I’m not sure what I expected from death. I never put much thought into what might potentially come next. Considering the wide range of possibilities put out there, from eternal torment to an endless paradise, I would’ve been fine with just ceasing to exist when I die in the way preached by the naturalists. Something nice and middle of the road.

  So I’m mildly disappointed when the next thing I know, I find myself in a cavernous room filled with giant pillars formed by stalagmites and stalactites meeting and not much else. The ceiling is so high it just looks like the pillars disappear into endless darkness. The only light comes from luminous blue mushrooms growing at the base of the pillars.

  No cessation of existence for me it seems. Apparently, life doesn’t give a fuck about what you want and or believe your afterlife should be. Just slaps you with reality and walks off without any explanation. Go figure.

  A flicker of movement at the corner of my eye warns me that I’m not alone in the seemingly endless room, and I study the space between pillars more intently. When I focus I can just make out the shape of other people wandering about without an apparent purpose. They’re half translucent and so faded in color that they all but disappear into the gloom around them when they stay in place. I suppose that makes them my dead comrades in arms.

  Oddly enough, I don’t feel a pressing urge to go chat them up. Sure, I would kind of like to know what’s going on and where I am, but they seem pretty busy. You know, with all their… shuffling. And being dead. Besides, long experience has taught me that initiating contact with other people is always, always, always a bad idea. I don’t see why that would be any different now just because the other people happen to be what I can only guess are shades from the underworld.

  A moment later I give myself a mental pat on the back for my good decision making after I catch a glimpse of myself. Unlike my pale companions I don’t seem to have faded at all, in fact I’ve gained a rather noticeable golden glow. I don’t know what that means, but I sit down and huddle nearer to one of the pillars in an attempt to minimize my presence among the glowing fungi.

  It doesn’t work at all.

  With a glow like this I’d draw attention on a sunny summer day. I mean, I’m even having a hard time not looking at myself. I don’t even want to imagine how other people would respond. Thankfully, no one here seems all that aware of their own surroundings. Which is great. If they keep this up, dead people might just become my new favorite kind of crowd.

  …That sounded worse than I meant it too.

  I notice I’m still wearing the clothes I died in. Jeans, sneakers, t-shirt and my favorite jacket. That seems a bit weird, but then none of this is what can be called normal. At least, I think. I’m not really an expert on what usually happens post ritual murder.

  I take a moment to wonder if my being here means that crazy girl’s ritual actually worked. Sure, based on what she said I was supposed to end up in the loving arms of the Lord of Dreams, not a mushroom lit cavern of doom, so maybe some things went a bit janky. Then again, I’ve never been very fond of other people’s arms, so I guess that worked out. But could I really be here because she chanted some mumbo jumbo and got freaky with a knife? Despite myself, I do find that idea intriguing. More intriguing than I’ve found anything in years.

  It implies that there’s far more to reality than the everyday humdrum, an entirely new aspect of life. One that could explain impossible things like functioning ritual magic and a catnip like snack of a person who people just can’t seem to resist. The prospect of potential answers is tantalizing. The idea of a world so much bigger than my old problems even more so. My thoughts wander off then, pondering on what life would’ve been like if I lived in a world where the impossible was possible. It sounds like a world were I would’ve been able to overcome the things that always got me stuck before. How appealing.

  I’m brought out of my musings by a faint sound in the distance. It takes a few seconds for me to realize it’s a voice, and a few more to confirm it’s only the one. Someone is out here, talking to themselves. That does a lot to quash any initial vague ideas I might have about going to ask them where I am. Sure, they might have the answers I, hmm, maybe not want, but would prefer to have. It’s just, they’re talking to themselves in a caverns full of dead people. That’s all red flags there.

  If I were alive and at risk of dying of starvation or something than I might risk it, but what do I risk by staying here? Getting more dead? No, best to follow my long held rule of not engaging with crazy.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  The voice doesn’t seem willing to oblige me though, as it soon gets close enough for me to start making out the odd word or two of what they’re saying. It’s then I realize they’re not talking to themselves. They’re talking to the wandering shades.

  Nope. That’s not any better.

  I can’t tell how far away they are. It’s so quiet here even the smallest noise carries a long way. It’s clear they are getting closer. Within a certain distance it’ll be impossible for me to hide if I can’t do something about this glow.

  Carefully, so as not to make any noise, I scrape up some dirt off the ground and rub it on my hands in a test to see if that will help dim me. A part of me is a bit conflicted since, being dead, I must be rubbing filth on my soul instead of my body. That just seems like something that shouldn’t be done.

  It becomes a moot point when none of the dirt sticks to me, sliding off in a way that reminds me of mercury. So, that’s not going to work. The next best thing I could do is put some distance between us, but I doubt a moving light will be somehow less noticeable than a stationary one. Should I try army crawling? Would a glowing ground worm be less eye catching then pretending to be an especially bright little mushroom?

  “Not you, not you, not you.” The voice is suddenly much closer. It’s a man’s voice. He sounds like he’s been down here for a while. “I don’t suppose any of you can hear me? That would make this so much easier. I’d even settle for one of you being able to recognize I’m here. Nothing?”

  He's too close now. In a place this dark it's impossible for him not to catch sight of me any moment now. I wrap my arms around my knees and hunker down among the glowing fungi as much as I can.

  I hear a big sigh, followed by an exasperated rant. “This is why Bertie always tells me to clean my closet. If I took better care of this place I wouldn’t be having such a hard time with this.”

  Does that mean I’m in someone’s closet? A part of me starts snickering that, whoever this person is, they keep dead people in their closet. For whatever reason, that just strikes me as terribly funny. I mean, I know I haven’t been amused by something in years, but who knew my sense of humor was so dark?

  “Hmm? What’s that light? I didn’t leave anything here, did I?” The man mutters absently to himself.

  Ah, looks like I’ve been caught. I don’t really have a plan on how to handle this, but if he’s looking for someone who can hear, or even notice him, shouldn’t I just pretend that I can’t? I’m different enough that he’ll likely take an interest in me regardless, but there’s no reason to go around giving him more reasons to do that, is there? Number one rule of engaging with other people: Do not engage.

  I can hear him getting closer but I don't let myself look in his direction, instead letting my eyes go out of focus as I stare at the ground. Sitting among the mushrooms, thinking mushroom thoughts. I'm just an innocent little mushroom. “Well, look at you. That's... different. You’re a shiny one, aren’t you?”

  Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.

  The approaching footsteps pause and the voice takes on an incredulous tone. “What? Are you… ignoring me?”

  The steps resume a moment later and the man’s shoes come into view. “Hello? You can hear me, can’t you? How did someone like you get down here?” The tip of a well polished shoe gives me a gentle nudge and my body sways unresisting to the slight force. “Oh, I see. You’re from an undeveloped world. Tch. Living in a place like that with a soul like yours. That can’t have been easy. Died pretty young too.”

  He isn’t being sympathetic, not really. There’s too much distance in his voice for that. It’s like he’s discussing the condition of an animal and bemoaning of how good stock was mishandled. That should probably send a chill down my spine, but really I find it more reassuring than anything. Distance is good. I like distance.

  Then the man crouches down in front of me to look into my unfocused eyes and suddenly there isn’t enough distance in the world. There’s just too much of him to fit in so small a place and for a moment my mind can’t handle it. He looks like a normal enough man, with olive toned skin, thick, swept back black hair and a face like a sculpture. His clothes are neat and expensive looking, similar to a suit but with enough alterations to have a distinctly alien, if stylish, look to it. A normal enough man, though maybe not one you would easily see on the street.

  It's his eyes that give him away. They're two pits of void-like blackness swirling in his face, taking in the world and giving nothing back. Whatever he is, he's not a human. I’m not even sure he’s something that can be called a person. He feels too vast for such a small word. He’s just a person shaped something. He might not be the Lord of Dreams that girl mentioned, but if he's not a god than I really don't want to meet one

  A part of my mind inanely notes that, if the dead didn't notice him then surely they wouldn't notice me. Maybe the dead are my favorite kind of people.

  “I know you can hear me. There’s no point in pretending.”

  I believe him, my eyes rolling to the side as I finally move with a quiet sigh.

  “There we go. Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” I look back at him, studying him. He’s not smiling, but I catch signs of faint amusement as he studies me right back. “You’re not quite what I was looking for, but this could work too.”

  I don’t like the sound of that. Something tells me that whatever he has in mind was not thought up with my well being as a priority.

  “Hey kid, how would you like to try something fun?” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a crystal vial full of a shimmering golden liquid that shines even in this dark place, holding it up for me to see. “You can’t imagine how many people want this but can’t get it. Yet here I am, willing to offer it to you for free. How about it? Want to give it a try?”

  I blink. Is a god pushing drugs on me?