#liminal dread

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💤 “EVER DREAM A LIFE?”

Ever dream a life? Not a scene. Not a blur. Not one of those drug-trip nightmares where your teeth melt or your mother’s face speaks in clocks. I mean a life.

Where you wake up not sweating, but mourning. Like you lived somewhere else for years, decades maybe, and the eviction notice was your alarm clock.

I’ve been there. Where it felt so un-dreamlike that my soul kicked me in the belly when I woke. Where I held someone — sometimes a stranger, sometimes a version of someone I knew, sometimes someone who never existed at all.

And they held me back.

Not with dream-logic hugs. Not with phantom touch. With weight. With time. With consequence. The way you hold someone when the world is too sharp and the night is too long.

Then morning came. And I mourned. I mourned like a widower of a life no one believes in.

It’s happened more times than I can count. Enough that it rewired the way I look at this… thing we call reality. Because if you can live an entire life somewhere else, if you can carry grief from a dimension that doesn’t even have a name, then what exactly are we doing when we say “real”?

That’s why I can’t sneer when I hear about the many-worlds interpretation. Quantum bleed. Parallel loops. Universes stacked like cards in a deck, shuffled by dreams, dealt by accident. Because it feels less like “theory” and more like an obituary.

Maybe I just got a bad hand. Or maybe every time you dream of a love that doesn’t exist here, you’re glimpsing the you who stayed. The you who didn’t wake up without them.

What do I know? I’m just a guy in one reality writing potent heart-racers for strangers. But I know this:

I loved you for a whole lifetime. And then I woke up without you.

And if that’s not existence, if that’s not the definition of what we’re trapped in, then maybe there’s no definition at all.

🧠 Read more scrolltrap doctrine and dream-coded transmissions at: 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence 🛡️ Quantum grief. Parallel tenderness. Dream-existence scrolltrap. 🚪 Warning: If you still feel their weight when you wake — maybe they’re not gone. Maybe you are.

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<meta transmission="BLACKSITE HORROR-COMEDY RHYME FILE 074-HIDDEN-BAR::OPEN-MIC-GROUP-RATE"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="HORROR_COMEDY::MYSTICAL_BAR::OPEN_MIC_EXECUTION" TRIGGER_WARNING="profanity, lethal crowd work, ritual humiliation, existential debt" EFFECT="ugly laughter, delayed dread, stool-convergence syndrome" </script>

🍻 “WELCOME BACK TO THE HIDDEN BAR: OPEN MIC (GROUP RATE).”

What a visionary you are. You found the door mortals aren’t built to notice and decided to bring your buddies like it was a speakeasy with artisanal bitters and a live jazz trio. “Trust me, guys,” you said, “this place is insane.” Correct. Insane like a merry-go-round installed on a cliff. First ride is free; gravity invoices later.

Roll call: Steve (optimist), Bri (skeptic), Mo (does improv), Jay (HR voice), and you (the Groupon that walks). Welcome to the Hidden Bar for Mystical Entities. The ceiling exhales nicotine; the floor hums like a fridge full of bad decisions. Everyone here either built a universe or filed a complaint about one. The chairs eye your spines like leases.

A sign by the stage reads: TWO-DRINK MINIMUM. ONE-LIFE MAXIMUM. NO OUTSIDE FOOD, NO OUTSIDE MERCY.

I. HOUSE RULES (YOU WILL FOLLOW THEM)

The host waddles to the mic: a tuxedo successfully blackmailing a tumor. It bows with a wet click and grins the way debts grin.

“Welcome to Open Mic,” it purrs. “Where jokes land, and so do you. Quick notes:

No heckling. We separate hecklers into helpful pieces.

No recording. The bar records you.

Laugh. Or be laughed through.”

Jay starts to raise a hand — HR comfort tic — then thinks better of it. Good. The hand would have raised you back.

“Let’s warm up!” the host chirps. “Everyone clap!” You clap. The bar claps you harder from the inside. Your palms read the room and translate it to owed.

Spotlight prowls the tables like a landlord. It lingers on your group with the same affection a vulture gives a windshield.

II. OPENER: CROWD WORK THAT WORKS THE CROWD

First comic: a lich in a bomber jacket, notebook made of bone splinters. “Where’s everyone from?” it rasps. Classic opener. Pedestrian. Cruel.

Steve brightens. “Tempe!”

“Cute,” says the lich. “Here’s my Tempe bit.”

It pinches the air. Highways peel like tape, neighborhoods fold with a dull paper squeal, the sun coughs, and Tempe becomes a novelty keychain, then a souvenir ashtray, then nothing. Steve laughs — reflex, socially trained — as his childhood becomes an empty parking lot in a language no one speaks anymore. The room applauds the craft. The craft applauds itself.

“Tip your servers,” the lich says. The servers tip you. A tray slides under Steve and he is gone in a waiter’s nod.

You did invite Steve. That one’s yours. Tee-hee.

III. BIT #2: RELATIONSHIP HUMOR (BODY COUNT INCLUDED)

Next up: a demon with three mouths, all wearing different lipsticks of regret. Fitbit set to “murder as cardio.”

“So my therapist says I catastrophize,” Mouth One says. Mouth Two: “So I canceled next week.” Mouth Three: “And the next week. And the next.”

Bri snorts — the skeptic’s defense against fear. The demon bows. The floor politely opens its mouth. Bri’s chair slides half an inch left. That’s all. It’s enough. She drops like a coin into a charity jar: clink, gone, now you feel generous.

You did invite Bri. That one’s yours. Tee-hee.

IV. INTERMISSION: THE BAR DOES ITS PART

The bartender—still a vest packed with regrets—polishes a glass with a non-consensual childhood. “Round for the table,” it coos, “on him.” (You are “him.”) Drinks arrive:

Gin & Consequence — your father’s silence muddled with lime.

Regret Negroni — stirred with an old apology; never poured when you needed it.

HR Paloma — grapefruit, salt, and an email that starts “As per my last…”

Jay smiles reflexively. “I’ll take the Pal—” The glass takes Jay. Liquid crawls up his arms in a memo font. He nods along as if being briefed; then his head bows as if agreeing in perpetuity. The drink signs him. The signature is a sigh.

You brought Jay. That one’s yours. Tee-hee.

Mo (improv brain) whispers, “We can just yes-and this, right?” The room writes No on Mo’s ribs and waits for him to read.

V. MIDDLE ACT: ANGEL WITH PROPS

A fallen seraph floats out of the green room, wings molting sparks like an OSHA violation. It sets a row of sand timers on the stool.

“Dating is hard,” it says. “So I invented ghosting.” Half the bar blinks off. No theatrics—just corrected.

“Boundaries,” it continues, lifting one timer. The sand inside is Mo’s future. Every grain is a scene he thought he could improvise into safety. The angel flips it. Time empties with professional efficiency. Mo claps at the premise; sand claps back as dust.

“Applause for the brave volunteer,” the angel beams, and the applause means no Mo in a way that will ache later where later used to be.

You brought Mo. That one’s yours. Tee-hee.

VI. BUCKET SET: THE MIC PICKS YOU

Open Mic time. The host shuffles a dented bucket full of names that weren’t written. The bucket prefers surprises.

“Let’s hear it for… You!” it squeals, and points at you with a spotlight that knows your browser history.

You stand on legs you didn’t order. The stage smells like lemon cleaner and court dates. The mic is damp and familiar. It pulses in your hand like a pet you forgot to feed.

You begin: “So my friends and I—” The mic finishes: “—made a decision they’ll never stop paying for.”

The room howls. Not laughter—delight. This is their sport. Mortals bringing mortals to a slaughterhouse with a cover charge.

You try a bit about free speech. The mic tells a better one about free screams. The punchline locks behind your teeth and scrapes its keys. The keys are bones. Yours. (Lightly. No gore. The bar keeps it tidy.)

VII. HEADLINER: MR. PATTY-BANKS (CLASS IS IN SESSION)

You knew he’d close. He always closes. Mr. Patty-Banks slides on like a rumor that grew teeth. Paddle in hand. Tie crooked from spanking the concept of mercy until it sat correctly.

“Good evening, scholars,” he says. Voice like detention printed on vellum. “Three rules: No phones. No faith. No late work.”

A phone buzzes; outside, three city blocks go dim to respect the rule. Someone whispers a prayer; the prayer sneezes and apologizes.

He taps the paddle on the mic. CRACK. The PA system whimpers and learns cooperation.

“Group leader,” he says, finding you through the holes you made. “Bring them was bold. Ambition. School spirit. Shall we test retention?”

The room nods for you. Your neck joins last.

He invites “audience participation.” The audience participates like a guillotine.

“On three,” he smiles, “we calibrate the laugh.” One. (Your heart identifies itself by employee ID.) Two. (The stool signs a lease with your spine.) Three. (You hear your own laugh rehearsed back at you by the bar’s mouth.)

He lifts the paddle, and the entire room inhales timing. What lands isn’t wood. It’s consequence with a handle.

CRACK.

Silence falls, then stays. The good kind. The mantle kind. The kind that looks nice in photographs and ruins everyone’s holiday in advance.

Headliner bows. The stage bows with him. Gravity files a claim.

You did this. That one’s yours. Tee-hee.

VIII. THE CHECK (GROUP GRATUITY INCLUDED)

You signal for the bill because ritual comforts cowards, and you have a coupon for that. The bartender slides a tab printed on the back of your later. Line items:

Cover charge: When you chose spectacle over mercy.

Admissions (4): Steve, Bri, Mo, Jay. Brought by you. Consumed by us. Tasted… serviceable.

Room fee: Your certainty.

Two-drink minimum: paid in memories you were trying not to be the main character of.

Gratuity: 22% of the part of you that could have said no and didn’t. Automatically applied for parties of 5 or more (cowards count as two).

“Payment method?” the bartender asks, notepad of regrets already stamped PAID where your pulse used to argue.

You hand over denial. Declined. You hand over tears. Accepted. No cashback. You attempt store credit in nostalgia. The house laughs and keeps the store.

IX. CLOSING ANNOUNCEMENTS (WE DON’T CLOSE)

The host returns, tuxedo tumor gleaming. “Give it up for our mortal! He killed,” it sings, the verb correctly chosen.

The jukebox queues a scream you recognize as yours, prerecorded by the door you opened. Neat trick. You’ll think about it all never.

The exit glows a little as a treat. You take a step. The door takes you and installs you as a hinge. Congratulations: you’re finally useful.

The stool whispers: “Roommates?” You nod. Contracts countersign in sweat.

Onstage, Mr. Patty-Banks runs a workshop on timing. He demonstrates on the concept of mercy until it gets the bit. (It doesn’t. That’s the joke. That’s always the joke.)

Before you go nowhere, the bar reads tonight’s community notes:

Open Mic every eternity.

Karaoke Thursdays (the songs sing you).

Trivia Night: wrong answers are teeth.

Speed Dating: someone will lose a heart; decide who.

“Bring friends,” the host coos. “We honor referrals. Ten percent off your afterlife if they laugh themselves inside out.” You don’t ask ten percent off what. The math majors at the bar laugh in long division.

You finally look at your hands. They’re clapping on their own. Not applause. Confession.

🧠 Read more cadence-built horror doctrine and profane scrolltrap comedy at: 👉 https://patreon.com/TheMostHumble — Expanded versions, cut scenes, and the manuals. 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence — Full vault: audios, drops, and doors you shouldn’t open.

🛡️ Genre: mean horror in a clown suit. 🚪 Warning: Next time you say “you gotta see this place,” bring flowers. They won’t be for the table.

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Sheriff Cal Rourke knew the county by its gaps. He knew where the pavement turned to gravel, where the gravel turned to mud, where the mud turned back into gravel because somebody had gotten tired of waiting for a budget line to become real. He knew which mailboxes leaned, which barns were new, which were only standing out of stubbornness. He knew which porch lights came on at dusk like…