not get very far by talking to him. 

“If you’re not going to speak, I have to go.” His expression falls sullen as he watches you back away. “I’ll be back.” You promise, suspecting he’s heard those words before. 

The door slams shut behind you - a bit too loud for comfort - and your body slumps against the wood. The hall spins around you as you dizzily rest your weight over your knees. You close your eyes, taking slow, deep breaths to calm your racing heart. How the hell are you going to get him out of there? You, alone. You doubt you’ll even be able to break the glass. 

“We never meant for you to find him.” Your head whips toward the intruder only to find Paul standing at your side, his dark red robe tied tightly around his waist, hands behind his back. A thousand ants of panic crawl across your nerves. He takes a step closer and you take one back, fixated on his hidden hands. You’re no longer sure what he’s capable of, not after what you’ve seen - what you know. He calls your name, striving to pacify you as he always has whenever Mr.Burgess pushed you past your emotional threshold.  

You frantically search your surroundings, a cornered animal, eyes landing on a metal, bird-shaped figurine on the hallway console. You snatch it from its place, pointing it toward Paul as a warning. 

“Stay the fuck away from me.” Paul raises his empty hands out for you to see, halting his steps. His eyes dart between the metal bird in your trembling grasp and your frightened expression. Unarmed or not, you fear he’s trying to lull you into a false sense of security, ready to strike the moment you let down your guard.

“I suppose you think differently of me now. That I understand,” He exhales, aware of the shadow this revelation has cast over his character. “Truthfully, we’ve wanted to set him free for years now.”

“Who is he? What is he?” You press, figure heavy in your hand as you struggle to keep it raised. Every fiber of your being screams for you to run before you end up like their prisoner, but you deserve answers. 

“Drop the statue and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” He offers as a compromise, moving to step closer. In turn, you raise the figure higher, threatening to bludgeon him. He flinches, lowering to his knees before you. His reaction spurs a wave of confidence within you, allowing you to still your wavering voice.

“Answer me, Paul.” You threaten. His brows furrow, bewildered by your abrupt loss of fondness toward him. 

“The Sandman.” 

“And why, exactly,  is the Sandman locked in your basement?” 

“We weren’t the ones that put him there. That was Roderick’s doing. But, we couldn’t release him after he died. Alex has done far worse than keeping him locked in there.” He shakes his head, face riddled with the guilt of a long-held secret.

“We tried to bargain with him. His release in return for his word that he wouldn’t harm us, but he refused to speak. He never has, not to anyone.” 

Understanding does nothing to quell the sting of betrayal you feel as you look at Paul, enraged on behalf of your stranger, and heartbroken at the loss of the friend you thought you knew. How could you have trusted him? His love for Alex has tarnished his moral compass beyond repair. They’re no better than Roderick, selfish and entitled, believing their safety is of higher value than the life of another. There’s no telling the damage they’ve inflicted throughout the world by holding the Sandman hostage.

“I answered your question. Now, will you please put the bloody statue down?!” You reluctantly lower your arm, unable to support the weight of the figure any longer, but keep it close - just in case. He sighs in relief, shoulders slouching as he leans back against his heels.

“You know how wrong this is, Paul.” You scold him. 

“I’d set him free myself if I could guarantee Alex’s safety.” 

“You would?” Mr. Burgess questions, calmly emerging from the shadows behind Paul. His lack of emotion sets you on edge, and as you watch Paul’s expression falter, you suspect it’s had the same effect on him.

“I see you’ve met our…guest.” He says the word with poorly contained disgust, as though he were the victim. His knuckles turn white as he grips the armrest of his chair, pushing himself to stand.

 “Let us properly introduce you, then.” Paul rises from the floor, moving to support his partner who brushes him off, cocking his head sharply toward the basement door in a silent demand for Paul to open it. You withdraw from the two, ready to make a run for it. 

“Don’t play coy now,”  Mr. Burgess snaps, pinning you under his menacing glare. “You think I haven’t noticed you snooping through our library - through my father’s belongings? Is this not what you’ve been searching for?” He turns to Paul, visibly disappointed. 

“Did I not warn you this would happen?” Paul remains quiet, unwilling to meet the blameful eyes of his partner. Instead, he simply folds the wheelchair, tucking it under his arm as the two of them begin their descent into the basement. You know you should leave while you have the chance, but you won’t be able to live with yourself if you don’t at least try to rescue the Sandman. Still clutching the metal statue, you trail after them, mindful enough to leave the exit open behind you.

The Sandman sits upright inside his cell, arms strewn over his crossed legs, making no effort to acknowledge the presence of his captors. You remain near the gate, unsure of how the situation will unravel as Mr. Burgess hobbles toward his prisoner. 

“It’s been some time since our last visit, hm?” He leans on his forearm, resting his weight against the surface of the glass. “I wonder if you’ll speak now.” He taunts. “If not for us, then perhaps for our friend.” 

“I’m not your fucking friend.” You huff, prompting Mr. Burgess to slam his hand against the glass. Unflinching, the Sandman’s starry eyes find yours. He shortly scans over your clenched fists and the figure you’re still clutching as though your life depends on it.

“I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in the last sixty years. That’s your fault!” Another strike meets the glass. “Isn’t it!” Mr. Burgess spits. The Sandman’s jaw tightens, but he wordlessly keeps his eyes locked on yours, unwilling to submit to the old man’s tantrum. You feel the pressure from earlier against your temples, prodding - provoking.

“Father was right to keep you here. You serve no purpose to anyone. You’re useless!” Mr. Burgess hisses. “Just a naked man in a glass cage.”

Absentmindedly, your feet inch closer behind the old man, blood boiling from the witnessed abuse. You’ve half a mind to rush him, to cave his head in against the glass. Before the urge can be acted upon, you feel Paul’s gentle hand against yours, carefully prying the figure from your curled fingers. You catch a glimpse of your palm, puncture wounds littering the skin from how firmly you’d squeezed. He sets the figure aside, grabbing and unfolding the wheelchair he’d left by the gate. 

“Alex, darling,” Paul sighs, exasperated. “Please.” He rolls the chair to his partner’s side. To your surprise, Mr. Burgess complies, sinking defeatedly into his seat. Tears pool in the corners of his eyes as he stares at the Sandman who continues to ignore his presence. 

“Take me upstairs, Paul.” His lower lip quivers. “I won’t be coming down here again.” Paul turns the chair, pausing for a moment. Your eyes follow his pointed glance to a freshly-cut, curved line that now disrupts the runic circle. The two of you share a look - an understanding. You want to ask if he meant to do it, but he wordlessly moves past you, assisting his lover up the staircase and out of the basement.

There’s hardly any time to process what’s happened, the Sandman already standing within his cell, cosmic eyes trained on you with feral determination. The smoke of your nightmare billows into the room, and you stagger toward him. You’re terrified to end up as you had before, near dead, cocooned inside the suffocating haze.

“I won’t hurt you.” It was him - the voice in your nightmare. He speaks softly, voice like liquid gold. It’s deep and warm, and for a moment you forget about the smoke that threatens to devour you. 

You find yourself transfixed on his figure as he presses his hands against the surface of the glass, beckoning you to do the same. You’ve no choice other than to believe his words as the smoke lashes at your limbs. Your tremoring hands slot over the glass, aligning with his. The space between beams with light, his hands phasing through the surface, boney fingers lacing through yours. 

You pull, freeing the rest of his body from the cell. His arms circle you at once, pulling you into his chest for support. Tingling with excitement and adrenaline, you hardly notice the hand he brings between your faces, fingers splayed as sand flows from the gaps. 

“Now,” He drawls. The particles sweep past your cheeks and into your eyes, your body falling limp against him as your vision fades to black. 

“Sleep.”

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generalized anxiety disorder is kind of a funny diagnosis...like this bitch is scared just in general

Here is an updated list of all my works. I noticed my last masterlist post was acting kinda funky on mobile so hopefully this one will actually work.

Please enjoy, and remember to read my notes at the beginning of each work/chapter for warnings, updates, and any markers listed for skipping graphic scenes (if that’s not your cup of tea).

- Kathryn

If the links on mobile aren't working by tapping them, press and hold the link to open it in a new tab. :)

Gallows of the Dreaming (WIP)

One | Two | Three | ?

AO3: Here

Word count (so far): 13.6k

Six months after accepting the position of live-in caretaker to the Burgess’, a nightmare leads you to discover a long-held secret beneath the mansion.

Happiness Will Come To You.

hey hey! how are you? you feeling better? :) miss ya!

Hi! I am doing well and feeling better. I hope you’re doing well too! Thanks for checking in on me, I appreciate it!

I have been hard at work on rewriting chapter one and finishing my final draft of chapter two of Gallows of the Dreaming. I decided I had a bit more that I wanted to work into the story for continuity’s sake. I sort of jumped the gun with posting chapter one out of excitement. lol

They will be posted simultaneously so keep your eyes peeled for them soon!

cmon show a little cleavage bro its tasteful