With a groan, Bran clutched his head. A pounding heartbeat blitzed throughout his head as a beam of light assaulted his senses. He could smell the morning due and sense the ever-looming darkness that lurked around every minute corner; he could see the melancholic town landscape that could only attempt to hide from the morning sun.
Twisting his beige face, his piercing red eyes surveyed the room like a hawk; they were predatory eyes that asked for undivided respect. Their sharpness cut through the air and oozed an amalgamation of confidence and superiority. They pierced the dark abyss that invaded the room, causing gloom everywhere it touched.
Cracking his head, Bran ran a hand through his dull, black hair that absorbed all light it came into contact with. It was a scar that showed how attached to the vile place he was, eating away at all the sanity that lay in him; it was an evil presence that threatened to consume existence immortal.
Bran stood, the pink sun shining on his skin. "Just what happened?"
A small object crawled through the morning sky as Bran felt his head pound. A thousand roaring lions pounded in his head; a dark, complex, booming emotion embedded into his brain. It was a vile heart-wrenching thing that ripped at his chest, making him a slave to this emotion.
Clutching his chest, Bran let out a small, shallow groan; he was a marionette to this dark emotion that left his body reeling. "W-what's going on? What is this feeling?"
With a slight spine-chilling creek, Bran's door opened at a snail's pace. It was as if there was a monster, creeping into the room, inspiring a dreary, foreboding feeling that sunk into the boy's heart; It ate away at everything it could get its vile grasp on.
Bran clutched his chest harder, leaving red marks where his fingers dug down into his skin. He could feel the dark, unholy, existential energy piercing his brain, inspiring a deep-rooted fear that shocked him to his core. "Just what is going on?!"
The dreaded door opened to an abyssal world of death and murky depression; it ripped and tore at every strand of light it could grasp, crumpling it up like a roll of yarn. Its demonic grip tightened around the ball of light as it morphed and wrenched. It slowly writhed on the ground as the pieces of gooey oobleck began to ooze together.
With a startled jump, Bran grabbed an ornamental sword that hung above his headboard, and a multitude of magic circles materialized in the air around him. "Stay back!"
The gooey ooze began to writhe on the black, concrete floor. Like a mouse trying to find a way out of a sheet, small balls began to force themselves out of the ooze. Grotesque and gory, the ball burst from the dark matter, splashing the room in the stink-ridden goo.
Bran's eyes lit in a twisted fascination as he stared at the floating balls. Completely coated in the vile goo, the boy sheathed his sword and stepped off the bed. "Gods, I don't think I've seen something this-"
Moving with a precipitous movement, the balls spun around each other with a zeel not found in any living creature. A veiny and oblong body twisted from the balls of dark ooze. With a sadistic glee, the oblong mass spun like a top. Its body became more and more incomprehensible as it made its rotations.
Bran's eyes, now murky red, began to shake; his pounding headache began to pump out of his head. He could feel his insides throb as the mass spun closer to him. With a groan, a dark red life-blood seeped out of every orifice it could. "NGH, G-Gods. I-I-I ca-t b-"
The dark, primal ooze began to shake and an almost malicious laugh pierced into the room from behind the bleakness of the abyssal door. It laughed and laughed, and yet, nothing else came. It was a taunting being that saw Bran's time as nothing more than a toy.
A petrifying, scratching violin began to play a tough melody. The dark and deceitful notes dipped into a dark, satanic tone. As the violin screeched on, an Oregon began to hum with existential notes, its deep, runic chords sung vibrations through Bran.
The music, completely enveloping Bran, began to twist and morph into a chimera of longing and sorrow. Its deep, meaningful melody pierced the ensemble of bleak, abyssal evil. It was a tornado of a purplish-black that oozed death and disease; nothing could stop the ruinous black plague.
With a descent of madness, a ritualistic choir began their approach into demonism that would corrupt the purest of forms; its cynical, satanic chanting broke any form of life the room might have held. The small microbes and germs that rested in the room disintegrated under the melodic aura.
With the song reaching its crescendo, a cosmic, fury arm descended from the madding ceiling. As the hand sunk through the roof, Bran felt his eyes roll back; he could feel the incorporeal beings wearing heavily on his mortal mind.
Without a thought, Bran felt his eyes flutter closed as deep, infernal laughter ripped through existence. "Just what are you?"
The demonic creature only bellowed at Bran's query; its voice broke through every piece of matter the room held. "You are not yet ready to begin comprehending my power. Go back and prepare my vessel to descend back into the Godly realm!"
Not able to react, Bran was chucked out of the demonic realm that held his soul; he felt many questions assault his mind, the most prevalent escaped his mouth seconds before he was flung around at the behest of the mighty entity. "Why does this keep happening!?"
***
Bran shot up from his dreams; a cold sweat dripped from his face. His body, freezing and sluggish, began to shake with a destructive ferocity. It was as if he was a city-destroying earthquake. "What's going on? Why do these things keep happening? I thought things would remain relatively the same, yet to think…"
The blue sky reflected across the ground as the sun hung perpendicular to the ground. The people's happy screams echoed across the city and into Bran's home. The house's white marble shone through the streets, blinding a few birds on their way to migrate. It was a tower that loomed over all, inspiring them with a fearful yet harmonious.
Bran peeked out his window, the view of children and animals running with glee blinding him. "I thought it would have been the same after coming to the past, but…everything's changed."
The children in the street ran with zeel, forgetting the troubles their childish hearts held. From the beggars to the common folk, the children ran and played; it was as if they were prancing in the fields of Elysium. They cried with joy as they slayed dragons and demons, saving the princess. Purity spread through their beings as they put away any greed or negativity their parents held and came together as a community. They had transcended the adults and put any grievances they had aside.
Bran lifted his eyes. His face, frozen and uncaring, lifted to the sky, looking to the heavens as if they would shine a ray of light down that would solve his problems. An apathetic chuckle left his mouth with the thought. "How could I look to Gods who hold no power? They can't do anything; I can't rely on them."
The children began chanting. "Our laughter echoes through the night, as we pledge allegiance to the fright, for we are the children of dead, and we will follow you until the end."
Bran jumped as the sky darkened to a sinister purple; he could feel his breathing hitch. For but a brief moment, he saw that dark, fury, demonic arm reach down. Its mangled, meaty claws grasped the children, sowing their souls.
As the existential being grabbed the children, they chanted on. "So let us sing this blackened chant, and let our voices fill the air with dread, for we are the ones who call upon the evil that lurks beneath our beds!"
Bran froze. He stood still as a board; his body shook with a ferocity no mortal could create. "No, what's going on? Just what is happening to the world?!"
The children's small, scrawny bodies began to shimmer; the sky's morning light shone off their skin. Their skin writhed and riggled, almost as if a monster hiding in their skin threatened to break free.
Without a second's hesitation, Bran ran toward his bedroom door, throwing it open. "I have to find answers!"
If the boy had stayed a second more, he would have seen the break in reality shift back to normal as if it never happened. The children, still playing, held no malicious undertones that promised dark corruption upon the world.
***
Bursting through his parents' bedroom door, Bran rushed in. "Mother?!"
The red-haired woman, his mother, stood from her bed as her feet touched the floor. "Yes?"
Bran glared into her eyes, defiantly. "What happened last night?"
The woman smiled as she hugged her son. "You came in to talk to me about your birthday. I wanted to know where you wanted your party. You said something about a… hand? And passed out."
Bran scowled. "That's not what happened! You were talking about all this weird stuff and played a music box!"
The woman shook her head as she placed her pointer finger on her mouth. "No, that didn't happen; I don't even own a music box. If you want to make certain that this is the case, you can go talk to your father – I called him here after you passed out – and see if it's the truth."
Bran rubbed his head. "But that can't be… T-that's not true…"
The boy's mother swooped her arm around his back, rubbing it. "Don't worry, Bran. You were just having an off day yesterday. It happens to everyone. Here, take a sip of water."
As he accepted the water, Bran could swear he saw an evil glint in his mother's eye. "Maybe you're right; it has been a long week."
As the boy took a sip of the water, his mouth dried like a desert. The water, a sweet-tasting liquid, began to turn into a thicker, viscous liquid in his mouth. It began to mutate, becoming sharp and metallic; as Bran began to gulp down the water with such veracity that he looked like a barbarian, the water began to turn crimson.
As Bran pulled away from the glass, his eyes drifted to the remnants he left behind. "What? Why is it red?"
The boy's mother began to cackle. Her voice reverberated around the room, blasting into the boy's bones. "Hehe, ahh. It's great that you trust poor ol' mommy and all, but Bran… Drinking something when you have no clue what it might be in such a suspicious situation? I thought I raised you better."
Bran gritted his teeth. "What? I thought you said… NO! Who – what – are you?!"
The woman's hair began to writhe as horns pushed red strands from her forehead. "I, Bran, am your mother. You know this; I know this. Everyone knows this. What would your little friend say in this situation? Ah, right, don't be stupid."
Bran stumbled back. "No, you're some kind of demon! My mother wouldn't act like this!"
The woman smiled. "You're not wrong; I'm very far from being a human. However, I am your mother. I gave birth, raised, and fed you. I am the dictionary definition of a mother, there is no denying that."
Bran's face scrunched. "Then how do you explain all this? How do you explain what's currently going on? How do you explain how different you're acting?!"
Bran's mother smirked. "Well, that's easy: I've never, once, shown you or your father who I truly am. I suspect he knows yet doesn't say anything because he doesn't care, but that's beside the point. Everything I have and will do is for you and your sister. Why am I acting weird? Didn't I hint at this last night? It's because I view you as mature enough to handle the secrets of the world."
Bran scowled. "Then why would you act like this? If all you're doing is for me and Kara, why even choose to hide yourself?!"
The woman sighed as her horns seeped back into her skin. "Bran, that, you aren't ready for." The boy tried to interrupt his mother, only for her to continue. "Listen, there are people out there who will do everything in their power to kill or capture me. I hail from a powerful family whose blood is something so ancient that it's been lost to the passage of time. My family hails from before the third refinement; before Ectelum died."