Chapter 6:The Notice Board in the Square
1628 Words
Dorian stepped out of the treatment pod, his legs shaky as he regained his footing. The nurse, her bird-like mask hiding any expression, waved him off, indicating that his session was over. The rest of the patients shuffled out of the treatment room, their movements slow and lifeless. Some had the same haunted look in their eyes as before. Others seemed even worse, as if the treatment had drained what little spark of life they had left.
But Dorian had survived. He had made it through without being chosen by the stag-headed creatures. And yet, the relief was fleeting. The distant howl he had heard still echoed in his mind, a dark omen of things to come.
He followed the other patients down the long, sterile corridor, keeping his head low. His heart pounded in his chest as he mentally replayed the events of the treatment session, piecing together what had saved him. Staying invisible had worked—for now. But he knew that the Haunting Dimension was far from done with him. Each new step brought a fresh wave of dangers, each more terrifying than the last.
As they approached the hospital’s main hall, a crackling voice from the loudspeaker interrupted his thoughts.
“Patients, please proceed to the courtyard for your scheduled recreational time.”
Recreational time? Dorian’s brow furrowed. It seemed almost absurd—like they were being allowed a break from the nightmare, as if the horrors of the hospital were somehow normal. But he knew better. Every part of this place was designed to twist the mind, to break you slowly.
He glanced around at the other patients as they shuffled toward the exit, their faces blank and emotionless. Whatever was out in the courtyard, Dorian doubted it would be any kind of real relief. Still, he followed, his instincts telling him that there was no choice but to continue moving forward.
Outside, the courtyard was a bleak, open space surrounded by tall walls that made the hospital look more like a prison. The air was cold, and the sky above was a dull, oppressive gray. Several patients were already scattered across the courtyard, their movements sluggish, as if even here, the weight of the Haunting Dimension pressed down on them.
But what caught Dorian’s eye immediately was the large notice board at the far end of the courtyard. It was old, weathered by time, and covered in faded papers and warnings. Something about it drew him in, a gnawing sense that whatever was posted there might offer some clue to the dimension’s twisted rules—or perhaps another contradiction.
Dorian moved cautiously toward the board, keeping an eye on the other patients. They all seemed eerily focused on their own tasks, none of them showing any interest in the notice board. His eyes scanned the various posters and papers tacked up in disarray.
At the top, the most prominent document was titled:Courtyard Rules
The courtyard is open from 8:00 AM to 12:00 PM. All patients must leave when the time expires.
You may participate in any activity you wish, but attempting to leave the hospital grounds is strictly prohibited.
If you hear a dog barking or howling, immediately report it to hospital staff. You may have been exposed to an infection.
A kiosk at the southeast corner offers items for purchase, but gambling with the shopkeeper is f*******n.
Do not engage in conversation with anyone wearing an elephant mask. They are here for repairs, and any distractions could result in punishment.
Dorian’s eyes lingered on the third rule—the one about the dogs. So the hospital staff claimed it was an infection. But Dorian knew better by now. The barking, the howling—they were something far worse than an illness. He could feel it in his bones, a creeping dread that seemed to tighten with every sound of the distant dog.
The blood-ink warning he had found earlier flashed through his mind:“When you hear the dogs howl, it’s already too late.”
He leaned in closer to inspect the board, hoping for another clue, and that’s when he noticed it—a message, scribbled in a shaky hand at the bottom of the board. The words were faded, barely legible, as though the writer had been in a desperate rush.
“Dogs are @#%!! your friends... only @### human %#&!!!..humanity is looo****st...”“I am human!! I AM STILL HUMAN!”
The message was incoherent, filled with strange symbols and broken words. But even through the disjointed madness, Dorian could sense the fear in it. Whoever had written this was clinging to their humanity, fighting against something that was tearing them apart.
Back in Drakenia, the expert team watched the broadcast with grim focus. One of the analysts zoomed in on the distorted writing at the bottom of the notice board.
“It’s another warning,” one of them said quietly. “But it’s incomplete—almost like whoever wrote it was losing their mind.”
The leader of the team leaned forward, his expression tense. “He needs to be careful. The messages are becoming less clear. The dimension is designed to confuse, to distort reality. Every warning could be a half-truth, twisted to manipulate him.”
“But what about the dogs?” another expert asked, frowning. “He keeps hearing them, and now there’s a direct warning about the howling. What’s it all leading to?”
The leader shook his head slowly. “Whatever it is, it’s not good. We need to keep watching.”
Dorian tore his eyes away from the notice board, his mind racing. The fragmented message left him with more questions than answers, but one thing was becoming clearer: the dog wasn’t just a warning. It was a symbol of something far worse—something that might strip away his humanity, just like the desperate writer of the message.
He looked around the courtyard again. Several security staff, all wearing dog masks, stood at the edges of the square, watching over the patients. Their blank, masked faces seemed to scan the crowd, waiting for any sign of disobedience. Dorian had learned enough by now to know that these guards were not to be trifled with.
Escape isn’t an option—not yet.
Dorian made his way toward the southeast corner of the courtyard, where the kiosk stood. It was a small, shabby booth, and behind the counter sat a thin figure wearing a pig mask, much like the chef he had seen in the cafeteria.
As he approached, the pig-masked shopkeeper looked up and gave Dorian a slow, unsettling smile. “Looking to buy something?” the shopkeeper asked, his voice dripping with mockery. “Or maybe... you’d like to make a wager?”
Dorian remembered the rule from the notice board: No gambling. The warning was clear—breaking this rule would lead to punishment. But something about the way the shopkeeper had offered the wager felt deliberate, as though he was trying to lead Dorian into a trap.
Dorian forced a polite smile. “I’m just here to browse,” he said, keeping his tone neutral.
The shopkeeper chuckled softly, his eyes glinting behind the mask. “Very wise,” he muttered, gesturing to the assortment of random items on display. “You never know what might happen if you gamble with your life.”
Dorian scanned the items quickly, but nothing stood out as particularly useful. Most of it was junk—trinkets, cheap snacks, and a few dusty toys. But then, at the edge of the counter, something caught his eye. A small box, labeled simply as “For Emergencies.”
“What’s in the box?” Dorian asked cautiously.
The shopkeeper’s smile widened beneath the pig mask. “Ah, that’s a special item. Very rare. It’s for those who find themselves in a... dire situation.”
Dorian hesitated. Could this be another trap? Was the box a lifeline or another step toward death? Every decision in the Haunting Dimension was a gamble, whether he liked it or not.
“I’ll take it,” Dorian said, his voice firm.
The shopkeeper handed him the box with a slow, deliberate gesture. “Good luck,” he whispered.
Dorian turned the box over in his hands, but there were no further clues about what was inside. He didn’t dare open it here—not with the security guards watching, and certainly not under the shopkeeper’s gaze. He needed a safer place to figure out what he had just purchased.
As he walked away from the kiosk, he glanced back at the notice board one last time. The fragmented message still haunted him, its final words burned into his mind:
“I AM STILL HUMAN.”
Was that his fate? Was he slowly losing himself to this place, just as the writer of that message had?
The experts in Drakenia watched Dorian’s every move with growing concern. They could see that the game was becoming more dangerous with each passing moment, the lines between reality and the dimension’s twisted rules becoming harder to navigate.
“He’s still holding it together,” one of the analysts remarked, though his tone was unsure.
“For now,” the leader replied, his voice quiet. “But the real test hasn’t started yet.”
Back in the courtyard, Dorian took a deep breath and stuffed the emergency box into his pocket. He knew the rules were becoming more convoluted, and that the further he went, the more dangerous the dimension’s traps would become.
The distant howl of a dog echoed faintly in his ears again, this time closer than before.
His time was running out.
- Writer
