Chapter 1: The Elkwood Overture

Chapter 1: The Elkwood Overture

The tires of the beat-up production van crunched over a gravel path choked with weeds, spitting pebbles against the rusted iron gates of Elkwood Asylum. Elara ‘Elle’ Vance pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window, gazing up at the building that would be her home and workplace for the next six weeks. It wasn't just a building; it was a gothic monolith of decaying brick and shattered windows, a skeletal silhouette clawing at the bruised twilight sky. A shiver, completely unrelated to the autumn chill, traced a path down her spine.

“Breathtaking, isn’t it?” Liam’s voice, a low grumble of artistic satisfaction, broke the silence. He navigated the van through the groaning gates, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. Even in the dim light, Elle could see the familiar, intense focus in his eyes. This film, The Somnus Fiend, was his baby, his masterpiece, the project he’d poured every last cent and favor into.

“It’s something, alright,” Elle murmured, her gaze lingering on a boarded-up window that looked disturbingly like a screaming mouth. Her desire to land this leading role had been an all-consuming fire. It was her big break, the kind of gritty, psychological horror that launched careers. But now, faced with the asylum’s oppressive presence, a familiar knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach. “I think I preferred it when it was just words on a page.”

Liam shot her a quick, almost sympathetic glance before his focus snapped back to parking the van amidst a clutter of equipment trucks. “That’s what we’re paying for, Elle. Authenticity. You can’t fake this kind of atmosphere.” He cut the engine, and the sudden silence was somehow louder than the rattling vehicle. “Just think of it as the ultimate in method acting. You’re supposed to be playing a patient losing her mind. Now you don’t have to imagine it.”

She forced a weak smile. “Thanks. Super helpful.”

That was Liam. Pragmatic to a fault. He loved her, she knew he did, but his passion for his art always came first. On set, he wasn't her boyfriend; he was her director, a demanding perfectionist chasing a vision she sometimes struggled to see.

They spent the next hour helping the skeleton crew haul gear into the asylum’s cavernous reception hall. Dust motes danced like frantic fairies in the beams of their work lights, illuminating peeling paint and the ghostly outlines where furniture once stood. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and forgotten sorrows.

“Alright, people, listen up!” Liam’s voice echoed, sharp and commanding. “Bunks are assigned on the second floor, east wing. It’s not the Hilton, but it’s dry. Power is from the generators, so use it sparingly. Call time is 0600 sharp. I want the chapel scene blocked and ready for the first shot by 0800.”

A collective groan rippled through the weary crew. Elle grabbed her duffel bag, her desire for a hot shower warring with the primal urge to get back in the van and drive until the sun came up. She found her assigned room—a former patient’s cell, complete with a barred window and scratches on the inside of the heavy wooden door. A single cot with a thin mattress was her only luxury.

She sank onto the lumpy bed, the springs groaning in protest. This was it. This was her chance. Pushing past the exhaustion and the creeping dread, she pulled out her script, its pages already dog-eared and filled with her notes. She had to nail this. For herself, for Liam. She read her opening lines aloud, her voice a small, uncertain sound in the suffocating stillness.

Hours later, sleep finally claimed her, pulling her down into a darkness as thick and cloying as the asylum’s dust.

But it was not a peaceful sleep.

She wasn’t in her room anymore. She was standing in a hallway, one she’d glimpsed earlier, but it was wrong. Unutterably wrong. The floral wallpaper was a sickly, pulsating yellow, the pattern writhing like maggots. The floor tilted at an impossible angle, and a low, guttural whisper seemed to emanate from the very walls, a sound that felt like sandpaper on her soul.

Hungry… so hungry…

Panic, cold and absolute, seized her. This wasn’t a dream. It felt too real, the chill on her skin too sharp, the foul, coppery smell in the air too distinct. She was barefoot on the grimy linoleum, wearing a thin, white hospital gown that wasn't her own. She had to get out.

She ran.

Her bare feet slapped against the floor, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence. Doors lined the hallway, their paint blistered, small glass peepholes dark and vacant. Yet, she felt eyes on her from every one. The hallway stretched on, impossibly long, a distorted, nightmarish tunnel. The whispers grew louder, coalescing behind her into a dragging, slithering sound.

She didn't dare look back. Fear was a physical thing, a hook in her lungs that made every breath a ragged gasp. The entity behind her wasn't just following; it was consuming the world as it came. The wallpaper behind her decayed into black slime, the floorboards rotted away into a gaping abyss. The darkness was gaining.

She reached a dead end—a heavy, steel door bolted with a massive, rusted lock. Trapped. She slammed her fists against it, the impacts jarring but useless. She turned, her back pressed against the cold metal, and finally faced her pursuer.

It had no shape. It was a vortex of deeper shadow, a patch of rippling, heat-haze darkness that warped the very air around it. Pinpricks of malevolent light, like a thousand hateful eyes, blinked within its churning depths. It wasn't a monster; it was a fundamental wrongness, a piece of reality that had been torn away.

The whispering filled her head, no longer words but pure, undiluted terror. The shadow surged forward, ready to devour her.

Ding.

The sound was utterly alien in this place. Crisp, clean, digital.

A translucent blue screen flickered into existence before her eyes, hovering in the air between her and the encroaching darkness. White, blocky text began to type itself out.

[Welcome, User. System Interface Initializing...] [...Synaptic Resonance Confirmed.] [Latent Bloodline Detected: Dreamwalker.]

Elle stared, her terror momentarily eclipsed by sheer, dumbfounded confusion. A video game menu? Here?

The shadow creature hesitated, its advance slowing as if it, too, was perplexed by the intrusion.

[Threat Detected: Entity of Somnus (Fragment).] [Analysis: Parasitic Dream-Feeder. Classification: Level 1 Hazard.] [New Quest Initiated: Survive the Overture.]

The final line of text glowed with a faint intensity. The screen was insane, impossible, but the threat behind it was very real. The darkness roiled, letting out a psychic shriek of fury, and lunged.

Elle screamed, throwing her hands up to shield her face.

She awoke with a violent gasp, sitting bolt upright on the narrow cot. The room was dark, the only light a sliver of pale moonlight filtering through the grimy, barred window. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird, and her body was drenched in a cold, clammy sweat.

A dream. It was just a dream. A nightmare, brought on by stress, a creepy location, and a director boyfriend who thought psychological torture was a form of motivation.

She took a deep, shuddering breath, then another, trying to calm the frantic pace of her heart. The terror of the chase still clung to her, a phantom chill on her skin. She ran a hand through her messy, damp hair, laughing weakly at her own foolishness. A "Dreamwalker"? A "System Interface"? She’d been reading too many fantasy novels.

Then, she felt it. A strange, persistent tingling on her left wrist.

She glanced down, expecting to see nothing. But in the faint moonlight, something was there. It was faint, but unmistakable. A pattern glowed on her skin with a soft, silver-blue luminescence. An intricate, beautiful sigil that looked like a stylized sleeping eye, woven from threads of faint light.

Elle stared, her breath catching in her throat. Her blood ran cold.

It hadn't been there when she went to sleep.

The dream wasn’t just a dream. And it had left its mark.