I never thought it would come to this–relying on something so small, so insidious, just to write. But the words have stopped. They used to flow, tumble from my mind onto the page in a rush of life and meaning. Now they’re barricaded somewhere beyond my reach.

The blank pages, blinking cursor, the suffocating emptiness inside me.

And here I am, clinging to it like oxygen itself. Without it, the silence returns. Without the words, I’m not me anymore. So I need it.

This powder—something ageless, secretive—awakens a part of me which is better left undisturbed. I know what you’re thinking. But it’s not cocaine, or anything else you’d know.

I call it ‘powder’ only because that’s closest to what it seems to me. Others might call it flakes, or even fluid. To be totally honest with you, I don’t know what it is. It’s as unfamiliar to me as the space between thoughts. 

All I know is this: without it, I’m just another nobody.

The warning had been clear; just a pinch. Anything more, and doors will open that are better left shut. I’m a rule-follower. Instructions, prescriptions—these are walls that keep reality in place, guardrails I can count on. But with this… substance, those walls seemed thinner. I’d felt it from the start, like a thread waiting to snap. I'd never been tempted to break a rule before, but this one was different.

And deep down, I knew it was just a matter of time before I would step out of line.

***

I wasn't a terrible writer, you know. I wasn’t Stephen King, but my stories were solid enough. Mostly, though, my name stayed off the work—ghostwriting, filler pieces, just enough to keep the lights on. Publishing a novel was the real dream. Anyone can publish nowadays, sure, but I wanted the big leagues. An agent, a deal with one of the big four. As time slipped by, so did the dream, leaving only the articles to pay the bills and an unfinished ‘grand novel’ gathering dust.

Six months ago, I just… stopped. The articles kept things running, but the novel? The dream? Gone. Five years, pulling words out like teeth—wasted. It felt like those years had vanished, like they’d never even happened. I’d leapt through time, skipped half a decade, only to end up right where I started. I spent a month writing just enough to get by, sleeping, and avoiding thinking about it. By the end, I was barely leaving my bed.

It wasn’t just, the words that were gone–something inside me had withered. Even the simplest things felt insurmountable. Eating, moving, existing. I’d lie there in the dark, staring at nothing, hoping for a strike of lightning, or even a flicker of light. It never came. The silence grew louder, pressing my temples, crushing whatever hope I had left.

Then I stumbled across it. I wasn’t searching for it—looking back, I’d avoid those streets like the plague. But it didn’t feel like my choice. My feet followed some invisible pull, guiding me to a corner I’d never seen before. I don’t know how I got there, only that I did, beneath a street lamp flickering as if fighting to stay alive.

The shop, wedged into a crack between two crumbling buildings, was nearly invisible. It seemed like it didn't want to be found. Through the streaked glass, you could see glimpses of strange objects under dim light, each more unsettling than the last, like relics from an antique store that had outlived its time, hoarding secrets not meant to share.

A chill crept up my spine while I watched the shop, waiting for it to disappear. Every rational part of me urged caution. Something else called me forward, a desperate whisper, a promise that whatever I needed was to be found here. What did I have to lose?

I opened the door, and a bell tinkled—a thin, mocking sound that hung in the silence longer than it should have. Inside, I felt the air clinging to me, thick with a scent I couldn’t place—damp earth mingled with bitter herbs, as if the room itself had been steeped in them.

Reason-defying objects crowded the shelves. A tarnished globe spun slowly on its own, its continents unrecognizable. A jar sat on a tall shelf, filled with black ooze so deep it seemed endless, the surface rippling subtly, as if it were aware of being watched. Everything hummed with a low vibration that seeped into my bones, tugging me forward, like a whisper promising something I wasn’t ready to hear.

Behind the counter stood the vendor. His eyes were voids, dark mirrors reflecting some ancient place. He didn’t seem to notice me—not in the usual way—but there was a sense, a faint stirring, as though he were aware of anyone who dared to step into this space. He had been waiting long before I arrived.

“Speak your need,” he said, his voice dark, yet familiar, as if we were old friends. I didn’t know how to answer or even why I’d come, but something kept me rooted, like a fish caught on a line. Before I realized, the words slipped out: 

“I need… inspiration?”

His laugh rolled over me, loud and endless, like crashing water. ‘Inspiration in a bottle?’ He laughed again, sharper this time, cutting into the silence, and I felt heat rise in my cheeks.

“Never mind,” I muttered, already half-turned to leave. My anger wasn’t really at him—I was mad at myself for hoping this place might hold a solution. But as my hand touched the door, his voice sliced through the silence, low and sharp, like a blade against silk.

“What you need, I have. But it’s not without risk.” Not every gift can be returned, nor is every gift truly a gift.

That moment was pivotal. If I’d kept walking, I wouldn’t be writing this to you now. But you’re reading, which means I stayed. He had my full attention. Somehow, he could sense my desperation–maybe even before I realized it myself. I wasn’t going to leave empty-handed. I turned back, feeling a mix of annoyance and intrigue.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Atra Muscarum,” he said, the words almost reverent, his voice sinking to a dark murmur. The name sounded ancient, like it belonged in a forgotten horror tale whispered deep in the New Orleans Bayou. “An old blend of herbs, designed to open doors. Doors deep within, keeping what’s trapped in your mind locked away.”

The words reached me, but I didn’t fully grasp them—not then. “Only a pinch…” I know that now. But at that moment, my focus was entirely on the jar in his hand. It looked like a small bottle of bath salts—or, no, something finer, almost like ash. Bath salts are coarse, gritty; this stuff was silken, finer than flour, dust-like, fluid?

When I asked the price, I half-expected something absurd—your firstborn, your soul, some twisted condition. But he just said, “Twenty dollars,” and smiled, showing his peg like teeth.

I’ve spent far more on way dumber things. He took the cash without a word, his dark eyes watching as I handed it over. Transaction complete, I left, the weight of the jar in my hand somehow heavier than I’d expected.

When I got home, my laptop sat open on my desk, its screen a patchwork of flashing email notifications. Requests for articles poured in—enough work to make a decent living, maybe even a comfortable one, if I made it my focus. Most people would call me a fool for chasing this dream of writing something meaningful, something lasting. They don’t know that the need has been there since primary school, since Angie.

The first pinch I stirred through my tea, and the rush followed fast—a ‘secret energy,’ some hidden wellspring of ideas that had been trapped for years, started to pour out. I thought of my mother, who’d once told me I’d write something real someday. She’d believed in me ever since that first poem I wrote about Angie. We’d dreamed up that story together, but it never made it past notes and scraps. Now, as the powder took hold, I could finally deliver what I promised. Make my mother proud.

I sat down at my laptop, and everything… clicked. My fingers raced, capturing every flickering image in my mind, the world around me fading as hours vanished in a surge of focus. For a moment, I felt unstoppable. I could keep going forever. But gradually, a dull ache settled behind my eyes, growing heavier with each word. By the time I finally stopped, I was exhausted. It was more than that, drained of energy, creativity, even emotion. I stumbled to bed, and that’s when the first dream happened.

The first dream fueled by Atra, that is. My mother was there, seated far away in an old wooden chair that seemed both familiar and strange, like something half-remembered from childhood. She looked proud, a faint smile softening her face, her hands folded patiently in her lap. Yet her eyes were empty, reflecting nothing, dark mirrors to a place beyond comprehension, a hollow gaze that knew me, even alienated. Waiting as I was finally working toward the promise I’d made. 

I tried to walk toward her, calling out, but no sound escaped me. With each step, the distance between us grew. I stopped, my feet rooted to the ground, the old promise between us hanging thick and heavy in the air.

The truth echoed in my mind, settling into the dream like a whispered answer: I can’t fulfill my promise, not in my world. But perhaps in this world—her world, the Other World.

The dream stayed with me, more vivid than any other dream. It has to be the Atra. In general I can barely recall my dreams. This one remained clear, unshakable. A photo I could summon at will. And the story? It poured out of me, better than I’d written in years, even if that initial rush had dulled. The spark was still there, faintly glowing. The thought of taking more felt… well, wrong. Dangerous. Call it instinct, but there are things the body understands beyond the senses we rely on to get through life.

I know now there is more to it all—more dimensions, more senses than we’re accustomed to.

When I called my writing buddy, Vivian, she sounded surprised. We hadn’t spoken much recently, mostly kept up through occasional messages.

“I knew you were back when I saw your name pop up,” she said. “I knew you’d find your inspiration again.”

“You can say that again,” I replied, still unable to believe it myself.

Sometimes you just need a break,” she went on, her tone genuine, clearly happy for me. “A hard reset. That’s all you needed.” 

It felt good, almost grounding, to hear that. I told her about my ‘find’. She burst out laughing.

“Why the laugh?” I asked, feeling a slight prick of annoyance.

“Because you got ripped off, Ethan! Sounds like some shady person sold you five bucks of caffeine for twenty.” She laughed harder, unbothered. To her, it was hilarious. To me? I couldn’t care less. If this was caffeine, it was worth every penny.

After some more small talk, I hung up. But as soon as I set down the phone, a strange tingling crept over my hands—a sensation not unlike a limb falling asleep, tiny, electric pricks dancing over my skin. Or maybe it was more like a low-voltage lightning storm, pinpoint jolts hitting each nerve with uncanny precision. It was almost rhythmic, an insistent pulse. 

Images began to spill into my mind—scenes, faces, places I’d never seen before, vivid yet faintly unnatural. I grabbed my laptop and stumbled into the kitchen, already setting water to boil, my hands moving almost of their own accord. Without thinking, I reached for the powder, feeling my body obey an impulse before my mind fully registered it. I watched as the granules dissolved, lifting the cup to my lips. The bitterness bit sharper this time, clawing its way down my throat, and the tingling flared within me, followed by a storm that settled deep in my chest, as though my very pulse now beat to a different rhythm. That hidden energy twisted through my mind, shaping my thoughts to a point of focus. Each word surged in urgency, a pulse that demanded release onto the page.

My fingers flew across the keys, each tap in perfect sync with the dark, twisted images unfolding in my mind. Around me, reality blurred—the ticking of the clock, the hum of the kettle—all faded, until only the story remained.

But this time, the words came darker, faster. They poured out, disjointed, foreign, as though something else were guiding my hand, steering me down a path I hadn’t chosen. This wasn’t my story anymore. It was a tale of obsession and betrayal, twisted beyond anything I’d intended. My protagonist—a small-town detective who’d once been moral, hopeful—now unraveled into a creature of cruelty, willing to sacrifice anything to capture his target. His obsession grew like a shadow, darkening every thought, loosening every principle, each thread of decency slipping away. But the story had momentum, a force that couldn’t be denied.

When I finally came up for air, I stared at the screen in front of me. Pages upon pages, twenty, maybe thirty—I couldn’t tell. My hands trembled, my mind buzzed with scenes that left a faint, lingering sense of dread, as though I couldn’t shake them. I closed the laptop and reached for the mug, only to find it empty. I didn’t remember drinking the tea. And more unsettlingly, I didn’t remember most of what I’d written.

The words became slippery, uncontrollable. All that remained was the impression of something unnerving—raw and potent. It came from deep within me. One thing was certain: it was good. I didn’t need to remember every detail to know that much. The story was implanted in my primal brain. The kind of story an agent wouldn’t pass up.

After each session with the powder, I felt that total depletion—a surge, followed by emptiness. The rush hit hard, but when it drained, it was as if my body shut down. One thing was different these days. Doors that were opened never really closed. They were left ajar.

Dreams... they flowed into reality, stronger each passing day. The edges of the two worlds blurred. I’d wake up with strange impressions, faint and flickering, but something lingered in the waking hours—objects seeming misplaced, shadows in corners of rooms where none should have been. At first, I brushed it off: lack of sleep, my mind playing tricks.

As I drew closer to mother in my dreams, I felt a strange recognition, an unsettling familiarity that tugged at my mind, like a memory of the shopkeeper’s unblinking gaze—one presence, able to wear different faces, as though it observed me through her. Her face was nearly familiar, yet somehow incomplete, like a mask only half-formed. Her eyes were dark and fathomless, mirroring depths I could neither see nor escape.

A shifting landscape haloed her figure, one that grew sharper with each visit—bizarre, unrecognizable shapes that seemed to shift as I looked, twisting and pulsing like they were half alive. I could not describe them even if I tried. Clouds piled high like twisted thunderheads, backlit by flashes of unnatural lightning that cast jagged shadows over the desolate scene.

Strangely, I wasn’t afraid. Just… drawn, like something I’d waited for my whole life was finally within reach. I’d wake, trying to hold on to whatever slivers I could remember—the faintest impression of her face, some impossible combination of pride and sorrow. It felt right, like she was giving me permission to keep going, to go deeper, to push further with the story.

And I knew what I had to do. One more pinch of the powder—just enough to see if I could get a little closer.

I thought about calling Vivian again, reached for my phone, and saw the missed calls piling up. Tossing it onto the bed, I caught something odd in the reflection of the glass frame on my nightstand. My mother’s photo, the same one that had sat there for years. Her expression—it looked different, shifted somehow, like in the chair in the dreams. A trick of the light, I told myself, dismissing it too quickly.

The changes started small after that. I’d hear faint whispers in the quiet of the house, like distant voices carried on a breeze that didn’t exist. Doors I knew I’d closed would swing open just enough to show the darkness behind them. And once, just as I fell asleep, I swore I saw a figure standing in the hallway, its outline faint, shimmering like heat rising from the pavement.

The next two months passed in a blur of eat, sleep, write, repeat. The only change was the powder—and how much I “needed.” Two pinches doubled the time, sharpening my focus, and for hours, words would pour onto the page, my fingers barely keeping up. But soon, even that wasn’t enough. Snorting it changed everything. Suddenly, I wasn’t just writing; I was the storm. My fingers flew over the keys, struggling to keep up with the torrent of images, characters, words pouring through me.

I told myself I’d stop once the book was done. By the end of those months, the novel was finished—nearly a hundred thousand words.

Everything should’ve been fine. But it wasn’t. Each time I tried to cut back, the other world pulled me in, more real than ever. There were more stories, waiting, ancient, primal. What had once been a gateway to clarity was now a barrier, holding back something darker. I whispered promises into the void—if they would share their story with me, I would tell it to the world.

The question I should have asked was, who, exactly, had I promised?

The landscapes in my dreams grew fiercer, like the world itself was folding inward, layers collapsing. Each time, I found myself closer to the mountains, their jagged peaks casting shadows that stretched across a bruised sky. Boulders loomed larger along the path, with edges as sharp as teeth, seeming to close in. The ground beneath me cracked and crumbled, revealing jagged, barren roots that seemed to pulse faintly, as though alive.

And my mother—she was no longer sitting. Each time she appeared, she was closer, standing, shrouded in shadows. Her face, once familiar, now twisted into something strange, her expression hollow, unreadable. In mirrors, at the edges of my sight, I’d catch glimpses of her figure, as though she was watching, reaching, waiting. Sometimes her lips would move, but no sound ever came—only a low, bone-deep hum.

It wasn’t just her. One morning, I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror and froze. My face looked... wrong. The hollows beneath my eyes had deepened, the skin there almost ashen, matching the bruised tones of the dream’s sky. My cheeks seemed sharper, sunken like the jagged crags of the mountains. The lines of my jaw had hardened, too defined, as though the landscape I’d been traversing was carving itself into me.

By the next day, the changes were worse. My hands, once steady, seemed thinner, veined with a faint grayish hue that reminded me of the cracked roots beneath the dream’s soil. Even my eyes—when I looked closely, the light caught them in a way that made them seem almost reflective, like the shimmering pools that dotted the desolate valleys in my dreams.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that the dream wasn’t just bleeding into my waking life—it was consuming me, shaping me into something that belonged there.

Every attempt to stop felt like pushing against a tide, the other world seeping in, bleeding onto the edges of my waking life. It clawed at reality, rooting itself in the corners of my mind. Objects in my apartment seemed to shift, subtly at first—a cup left out of place, my laptop closed when I swore I’d left it open. Shadows stretched, pooling in corners that used to be empty. And each time I glimpsed my mother’s shadow, it was like she was reaching for me, trying to pull me through to a space that no longer felt entirely my own.

Desperate, I retraced my steps, winding through familiar streets, taking every turn that had once led me to the shop. But where the shop had been, between the library and the appliance store—there was nothing. Only a blank wall, the buildings pressed so closely together they seemed to mock me. Panic crept up my spine. I stopped a passerby, trying to explain—a shop, a strange vendor, relics in the dark. They looked at me, eyes filled with pity, a look that made me feel… unhinged.

The answer wasn’t on the internet, nor on any street I could walk. There was no one left to ask. Days slipped, stretched, spilling into a timeless blur. Friends stopped calling, and I let them. Vivian left a few voicemails—her tone shifting from concern to frustration, and finally, disappointment. I never called her back. What could I say? How could I explain that I was searching for something, even if I didn’t understand what?

Deep down, I knew where the answer lay. It wasn’t here, in this world bound by rules and limits. It was waiting in the other world, the one that opened in slivers through my dreams. So I took the powder again, feeling myself unravel as the dreams surged back, sharper and colder, like fractured glass.

The mountains stretched into an endless horizon beneath an alien sky, littered with stars and shapes that defied sense. And there, amidst the folds of shadow, she waited—my mother. Her form was twisted, her outstretched arms trembling with something between invitation and threat. Her face was ancient, etched with an expression I couldn’t name, her eyes vast and hollow, swallowing everything they touched.

The hum returned, low and insistent, pulsing in my skull, vibrating through my bones. I turned and bolted toward the door behind me—open, impossibly close. My head throbbed, the pressure unbearable, as if her presence was pushing into every corner of my mind. I stumbled through the door and woke up in my bed, gasping.

***

That was last week. Monday, I think—the last day I took the powder. Since then, it’s been hell. I haven’t slept more than three hours a night, and every time I close my eyes, the visions bleed through, relentless. Once or twice, I tried opening my laptop, just to check the work. The screen’s black, but it’s not off. Behind that darkness, the mountains are there—stretching, shifting, alive—and somewhere in the distance, that low rumble waits, building, calling to me. It starts as a vibration in my teeth, then creeps down my spine. Each time, I slam the laptop shut within minutes. I can't write anymore. The secret energy is gone.

The apartment feels smaller every day, the air thick and stale, as if it’s sealing me in. The curtains stay closed, pulled tight to block out whatever is creeping in from the other side. But it seeps through anyway, like water finding cracks in the walls. Once, I pulled the curtains back to let in some light. The view shifted between the familiar city skyline and something… other. The mountains, slate-gray water, brief flashes that lingered, each lasting longer as I tried to shake them from my vision. And sometimes, just in the periphery, I’d catch sight of the chair—empty now. My mother’s not in it, but she’s not gone either. She’s out there, waiting, looking for me, biding her time, ready to pull me back into her world. Her world.

I keep telling myself it’s in my head, that the powder’s just wearing off, that my mind is adjusting. But deep down, I know better. She’s there, watching from just beyond the edges of this reality. And the door between us is open. It’s open, and I can’t close it.

***

I close the laptop, fingers lingering on its surface. It’s done. The last of it, every thought, every vision, written down. Who will read it? Maybe no one, but it’s out there now, a message in a bottle drifting through a dark sea. The printed pages sit on the desk, silent and lifeless as the room around me.

In the kitchen, the jar sits open, empty. The powder’s gone. I hadn’t quit—not really. It had simply run out, leaving me stripped, gutted, like a house torn down to its foundations. No vendor, no shop, no way to get more. Just this empty glass, the last dusty grains clinging to its sides, mocking me.

I scrape the insides with shaking hands, gathering every last trace onto a spoon. It’s barely anything, not even a full dose. I grab a syringe, add water, and stir it into a murky, desperate slurry. The needle trembles in my grip as I draw it up. My breath comes shallow, ragged, the silence of the room pressing down on me. This is it. The last of it.

The prick stings, sharp and fleeting, before the warmth spreads through my veins. For a moment, nothing happens, the silence stretching like a void inside me. Then it hits.

The hum erupts, roaring through my body like a wildfire. My vision fractures as the walls collapse, the room unraveling into streaks of shadow and light. I stagger back, the syringe clattering to the floor as I fall to my knees.

I’m no longer in my apartment. I’m standing on the edge of a precipice, staring into an ocean of slate-gray water. Above me, the sky churns with bruised clouds, streaked with veins of green lightning. The mountains loom higher than ever, jagged and endless, their peaks ripping into the heavens.

And she’s there. My mother. No, not my mother—something monstrous wearing her shape. Her face twists as she steps closer, the shadows clinging to it like a second skin. Her eyes are black holes, vast and devouring, pulling everything into them. When her lips move, I don’t hear words—I feel them, ripping through me like shards of glass, filling my mind with truths I can’t hold onto.

I try to move, but I can’t. The ground holds me fast, my feet fused to the rock, as though the world itself is absorbing me. The hum builds, piercing the surrounding air, vibrating through my teeth, my bones, until I feel myself cracking apart.

Now I understand. The powder isn’t a gateway—it’s a sacrifice. It was never about the stories or the dreams. It’s about this, this ultimate surrender to something vast and endless. I am dissolving, unraveling, being pulled into her, into the darkness, into the truth.

I thought I was chasing inspiration. What I found was annihilation.