Theatrical Muse 192, Recurring Dream.

He can see it.

It’s alive. It’s small, it’s white and it’s at the end of a grey, misty tunnel. The tunnel is narrow, but the walls are impossible to look at, a swirling insubstantiality.

He isn’t into fear, not for himself. Not for humans, either, not really, not unless it’s the necessary trigger. Fear doesn’t make for good music.

It’s small, it’s white and it’s at the end of a long, grey misty tunnel; rather like a dimensional portal, except that it doesn’t try to suck him through. There’s no pull.

He doesn’t want to move. He’s afraid and not used to it, and he does not want to move while that thing is there. Small and white. It could be a cat. The kind the humans have in their houses. There’s no detail, no nose showing, not even eyes. The pricked ears wouldn’t show if its head was down, facing the ground. That could be why the pricked ears don’t show.

It could be a child, a baby naked on hands and knees. Silent. still.

Featureless. He’s so sure that it can see him that he doesn’t question the knowledge, but there’s nothing to indicate that. He can feel it watching him, but there are no details, no face. Featureless white in the featureless grey. Nothing to give scale. The grey tunnel could be any length.

It could be anything. There’s no way to judge the length of the tunnel. That means that there’s no way to judge the size of the white … creature, not really.

It stays very still. It doesn’t sing. It doesn’t dance – and it won’t. Little and white and the vibes that come from it are deadly. He doesn’t move. It doesn’t move either. It’s just there, with the vibes that can’t be explained or described.

Or perhaps the terror is in the air, fear sweating from the not-walls of the not-portal.

The tunnel stretches between them like the barrel of an aimed human gun. It leads to … something.

For both of them.


Muse; Sweet the Singing Demon
Fandom; BTVS
Words; 333