A Dream of Stone

  The priest dreams of stone. Cold, smooth stone—worn glassy by centuries of knees, of hands, of silent prayers pressed into its grain. They are kneeling, palms splayed against the floor, feeling the dampness bead against their skin, a chill creeping up through robe and sleeve, soaking through fabric to settle in the marrow. Beneath their touch, the stone hums faintly, a low vibration, as though the weight of countless devotions still lingers in its bones. The room is small. That’s the first thing the priest notices—not by sight, but by the weight of it, the way the air presses in around them, tight and unyielding, thick with stillness. It is stale, tinged faintly with iron and wet stone, a smell that clings to the back of the throat and stains each breath with something metallic, sour. Around them, rough stone walls close in. Every surface glistens faintly under the flicker of a lone lantern, its flame thin and sickly, sputtering against the dark. Shadows stretch long and unnatural, bending across the uneven floor, coiling in ways that defy the straight lines of the walls. Above, the ceiling hangs low—too low—a rough slab of stone looming close enough to brush the bowed crown of their head, close enough that with each shallow breath they feel its chill seeping down toward their scalp, an unseen weight hovering just out of reach. A narrow cot leans against one wall, sheets rumpled and thin, mottled with stains that could be rust, or old blood, or simply the slow rot of time. A basin perches on a squat wooden table beside it, water trembling faintly at its center—though no breeze stirs the heavy air. Across the room, a door stands shut. Iron-bound, swollen with damp, the wood cracked along the grain. A single barred window sits at eye level, but no light seeps through—only a soft, velvety blackness, dense and humming, a darkness that watches. The priest rises slowly, legs trembling beneath them, knees reluctant to lift from the stone. The chill clings deeper now, a heaviness in muscle and bone. And as they stand, the door creaks inward on its hinges, swinging open to reveal a narrow passage swallowed in shadow. There is nowhere else to go. They step forward. Each footfall falls dull and muffled, swallowed by the hush pressing down from every side. The corridor breathes cold against their skin, a damp draft threading past their ankles, curling up the backs of their legs like a whisper. The farther they walk, the tighter the walls seem to draw. First imperceptibly. Then closer. Closer. Their shoulders brush damp stone. Their breath grows louder in the narrowing space, echoing sharp against the close walls. Something shifts. The priest pauses. A trick of the dark? The whisper of air at the back of their neck? They turn, expecting the faint outline of the room they left—the lantern’s glow, the cot, the basin. But there is nothing. Only more stone. Solid. Seamless. The passage behind them gone. A pulse of dread unfurls in their chest. They turn back. The path ahead flickers faintly, a glow bending between sharp corners, pulling them forward. And they go. They must go. Each step feels heavier. The floor tilts beneath them, angles skewing. The walls slant inward, leaning, folding, as though the very space coils around them, pulling perspective apart. Shapes loom in the corners of their eyes. Teeth? Spires? Roots? Something slick and glistening, jutting from the stone. They reach out—a hand grazing the wall’s surface. It shudders beneath their palm.

  Stone shouldn’t shudder.

  A wrongness blooms beneath their skin, sharp and electric, nerves twitching as they pull their hand away. The narrow path spills into a chamber—a chamber, though the word feels strange, incomplete. The walls curve inward, ceiling sagging low, floor rising beneath their feet. The room feels like a lung, drawing breath, expanding, contracting. The air vibrates with the pulse of something vast and unseen. At the center, a pool. Black, gleaming, slick as oil, its surface glass-smooth, untouched by any ripple or breath. The priest approaches. Slow. Unsteady. Feet scuffing across wet stone. And in the pool, a reflection. The shape bends at the edges, blurred and wrong, mouth parted in frozen prayer, eyes wide and wider and wider still, filling the hollow of their face. A mockery of their own form, stretched thin across the trembling surface. The priest closes their eyes. Whispers a prayer. The sound slides away, thin and useless, vanishing before it can reach their ears. When they open their eyes, the pool has grown. Its edges blurring, spreading, stretching outward to swallow floor and wall alike. The ceiling lowers. The walls lean closer. The air thickens, heavy with a pressure that blooms in the chest, tightens around the ribs.

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  The priest turns.

  But there is no door.

  No passage.

  Only slick, curving walls drawing inward. A grinding sound stirs beneath the floor. A deep, slow rumble that climbs up their spine, setting teeth on edge. The walls ripple. Stone flexes, pulsing faintly like the hollow beat of a distant heart.

  They back away. But the floor tilts.

  The floor tilts.

  The floor tilts.

  Their balance shifts, legs buckling, palms slapping against cold, wet stone. The walls lean further. The ceiling lowers, an inch at a time, the dark pressing tighter, tighter, the very air thinning around them. The pool stretches wider. Black spreads beneath their feet, swallowing stone, reaching like a mouth opening, opening, opening—

  The walls touch their shoulders.

  Then their arms.

  Their sides.

  Their chest.

  Their limbs pinned.

  The stone presses closer. Tighter. A closing fist. A coffin without seam. The ceiling kisses the crown of their head. The walls press against their ribs. Breath shallow. Shallower. A fluttering gasp scraped from lungs that can no longer expand. The heartbeat pounds louder now—in their skull, in the walls, in the trembling stone.

  The walls press.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  The ceiling bends lower.

  Their ribs creak beneath the weight.

  Their breath stutters, splintered and thin.

  Their mind claws for prayer—but words unravel, syllables slipping loose, unraveling into nothing.

  The stone closes in.

  The space folds.

  Tighter.

  Tighter.

  Their eyes press shut. The weight closes in. Their bones ache. Their chest collapses. Until the last shred of breath is squeezed from their chest, until the world itself compacts into a single, trembling point—

  —and then nothing.