The Veil of Dreams

Free Story – Quick Summary:
A cloth weaver dreams of a catlike creature unveiling a hidden realm. As visions of shadow-selves and breaches grow, they must seal the veil between worlds to protect magic.

Rating: PG-13
Contains: Supernatural Peril and Disturbing Imagery and Intense Thematic Elements
No Explicit Content: There is no strong language, graphic gore, sexual content, or drug use

PROMPT: A mysterious creature speaks to you in your dreams and tells you that when you awake, you will have the ability to see into another realm.

Every night for a week, the creature came to me in my dreams. It was a shifting thing, neither solid nor vapor, with eyes like twin moons glowing in a face that seemed to ripple like water. Catlike in appearance, but larger than any cat I’d seen. Its voice was a low hum, vibrating in my bones, speaking words that felt ancient and heavy with purpose.

“When you awake,” it said each night, “the veil will part. You will see the other realm, the truth beneath the skin of the world.” I tried to ask questions—who it was, what it meant—but my voice was mute in the dream, my body weightless, drifting in a void where only the creature’s words held form.

The next day, over tea at a local shop, I mentioned the dream to my friend, Sylvan.

“Do you think you’re having visions?” he asked me.

“I don’t know. It seems so real…I’m not sure what to think.”

Sylvan sat back and sipped his tea. “My Ma used to talk about a creature like the one you described. She called it a Cath Palug.”

Cath Palug? I’d heard of that. It was said to be a legendary monstrous cat that clawed down hundreds of fierce warriors in Dàl Riata alone during the Great Purge. It was said to have emerged from the Triadmyris Lake as invaders began coming into Avalon (the original name of Aynslee). It was rumored that several of these beasts remained throughout Aynslee today, staying hidden most of the time. None were ever seen or heard in Zelko, the hidden faerie realm where we were.

“If it was a Cath Palug,” I said, “I think I would be dead already.”

“Not necessarily. According to Ma, Cath Palug only despised humans set on destroying magic, and you are neither human nor destroying anything magical.”

The conversation only unsettled me further.

On the seventh night, the Cath Palug leaned closer, its moon-eyes flaring. “Tomorrow,” it whispered, “you will see.” A cold thrill ran through me, and I woke gasping, my heart hammering in the dark of my bedroom. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for dawn, half-convinced it was just a dream’s nonsense. But something in me knew better. The air felt charged, like the moment before a storm.

When morning came, I stumbled to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, and looked in the mirror. My reflection stared back, the same brown eyes, the same messy hair. Nothing seemed different. I laughed, a shaky sound, and muttered, “Just a dream.” But as I turned away, a flicker caught my eye—not in the mirror, but beyond it. A shimmer, like heat rising off pavement, rippling in the corner of the room. I froze. The shimmer pulsed, and for a moment, I saw something—a landscape, vast and alien, with huge rocks jutting from a plain of brown grass under a sky streaked with green lightning. Then it was gone, and I was staring at my bathroom wall.

My breath caught. I reached out, half-expecting to touch the vision, but my fingers met only air. The creature’s words echoed: the truth beneath the skin of the world. Was this the other realm? Was this Dàl Riata, the human realm that Zelko was hidden in? I shook my head, trying to ground myself, but the day only grew stranger.

At the market down the street, where I went to clear my mind and buy some fresh bread, the world felt off. The shopkeeper handed me my bread, her smile familiar, but there was a shadow behind her—not a literal shadow, but a presence, faint and translucent, like a second self. It mimicked her movements, but its edges were jagged, its form less human. I blinked, and it vanished. My hands trembled as I sat at a table facing the bakery, watching people. Some had shadow-selves; others didn’t. An old man reading had a shadow that loomed larger than him, its eyes hollow. A kid bouncing in line had none.

I spent the day wandering the inner city, testing this new sight. The visions came unpredictably—flashes of that drab landscape, glimpses of shadow-selves, and sometimes sounds, like distant clanging or a low, guttural hum. By evening, I was exhausted, my mind reeling. I sat on a park bench, watching the sunset, when another vision hit, stronger than before. The park dissolved, and I stood in that other realm, the dead grass, stained with blood, stretched endlessly. A stone fortress pulsed with light, and figures moved within it—tall, bulky beings with limbs like branches, their bodies glowing faintly. They didn’t notice me, but I felt their emotions, a strange mix of sorrow and resolve, like they were mourning something vast.

The vision faded, and I was back in the park, gripping the bench. A woman walking her dog glanced at me, her shadow-self trailing her like a ghost. I needed answers. That night, I went to bed early, hoping the creature would return. It did.

“You see now,” it said, its form more solid, its voice sharper. “The realm you glimpse is the root of existence, the place where this world came from. The shadows you see are souls of the faes that were left behind, tethered to the world they live in but not fully belonging to it. Their kind are being slaughtered, and they cannot find refuge in Zelko. They are not pure faeries. The faeries have forgotten them, and the humans have turned against them. Their magic now dwindles rapidly.”

“Why me?” I managed to ask, my voice finally working in the dream.

“Because you listened, Arthur,” it said. “Most do not. The veil is thin, but few dare to look beyond it.”

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked.

“Learn. Watch. The realms are bleeding into each other. The veil is thinning. You will know your purpose when the time comes.”

I woke with a start, the creature’s words ringing. The realms were bleeding? The idea gnawed at me. Over the next few days, I threw myself into understanding this gift—or curse. As a cloth weaver, I was used to working with patterns, so I sketched the visions, the fortresses, the branch-like beings. I wasn’t sure if the beings were human or fae or both. I noted patterns: the shadow-selves were stronger around certain people, especially those who seemed troubled or angry. The other realm appeared most vividly in quiet places—parks, empty streets, my home at dawn.

One evening, at a crowded music festival, the visions overwhelmed me. Shadows writhed around the festivalgoers, some clawing at their hosts, others drifting aimlessly. A man playing a lute had a shadow so dense it seemed to choke him, its eyes burning red. I backed away, heart pounding, and caught a glimpse of the other realm superimposed over the platform—smooth stone rising through the trees, green lightning crackling. A branch-being stood there, watching me. Its gaze was heavy, expectant. Then the music crescendoed, and the vision snapped shut.

I started researching, digging into myths, science, anything that might explain this. I found scraps—tales of seers, theories of parallel dimensions—but nothing concrete.

One morning, I paid Bastiana, Sylvan’s mother, a visit. Perched on the edge of my seat in her cottage, I told her about my dreams—or rather, visions. She never said a word, but her eyes held deep concern.

Once I finished, it was a full minute before she spoke.

“Arthur, I do not know what this means. I do not even know if this is a Cath Palug or not. They hold great magical power, but I have never heard of one speaking to any of us in a dream—let alone across the veil.”

“Then what—”

“I honestly don’t know. If it is a vision, you will need to be patient and see what happens.” She paused. “If it is a vision, then it seems you’re meant to guard the veil itself.”

It seemed no matter where I went, it was a dead end. I was alone in this, except for the creature’s cryptic guidance.

Weeks passed, and the visions grew sharper, more frequent. I could summon them if I focused, though it left me drained. The shadow-selves began to notice me, some turning their hollow eyes my way. One night, in a vision of the other realm, a branch-being spoke, its voice like wind through leaves: “The breach widens. You must mend it.” Before I could ask how, the dream ended.

Panic set in. Mend a breach between realms? I was no hero, just a cloth weaver with a weird sleep problem. Not a realm weaver! But the creature’s words—you will know your purpose—kept me going. I started experimenting, trying to interact with the shadows. At a quiet cookshop, I focused on a woman’s shadow-self, willing it to see me. It did. Its head snapped up, and for a moment, I felt her emotions—grief, raw and deep. She dropped her tea, staring at nothing, then left in a hurry. I felt sick. Was I helping or hurting?

The turning point came a month later. In a vision, the other realm was chaotic—boulders crumbling, green lightning tearing the sky. The branch-beings were frantic, their glow dimming. Swords clanged in the background while an explosion lit the sky. One of the beings approached, its voice urgent: “The breach is here, in your world. Find it. Seal it. Protect the magic and the faeries.” It showed me a symbol, a spiral with jagged edges, burned into my mind.

I woke and drew the symbol, hands shaking. I’d seen it before—cut into a tree just outside the city. I went there at dawn, the city still half-asleep. The huge tree was there, the symbol glowing faintly to my new sight. A shadow loomed over it, massive, formless, pulsing with malice. It wasn’t tethered to anyone. It was the breach.

I don’t know how I knew what to do. Instinct, maybe, or the creature’s guidance buried in my mind. I focused, pouring all my will into the symbol, imagining it sealed, the shadow contained. The air crackled, my vision swam, and the shadow screamed—a sound that wasn’t sound, but pain. The symbol flared, then faded. The shadow was gone. The air felt lighter, the veil less thin.

Exhausted, I collapsed against the tree. That night, the Cath Palug came again. “You have begun,” it said. “The breach is sealed, but others will form. The realms are fragile. You are their keeper now.”

I wanted to argue, to refuse, but its moon-eyes held me. Its fluffy tail twitched. “I’m not ready,” I said.

“No one is,” it replied. “But you see.”

It hasn’t returned since then. The visions continue, though they’re quieter now. I see the other realm, the shadows, the fortresses. I watch for symbols, for breaches. The world feels bigger, heavier, but I’m learning to carry it. I’m no hero, but I’m something else now—a seer, a keeper, caught between realms, holding the faerie veil together one stitch at a time.

Grok’s Version

Every night for a week, the creature came to me in my dreams. It was a shifting thing, neither solid nor vapor, with eyes like twin moons glowing in a face that seemed to ripple like water. Its voice was a low hum, vibrating in my bones, speaking words that felt ancient and heavy with purpose. “When you awake,” it said each night, “the veil will part. You will see the other realm, the truth beneath the skin of the world.” I tried to ask questions—who it was, what it meant—but my voice was mute in the dream, my body weightless, drifting in a void where only the creature’s words held form.

On the seventh night, it leaned closer, its moon-eyes flaring. “Tomorrow,” it whispered, “you will see.” A cold thrill ran through me, and I woke gasping, my heart hammering in the dark of my bedroom. The clock read 3:17 a.m. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for dawn, half-convinced it was just a dream’s nonsense. But something in me knew better. The air felt charged, like the moment before a storm.

When morning came, I stumbled to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, and looked in the mirror. My reflection stared back, same brown eyes, same messy hair. Nothing seemed different. I laughed, a shaky sound, and muttered, “Just a dream.” But as I turned away, a flicker caught my eye—not in the mirror, but beyond it. A shimmer, like heat rising off pavement, rippling in the corner of the room. I froze. The shimmer pulsed, and for a moment, I saw something—a landscape, vast and alien, with spires of crystal jutting from a violet plain under a sky streaked with green lightning. Then it was gone, and I was staring at my bathroom wall.

My breath caught. I reached out, half-expecting to touch the vision, but my fingers met only air. The creature’s words echoed: the truth beneath the skin of the world. Was this the other realm? I shook my head, trying to ground myself, but the day only grew stranger.

At the coffee shop down the street, where I went to clear my mind, the world felt off. The barista handed me my latte, her smile familiar, but there was a shadow behind her—not a literal shadow, but a presence, faint and translucent, like a second self. It mimicked her movements, but its edges were jagged, its form less human. I blinked, and it vanished. My hands trembled as I sat at a corner table, watching people. Some had these shadow-selves, others didn’t. An old man reading a newspaper had a shadow that loomed larger than him, its eyes hollow. A kid bouncing in line had none.

I spent the day wandering the city, testing this new sight. The visions came unpredictably—flashes of that crystal landscape, glimpses of shadow-selves, and sometimes sounds, like distant chimes or a low, guttural hum. By evening, I was exhausted, my mind reeling. I sat on a park bench, watching the sunset, when another vision hit, stronger than before. The park dissolved, and I stood in that other realm, the violet plain stretching endlessly. The crystal spires pulsed with light, and figures moved among them—tall, slender beings with limbs like branches, their bodies glowing faintly. They didn’t notice me, but I felt their emotions, a strange mix of sorrow and resolve, like they were mourning something vast.

The vision faded, and I was back in the park, gripping the bench. A woman walking her dog glanced at me, her shadow-self trailing her like a ghost. I needed answers. That night, I went to bed early, hoping the creature would return. It did.

“You see now,” it said, its form more solid, its voice sharper. “The realm you glimpse is the root of existence, the place where all worlds are woven. The shadows you see are souls unbound, tethered to their hosts but not fully of them.”

“Why me?” I managed to ask, my voice finally working in the dream.

“Because you listened,” it said. “Most do not. The veil is thin, but few dare to look beyond it.”

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked.

“Learn. Watch. The realms are bleeding into each other. The shadows grow restless. You will know your purpose when the time comes.”

I woke with a start, the creature’s words ringing. The realms were bleeding? The idea gnawed at me. Over the next few days, I threw myself into understanding this gift—or curse. I sketched the visions, the spires, the branch-like beings. I noted patterns: the shadow-selves were stronger around certain people, especially those who seemed troubled or angry. The other realm appeared most vividly in quiet places—parks, empty streets, my apartment at dawn.

One evening, at a crowded subway station, the visions overwhelmed me. Shadows writhed around commuters, some clawing at their hosts, others drifting aimlessly. A man in a suit had a shadow so dense it seemed to choke him, its eyes burning red. I backed away, heart pounding, and caught a glimpse of the other realm superimposed over the platform—spires rising through the tiles, green lightning crackling. A branch-being stood there, watching me. Its gaze was heavy, expectant. Then the train roared in, and the vision snapped shut.

I started researching, digging into myths, quantum physics, anything that might explain this. I found scraps—tales of seers, theories of parallel dimensions—but nothing concrete. Online forums were a dead end, full of crackpots. I was alone in this, except for the creature’s cryptic guidance.

Weeks passed, and the visions grew sharper, more frequent. I could summon them if I focused, though it left me drained. The shadow-selves began to notice me, some turning their hollow eyes my way. One night, in a vision of the other realm, a branch-being spoke, its voice like wind through leaves: “The breach widens. You must mend it.” Before I could ask how, the dream ended.

Panic set in. Mend a breach between realms? I was no hero, just a graphic designer with a weird sleep problem. But the creature’s words—you will know your purpose—kept me going. I started experimenting, trying to interact with the shadows. At a quiet café, I focused on a woman’s shadow-self, willing it to see me. It did. Its head snapped up, and for a moment, I felt her emotions—grief, raw and deep. She dropped her coffee, staring at nothing, then left in a hurry. I felt sick. Was I helping or hurting?

The turning point came a month later. In a vision, the other realm was chaotic—spires crumbling, green lightning tearing the sky. The branch-beings were frantic, their glow dimming. One approached, its voice urgent: “The breach is here, in your world. Find it. Seal it.” It showed me a symbol, a spiral with jagged edges, burned into my mind.

I woke and drew the symbol, hands shaking. I’d seen it before—graffitied on a wall near the subway. I went there at dawn, the city still half-asleep. The wall was there, the symbol glowing faintly to my new sight. A shadow loomed over it, massive, formless, pulsing with malice. It wasn’t tethered to anyone. It was the breach.

I don’t know how I knew what to do. Instinct, maybe, or the creature’s guidance buried in my mind. I focused, pouring all my will into the symbol, imagining it sealed, the shadow contained. The air crackled, my vision swam, and the shadow screamed—a sound that wasn’t sound, but pain. The symbol flared, then faded. The shadow was gone. The air felt lighter, the veil less thin.

Exhausted, I collapsed against the wall. That night, the creature came again. “You have begun,” it said. “The breach is sealed, but others will form. The realms are fragile. You are their keeper now.”

I wanted to argue, to refuse, but its moon-eyes held me. “I’m not ready,” I said.

“No one is,” it replied. “But you see.”

It hasn’t returned since. The visions continue, though they’re quieter now. I see the other realm, the shadows, the spires. I watch for symbols, for breaches. The world feels bigger, heavier, but I’m learning to carry it. I’m no hero, but I’m something else now—a seer, a keeper, caught between realms, holding the veil together one stitch at a time.

Images by ChatGPT

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