The white noise of the ICU machines hummed softly, steady as Emily's pulse. Her eyelids fluttered open, and the harsh glare of fluorescent lights pierced her senses. A muffled voice broke through the haze, insistent and familiar.
"Emily? Emily, can you hear me?"
She turned her head weakly toward the sound, her vision swimming until it settled on George's face. His eyes were rimmed with exhaustion, his hair dishevelled, and worry etched deep into his features. For a moment, the sight of him brought a small, fragile comfort—until his words hit her like a brick.
"You've been in a coma for a month," he said, his voice heavy with relief but tinged with something else—fear.
Her heart raced, the monitor beside her betraying her rising panic. A month. That was impossible. She had only slept.
"I... what?" she croaked, her throat dry and scratchy.
George quickly grabbed a cup of water from the bedside table, guiding it to her lips. His hands trembled slightly, though he tried to hide it. "You collapsed after we got back to the cabin. Doctors couldn't explain it. Neurological shutdown, they said. But no warning, no explanation—just... nothing."
Emily sipped the water carefully, her mind reeling. A month. The timeline aligned perfectly with what she had experienced in the other reality. Her dream hadn't been just a fleeting nightmare—it was something far more insidious.
She set the cup down shakily, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as she processed his words. "I wasn't... gone," she whispered, more to herself than to him. "I was somewhere else."
George raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. "Somewhere else?" he repeated, his tone skeptical but not dismissive.
Emily turned to face him, her voice gaining strength. "I was dreaming. But it wasn't like a normal dream. It was vivid. Real. The man, the village, the... curse. It all felt too solid to be in my head. And the time... it matches."
George frowned, his lips pressing into a thin line. He didn't interrupt, letting her spill the fragments of her experience: the cursed man's descent into madness, the eerie dances of the villagers, the living statue. As she spoke, the weight of her words filled the sterile hospital room.
"So you're saying," George started, rubbing the back of his neck, "that while your body was here, your mind was off playing horror show in some alternate reality?"
Emily shot him a look, but the seriousness behind his sarcasm was impossible to miss. "It wasn't a game, George. It's like... time works differently there. I was there for a month, too."
He ran a hand through his hair, the tension in his posture unmistakable. "And what's next? Every time you sleep, you're just going to pop into another nightmare until what? You don't come back at all?"
"It's not like I have a choice," she snapped, surprising herself with the force of her words.
For a moment, silence hung between them.
George leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared at her. For the first time, Emily saw something she wasn't used to—fear. Not the wry, sarcastic deflection he usually employed, but raw, unfiltered worry.
"You're scaring me, Em," he admitted, his voice quieter than usual. "This... this thing you're caught up in? It's going to kill you. I don't care about cursed diaries or creepy dreams. I care about you."
The sincerity in his tone stung more than she expected. She wanted to brush him off, to reassure him, but the truth was, she didn't know if he was wrong.
"I need to figure this out," she said finally, her voice steadier than she felt. "If I don't, it's just going to keep happening. I can't stop it. The only way out is through."
George let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And what happens when there's nothing left of you to fight back with?"
Her gaze drifted to the bedside table, where her belongings lay in a neat pile. Among them was the diary, its worn leather cover seeming to pulse faintly under the harsh fluorescent light.
"It's not done with me," she murmured.
George followed her gaze, his jaw tightening. "Oh, no. Absolutely not. That thing is a one-way ticket to crazy town, and you're already halfway there. You're not touching it again."
Emily gave a weak smile. "You don't exactly get a vote."
"I'm serious, Emily. That book is like poison. You've seen what it's done to the people before you. You can't think you're immune to that."
"Maybe immunity isn't the point," she countered, her voice soft but firm. "Maybe it's about understanding it. If I don't, it'll keep pulling me back."
As their conversation wound down, a strange chill settled over the room. Emily felt it first, a creeping sensation at the back of her neck, as though unseen eyes were watching her.
She glanced around, but nothing seemed out of place. Still, the feeling persisted.
The Watcher observed her silently, his presence intangible but undeniable. He was neither amused nor empathetic—merely intrigued. Emily was proving to be more resilient than he had anticipated, her defiance and determination sparking a faint flicker of curiosity within him. For now, he remained a passive observer, content to let her continue her journey.
That evening, as the hospital dimmed into a quiet stillness, Emily felt the pull of exhaustion. She fought it at first, but her body betrayed her, dragging her into a restless sleep.
Her dreams came quickly, vivid and chaotic. She stood in a new landscape, one that felt both alien and familiar. The air was thick with tension, and faint whispers curled around her like smoke.
She could feel the diary's influence even here, its presence a thread weaving through the fabric of her dream. A sense of foreboding settled over her as she took her first steps into the unknown.