What about Papa chasing the reader in their dreams? I keep having dreams about Terzo chasing me. I can never run right at all and he catches up to me. I always wake up or he just laughs manically while carrying me to his quarters 👀👀.
this has been in my inbox for a long time and i've finally been able to write something for it!!
The abbey glows with an eerie green hue you’ve never seen. Fog rolls along the stone path, swirling around your ankles. You stand motionless, your body feeling as if it might drift away—light on your feet, yet unable to move. Only then do you realize: you’re stuck in a dream.
It wasn’t the most terrifying realization until the whispering started.
Breath puffed at your ears, but there was no one there. The cold nipped at your fingertips, still unable to bring yourself to go back to the safety of your room. The command left you weak, left your knees wobbling, and fear crawling up your throat.
A shadow emerges that sends ice through your veins. A silhouette you recognized, one that had long been gone from the history of the Ministry. But here he was in your dream with a gloved hand outstretched to you.
“Did you think you could run from me, cara mia?” He was far, but his voice was up close, filling the air around you. “No, no. You can’t escape. Not from me. Not in your own mind.” A laugh, crackling and evil. Papa Emeritus the Third’s shadow runs to you, and you shriek at how quickly he moves. He’s free of the fog in an instant, his robes tattered and his lips stained dark red. He was ghastly, but more than a specter, and he was galloping right towards you.
You finally move, fighting him as he grabs you. The struggle jolts life back into your limbs. You wonder if your sleeping body looks peaceful as you claw through dream air.
"Let me go," you say, your voice thin and distant. You shriek as he lifts you over his shoulder. You pound his back—bone beneath tattered robes—while he laughs, low and delighted.
You kick hard enough that your slipper flies off into the fog. It vanishes before it hits the ground.
“Ah, I cannot do that. I need you all to myself tonight,” he hisses, a claw digging into your back. “You don’t know how long I wait for an obedient sibling to open the door for me to slip through, eheh. You’re the lucky one tonight, tesoro. Have you been thinking of me?”
A stained glass portrait of him had caught your attention earlier that week. He was before your time, but you were drawn to his appearance. The purple and gold accents to his robes, the sharp nails that shone with sunlight. You wondered what he sounded like when he sang the infernal gospel, when he commanded the masses to proclaim their praise of the Morning Star.
Now, he was in your dreams, stealing you away.
You’re not sure what to say, but your silence speaks for itself. He cackles and gives you a rough squeeze, one that draws the breath from your lungs.
“Ah, how good it is to be on the receiving end of attention, amore. Would you like some attention, too?” He sounded crazed, almost frantic, as his voice quivered with a deep need. “You want to know about me, si? I’ll show you all you need to know.”
He carries you to a chamber inside the abbey, still thick with the oppressive green, glowing fog. You manage to struggle, fear outweighing your shame now as he drops you onto a velvet upholstered chaise lounge. Terzo doesn’t let go and instead crawls on top of you, leaving you trapped. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, while you beg yourself to wake up.
The former Papa licks his red lips with a hungry grin. “Oh, it’s been so long since I’ve fed. Do you taste as good as you look, I wonder?”
Before you can think, his teeth latch onto your throat. Your body jolts in agony, everything swirling to black.
You wake, sweaty and gasping for air, your fingers clawing at the heavy blankets of your bed. The morning light filtering through the arches of your room's windows is gray and mundane, nothing like the radioactive glow of your dream.
You raise a trembling hand to your neck.
Your skin is hot to the touch, the pulse there hammering violently. You trace the curve of your collarbone, half-expecting to feel the wet slick of blood or the sharp indents of teeth. There is nothing but smooth skin.
Nothing. No marks. It was only a dream.
Beyond relieved, you start to slide back into your bed when your foot knocks something off the bed. You sit up quickly, suddenly with panic, and peer over the edge.
Sitting neatly right-side-up is a single slipper. The very one you had kicked off into the fog.
A chill, far colder than the morning breeze, sweeps down your spine.
From somewhere deep within your mind, you could swear you hear the faint, crackling echo of a delighted laugh.
