The Somnambulist's Inquiry

The rain was doing its usual spring routine, a dull, insistent drumming against the grime-streaked glass. It blurred the city into impressionistic smudges of concrete and neon, perfectly mirroring the state of my mind. Sylvie had always loved spring, that foolish hope of rebirth. Now, the season just felt like a particularly long, drawn-out cry.

My desk was a battlefield of unopened bills, a half-eaten biscuit, and a crumpled flyer for ‘The Somnambulist’s Guild.’ A contact, a tip from a bleary-eyed informant named Fitz, had led me to this. Lucid dreaming. To reconnect with the lost. It sounded like something a cult leader hawked, or a desperate widow with too much grief and not enough sense.

But then again, what was sense in a world that had taken Sylvie and offered no explanation? No body, no note, just a void where a vibrant laugh used to echo. The police had thrown up their hands, wrapped it in red tape and filed it under ‘unsolved.’ My own investigation had hit a wall made of official indifference and street-level shrugs. So, here I was, contemplating the absurd. If reality wouldn’t yield her, maybe the dreams would.

A fresh gust rattled the windowpane. The wind smelled of wet pavement and exhaust fumes, a uniquely urban springtime perfume. I pushed myself up, the springs in my chair groaning in protest. My trench coat hung heavy on the rack, a second skin of cynicism and damp. This meeting felt less like a professional endeavour and more like a pilgrimage to a particularly odd shrine.

The bus was late, of course. Everything always was. The seats smelled faintly of disinfectant and despair. Through the steamed-up windows, the city passed in a monochrome blur: grey buildings, grey skies, people under grey umbrellas. Each face seemed to carry the weight of some unseen burden, heads down against the drizzle. It occurred to me that everyone, in their own way, was just trying to connect to something lost.

Nancy’s address was a converted warehouse down by the old docks. The kind of place that once housed forgotten machinery, now home to forgotten dreams. A faint, cloying scent of incense and something vaguely herbal clung to the damp brickwork. The building was almost swallowed by aggressive ivy, a green attempt at reclaiming the stone. A single, unlit gas lamp jutted out from above the heavy oak door, an anachronistic touch. I checked my pocket watch. Five minutes early. Punctuality was a dying art, like common sense.

I knocked. The sound was flat, swallowed by the thick wood. After a moment, a narrow slit slid open, revealing an eye – sharp, unblinking, the colour of deep moss. It studied me for a beat, then the door swung inwards with a low, drawn-out creak. The air inside was warmer, thick with the same herbal smell. There were no lights on, but the spring afternoon filtered in through high, grimy windows, painting streaks across a room filled with what looked like antique furniture and arcane diagrams chalked on a blackboard.

Nancy stood just inside, a slender woman with hair like spun copper, pulled back severely from a face that held more angles than curves. Her eyes, I now saw, were a brilliant emerald, unnervingly still. She wore a simple, dark dress that seemed to absorb the meagre light. She looked perhaps thirty-something, but there was an ancient weariness in her gaze.

"Marvin Simpson," I said, my voice sounding rougher than I intended in the quiet space.

She simply nodded. "You're early." Her voice was low, smooth, like river stones. No pleasantries. Good. I hated pleasantries.

"Figured I'd beat the rush," I offered. She didn't crack a smile. Just gestured with a long, elegant hand towards a worn leather armchair. I sat, sinking into its familiar embrace. There was a low table between us, upon which sat a single, steaming cup of something herbal.

"You were told," she began, her gaze unwavering, "what we do here."

"Lucid dreaming. Connect with the departed." I took a breath. "Or the missing."

Her lips thinned, a barely perceptible movement. "The methodology is sound. The results… vary."

"Fitz said you help people 'lodge' themselves in a dreamscape." I tasted the words. They felt clinical, like an architect describing a mausoleum.

"We facilitate. Guide. The mind is a vast, unmapped territory. Most only explore the foyer. We teach you to navigate the deeper chambers." She picked up a small, polished stone from the table, turning it slowly between her fingers. "It's not about magic, Simpson. It's about access. About leveraging the brain's inherent capabilities. A highly advanced form of cognitive mapping."

"And the… lost?" I pressed, leaning forward. The herbal tea sent wisps of steam into the air, carrying that cloying scent.

"Residual imprints. Memories. Sometimes… echoes of consciousness. The stronger the emotional tether, the clearer the resonance."

It sounded like scientific mysticism, which was arguably worse than just plain mysticism. But the journalistic part of me, the part that once sought truth, even if it was buried under layers of official lies, was intrigued. The part that missed Sylvie desperately, that part was screaming.

"What's the catch?" I asked, my gaze sweeping the room. No one else was here. Just us. And the quiet hum of the building settling.

She placed the stone back on the table with a soft click. "The catch, Simpson, is that the mind is not always a friendly place. The deeper you go, the more you risk. Confusion. Disorientation. Sometimes, the line blurs. Between your dream, and the dream of another. Between past and… other possibilities."

"So, a mental health hazard, then." It wasn't exactly the kind of warning label you expected on an emotional last resort. But then, nothing about my life had been exactly as expected since Sylvie vanished. "And the price?"

"The price is commitment. Strict adherence to the protocols. And… for your specific interest… a willingness to accept whatever you find." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Not everyone finds solace. Some find a greater abyss."

I wasn't looking for solace. I was looking for answers. Closure, perhaps. Or just a good reason to stop looking. "My partner. Sylvie. Gone eight months. No trace. No leads. Just… gone." My voice was flat, devoid of the emotion that still clawed at my insides. This wasn't a therapy session. This was a transaction.

"The emotional tether," she observed, almost to herself. "Strong, I imagine."

"Strong enough to try this." I looked her dead in the eye. "I need to know what happened to her. If she’s even… gone-gone."

Nancy picked up a thin, leather-bound book from the table, its pages brittle with age. She opened it to a marked page. It was filled with what looked like intricate circuit diagrams, but for the mind. Strange symbols intertwined with handwritten notes in a precise, elegant script. She traced a line with her finger.

"The first phase is preparation. A week of strict regimen. Diet, mental exercises, specific audio stimuli before sleep. To sensitize the pathways. Then, the guided initiation." She looked up, her emerald eyes piercing. "Once you enter the shared space, you are no longer entirely alone. You are interacting with echoes. And echoes… they can be unpredictable."

I nodded. The whole thing felt like an elaborate, slightly ridiculous parlour trick, but a desperate man clutches at even the most flimsy threads. The rain outside had eased slightly, replaced by a softer, more persistent patter. I thought of Sylvie, how she’d hated the rain, always bundled in her bright yellow mac, laughing through the grey. I needed to see that laugh again, even if it was just an echo.

"When can we start?" I asked, my voice steady.

She closed the book with a soft sigh, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of untold dreams. "Now, Simpson. We begin with a simple visualization. Tonight, you will dream, but you will remember what I tell you. You will look for the gate."

She handed me a small, smooth stone, cool against my palm. "Keep it close. A tactile anchor. A reminder of your waking purpose." The stone felt oddly comforting, a small piece of solidity in the face of such profound strangeness. I tucked it into my coat pocket. The smell of herbs and damp concrete seemed to cling to me as I left the warehouse, stepping back into the weak, watery light of the spring afternoon.

The journey home was a blur of bus fumes and silent introspection. The idea of lucid dreaming, once a fringe curiosity, now felt like the only logical step in a deeply illogical world. I was a detective whose most crucial case now lay beyond the veil of consciousness. The absurdity of it all was almost comical, yet the desperation was stark, cold, and utterly real. What kind of truth could I possibly find in the shifting landscape of a dream?

Later, back in my office, the evening light had faded, leaving the room awash in shadows. The stone in my pocket felt heavier, a tiny anchor dragging me towards an unknown shore. I brewed another cup of coffee, the stale taste a familiar companion. Nancy’s words echoed: "Once you enter the shared space, you are no longer entirely alone. You are interacting with echoes." What kind of echoes? And what if those echoes weren’t Sylvie?

I closed my eyes, the instructions Nancy had given me already playing on a loop in my mind: *focus on your hands, count your fingers, question reality.* It was a strange litany, a prayer to the subconscious. A sliver of moonlight cut through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the cold air. The rain had stopped. A profound stillness settled over the city, a quiet before the storm, or perhaps, before the dream.

Sleep claimed me quickly, a sudden drop into the soft velvet dark. I saw my hands in the gloom, raised them to my face, began to count. One, two, three… but the fourth finger stretched, elongating into a strange, impossibly long digit, shimmering with an ethereal glow. And then, a door appeared, not in my office, but in a vast, empty expanse, framed by something that pulsed with a faint, insistent light. From behind it, a sound, faint but unmistakable, like a whispered name: *Marvin…*

It wasn’t Sylvie’s voice. And the light was an unhealthy, sickly green.

The Green Flicker

My heart hammered against my ribs, a desperate drumbeat in the sudden, overwhelming silence of the dream. This wasn't the welcoming, familiar presence I’d hoped for. This was something else, something cold and alien, the green light bleeding into the periphery of my vision. The door, once a simple wooden panel, now seemed to ripple, its surface like disturbed water. The whisper, though faint, held a distinct urgency, a knowing tone that sent a chill through me despite the inexplicable warmth that had begun to spread through my dream-body. My instructions were to observe, to not interfere until I understood, but the pull was undeniable, a current dragging me towards that malevolent luminescence. The door beckoned, and behind it, something waited. Something that knew my name, but wasn't Sylvie, not at all.