Tale of the Gifted Beings

prologue

prologue

I STOOD AGAINST the vast emptiness in the milieu of my dreams, the abyss stretching out on all directions like an endless sea of inky blackness. But despite the unknown, there stood one singular sight—a massive Victorian house, both beautiful and bewitching, its gothic spires stretching out towards the sky like fingers wanting to touch God's face.

Twigs then snapped as I made my way towards its facade. The massive house now loomed over me. And oftentimes, I dream about this. The house was massive, with a stone exterior, an asymmetrical facade, a witch's hat turret, a finial on top, and a conical roof. The porch was lined with decor, highlighted with dark, vivid colors and contrasting hues. The wall on the outer part was graced with embellished Victorian friezes and scale shingles. It had a balustraded stairway, and it also had a sunburst panel on high-peaked gables. One side of the exterior was covered with vines; the front and the rest had plaster scrollwork and indented coffered panels.

I have seen this massive house before, strolled its hallways, and touched my fingers over its intricately carved designs. It is an eerie sight that creates both serenity and fear—a feeling of familiarity that makes me feel afraid even as my feet carry me towards the edifice.

In this dream, the massive house became the only thing to materialize in front of me, and I, unwillingly, became its viewer. I know in the depths of my mind how this dream is about to unravel, yet I feel the tug of a veiled puppeteer guiding me into the unknown.

From the shaded portico of the Victorian house emerged the man who frequently appears in my dreams. He seems to be in his mid-thirties, his hair a sparrow's wing, dropping just past his shoulders in a cascade of untied waves. A newly shaven mustache frames his lips, adding a gust of distinction to his already striking appearance. His smile is a mystery, kind and calming, yet stained with a vague sadness. It is a smile that expresses a mysterious feeling, forgotten dreams, heartache, and longing. It is a smile that's comforting for me and for me alone.

Then, as if summoned by an invisible signal, children appeared from behind him. They slowly rushed towards me, a riot of laughter and youthful innocence creating a striking contrast to the somberness of the massive house. I watched as this tableau unraveled before my eyes. There is a delicate quality to the scene, like an image wrapped in layers of cobwebs and starlight. I know, as if I'd experienced it a thousand times, that I am just a phantasm in this dream. I am both a part of it and separate from it, a silent observer in my own subconscious theater. Weird, I know. But something about it feels distinct, I just don't know what.

Everything in my dreams is playing out as it usually does: the man standing, the kids in white clothes constantly laughing, and the massive mansion creating an eerie atmosphere. The man's stare occasionally shifts to meet mine, and I... I wait. I wait for my vision to finish, for the children's laughter to disappear, for the man to vanish back into the void, and for the massive house to crumble into dust.

My heart then started beating rapidly in my chest, echoing in my mind as I slowly stepped away from the events that were all too familiar in front of me. The man then looked at me as he smiled, the air suddenly drifting as if it were on cue. Just as I was about to step away, he spoke—a soothing, comforting voice that palliated the strain in my chest.

"Find your true self, Primrose," he said. "Discover who you really are."

As his words echoed in my mind, the landscape changed. The once-united ocean of innocent laughter coming from the kids halted. The deafening silence filled the air, like the melody of an unknown song coming to an end. Their silence echoed in the dreamy expanse of my subconscious, creating ripples of strangeness that spread across the horizon. And then, as if the conductor of an orchestra had abruptly signaled a pause, they shifted their glares at me.

All at once, a dozen pairs of eyes landed on me. Their gazes were piercing, their calm faces suddenly took on a peculiar seriousness, and I could feel the hair on my neck standing. My heart started beating faster, and my chest was pounding like a wild pulse in my body. I knew what was about to happen. I dreamt of the same thing over and over again, yet it never ceased to unnerve me.

Then, like a choir chorusing, they spoke in unison. Their voices were light, yet they carried a weight that seemed too heavy for their innocent faces. "Come with us," they said in unison, their voices interlacing in a peculiar harmony. They then reached out towards me, their hands small and imploring. I was afraid, yet I didn't move.

Among the chorus, some broke away, their voices soaring above the rest. "Help us," they begged, their tearful eyes wide and scared, and their faces filled with despair that was distressing. Their pleas echoed in my head, wrenched my heart, and stirred within me like a deep sense of sympathy and a daunting sense of responsibility.

The dream had changed into a strange tableau, with me at its center. The man who constantly appears in my dream, the children, and their cries all whirled around me, producing a kaleidoscope of emotions. I looked at the children, and then I looked at the man. And suddenly, that scene somehow calmed. In the most unlikely of places—in my dreams—I was guided by a man I do not know and urged on by a choir of children.

"You are our salvation," the man said.

Then, as if it were on cue, the surreal scene faded away as I woke up, the echo of the children's pleas slowly subsiding. I was back in my room, the familiar setting in stark contrast to the dream world.

Who was that man? Who were those kids? And why am I always dreaming about them?