Book

The door slammed shut. Ryan sat down on the ground, his back pressed against it. 

"Fuck my spleen," he muttered, a cry of anguish escaping him. His foggy eyes focused on the cabin ahead.

The wooden cabin was faintly illuminated by the hanging lamps outside. To the left, a small bed sat beside a bedside table; beneath it, cardboard boxes lay hidden in darkness. On the right, a table with a mirror—its face concealed behind a cloth—and a medium-sized closet adorned with spiderwebs on its door handles completed the scene.

Summoning his dwindling courage, Ryan slowly shuffled toward the bed. When he reached it, he collapsed onto the mattress and drifted into a fitful sleep.

When his eyes finally opened, he saw only the wooden ceiling above him. Slowly, he awoke fully and sat up to examine his injuries. The pain had subsided, but the marks remained. Outside the window, he could see a small, barren yard, void of trees, encircled by giant thick trees and a narrow trail leading into the forest. On the small bedside table, a blown-out candle lay. Figiting with the candle, growl can from his stomach.

Having nothing to eat, Ryan slowly unscrewed his bottle and took a long, parched sip of water. He then made his way to the table, hoping to salvage something useful. With a heavy heart, he rifled through its contents only to find a few worn-out pencils. His gaze drifted to the cloth that concealed the mirror. He hesitated, but unwillingly he moved his gave from it and looked toward the closet. opeing the closet the saw nothing but some webs in it.

Disappointed, he walked back toward the bed and sank onto it. He stared blankly, his mind churning with questions: What should he eat? What should he do now? What was this lodge, and why was that child ghost chasing him—and then fleeing? In his frustration, his heel brushed against something under the bed.

Curious, Ryan remembered the boxes he'd seen when he first entered the lodge. With a surge of hope, he bent down and retrieved all the boxes tucked beneath the bed. As he opened them, a flicker of delight crossed his face. 

In the first box lay a stack of questionable magazines. The second box held neatly packed, transparent tarps. The third revealed dried meat, a few neatly wrapped tissues, and several packs of chips. And in the fourth box, there was a peculiar single flip-flop phone—odd, out of place, yet strangely intriguing. 

Picking up the phone, Ryan flipped it open. Surprisingly, it was a high-end touchscreen mobile—yet its back resembled an old-fashioned keypad phone. Amused, he toyed with it for a moment before tossing it back into the box. He then gathered some meat and chips from one container and returned the other boxes under the table. As he ate to his fill, he pondered his dwindling food and water supplies.

Again His eyes drifted to the candle atop the bedside table. The intricate design on its handle hinted at a rich, mysterious history. Carefully, he placed the candle and its holder back on the table. Glancing at the table, he noticed three compartments underneath. The first two were empty, but in the third, he found a rough, old handbook covered in dust. Ryan blew off the dust and coughed a little. Opening the book, his brows furrowed in suspicion as he read a page scrawled in large, jumbled handwriting:

"Manual: How to Survive in a Dying World."

The page read:

"Haha. In this most wretched script, penned by a noble soul gone mad through endless torment, I present my testament! I have survived for 45 years—nay, 30, perhaps even 15 (for numbers, like morals, tend to blur in despair). Damn it all, I know not. Heed these words, thou unfortunate soul: it is nothing short of a miracle that a monkey like thou still breathest! Thy feeble mind must be utterly confounded by the absurdity of fate. Ahahaha! Art thou perplexed? Indeed, thou art ensnared within what I have come to call the Shifting Realm.

Through my ceaseless wanderings in these ever-colliding worlds, I have discovered that they are but a mishmash of realms—both at war and in union—bound by some unnameable force, much like the sticky glue of ancient alchemy. I dub this mysterious binder 'the Unknown.' In its grand design, the Unknown is infinite. Mark my words, thou daft wretch: provoke not the cosmic horror, lest thou pay dearly for thy insolence.

Hehehe, the preliminaries are now complete. Now, attend closely to the truth of this sanctuary wherein thou residest. This lodge, this humble haven, is a refuge amid the rift—a realm in its own right, and verily, a ghost artifact, no less!

Perchance thou art wondering: what is a ghost artifact? 'Tis a term of my own devising—a curious blend of madness and nobility. I know little of these artifacts, save that they are steeped in the energies of the Unknown and can be procured by vanquishing the wraiths that haunt the forsaken. Shouldst thou desire to survive in this accursed dominion, thou must adhere to these edicts which I have gleaned from my own misfortunes:

Ne'er venture forth without the lanterns hanging as beacons.

If thou dost feel the icy grip of peril, ignite the candle upon the table.

Above and most all Cast aside thy arrogance, for before arrogance, even the mightiest hath fallen.

Hehehe, verily, I was once arrogant, and I have paid the ultimate price. Pray, do not meet an untimely end if thou art reading these words.

Thine ever-loyal,

though loving father,

Sebastien

Ryan stared at the page, blinking as if the words were dancing before his eyes. It was all a jumble of old-fashioned language, nonsense about cosmic horrors, and even some insults that sounded ridiculous. His face twisted in both confusion and irritation.

"Are you kidding me?" he muttered. "Survived for 45 years? Or 30? Or 15? Who writes this crap?"

He slammed the book shut with a frustrated grunt. "Monkey? Seriously, what kind of drunk royal rant is this?" Ryan's anger bubbled up, and even though the message was dark, he couldn't help but get pissed. This Sebastien has done it purposely.

Shaking his hot head in disbelief, Ryan tossed the book aside. "Great, now I'm stuck in a rift with ghost artifacts and cosmic monkey-clowns. Just perfect," he muttered.

But as his rage slowly faded, a cold realization sank in. Sebastien's words were more than mad ramblings—they were a warning. The rift wasn't just a random trap. It was a place where the unknown held all the pieces together. Survival here meant living with the weight of that unknown force—a force that tied countless worlds together.

Ryan's head pounded as he looked around the dim lodge. He felt a heavy presence lurking in the darkness. His past battles had made him strong, but this new knowledge left him scared and unsure. The future, which once offered challenges and chances, now seemed like an endless void filled with potential horrors.

Standing up slowly, Ryan knew he was on his own. There was no clear path, no one to help him from behind or in front. Every step forward felt like a step deeper into the unknown—a future shrouded in darkness and uncertainty.

In that moment, the harsh truth of Sebastien's words hit him hard. The rift was not just a prison; it was a trap that might never let him go. And now, Ryan realized, his future was uncertain—he was destined to wander these haunted realms alone, at the mercy of forces he could hardly understand.

"F Ck your loving father," he said with gritted teeth, spoke and shoved his head under pillow and slept.