On Monday mornings, I send out a story via email: ultra-brief tales of 1,000 words or more, usually in genres including horror, science fiction, and the supernatural. Those stories collectively are called Once Upon A Time. I’ve also published several ebooks and compendium volumes of those stories so far.

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Here's story 215, of 240 so far.

Deadworlds

When he became aware of his surroundings, the man looked in every direction, confused. He had never known such a place.

As far as the eye could see, there was only a blanket of shimmering white, like snow but without any cold. The distance blended with the horizon on all sides, and the sky — if it was the sky — had the same opalescent quality, making dimensions and altitudes unclear. It was all utterly silent and still; warm and empty.

Peaceful, his mind suggested, but in truth he found it unsettling more than anything else. Nothing to see, and that was a nightmare for a man whose greatest passion was painting beautiful pictures of the world for others to enjoy. Everything he encountered was seen through the eyes of an artist, and while he hadn’t enjoyed much commercial success in his life, his enthusiasm was undiminished even after the passing of decades, and he had at least found fulfilment in his work.

He suddenly became aware of a presence behind him, and he turned to find an older woman there, with an expression of patience on her face. The figure wore long robes of white, whose colour matched the thick, curly hair on her head. She was like a statue of the ancient world, but alive, and with a sparkle of benevolence and good humour in her eyes.

“Welcome,” the old woman said, and the man had the distinct feeling that he was being spoken to in a different language than the one he was hearing and understanding, which was his own mother tongue. He nodded, which seemed to be enough, as he tried to gather his thoughts. It took a few moments, but the woman was clearly willing to wait, and at length the man spoke again. He asked the only question that he could bring to mind.

“Where are we?”

The woman smiled. “The place between,” she replied, gesturing expansively with her hands, but without raising her elbows from her sides. The movement seemed to say that the answer was self-evident, or perhaps just that it was one she had given many, many times before. In any case, the implied meaning was obvious enough.

“So I have… died?” the man asked, and the woman nodded, still smiling, as if this was no cause for undue concern.

“How did it happen?”

The consequent question was immediate, and instinctive, and expected. The woman only shook her head, and the man found himself unsure whether she meant that the answer was unknown to her, or just inconsequential. The man suspected the latter.

“Your next question is about what will happen now, and it is one that I will answer,” the old woman said, starting to walk slowly away from the man and beckoning him to follow her. He fell into step alongside her. As they moved, their surroundings didn’t seem to change at all.

“Before your final rest,” the woman continued, “you must visit the remainder of your deadworlds.”

The man stopped now, without conscious intention. There were at least three questions that had sprung from her supposed answer, and all were of profound implication. Again, the woman seemed to already know what he was thinking. She was speaking again, without the man having to say a word.

“Your rest is the end of the being you now are,” she said. “It is nothing to fear. It is the destination of every conscious mind, in every form, in all places. And yes, you have been here with me before. Many times.”

“But what are these places I must visit?” he asked, and now the woman raised a hand, as if acknowledging something in the unseen distance. A dense mist was suddenly all around them, where there had been nothing a moment ago, and the man could feel the moisture of it against his skin. The woman spoke again.

“The worlds where you — a version of you, an instance of the same mind — once lived, but has since died. You must visit them all. There is only one more left.”

And with that, the man could no longer see the old woman at all. The mist was so cold, pulling warmth from his body and making him draw his arms around himself, shivering. It was becoming darker too, and as he struggled to see or hear anything in the void around him, he realised that he had no idea where he was, or where he had just been a moment ago.

He had been speaking to someone, but he couldn’t remember their name or their face, or anything that had been said. And then, abruptly, he could see again.

It was night, and he was in a city. There were cars overturned and set on fire, and broken windows everywhere, and the sound of sirens and sporadic gunfire. Ahead of him, the man could see an enormous statue, toppled from its pedestal and now leaning at an extreme angle against a damaged building. It was of a general in a military uniform, and as he looked, the man could see that it was his own likeness.

He looked down at himself, and he was wearing the same uniform. The memories all came at once. He had ruled this place, without mercy or remorse. But the rebels had finally staged their coup, defiant no matter how many of their families he had taken and destroyed.

There was a group of people near the statue, pulling on ropes and chains, and by chance one of them glanced around. Others did too, and then all of them. They crossed the distance in a moment, leaping over the rubble.

“He was dead,” one of them said, a younger man or a boy, with sweat on his brow and a long-bladed knife in his hand.

The mob looked at the man, and their expressions were of hatred, and confusion, and of fear tempered by rage. Their eyes were black. The man began to back away from them, but the boy spoke before he could move very far.

“We can kill him again,” the boy said.

JINX

KESTREL face a new and terrifying enemy: an all-seeing mastermind who already knows exactly who they are, and many of their deepest secrets. Nothing stays hidden forever, and the line between privacy and liberty is razor-thin…

Book 3 in the KESTREL action-thriller series.

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