The morning brought no respite. Gordon returned to the goat farm, the familiar routine now a desolate echo of his former life. He worked in silence, milking the goats, cleaning the stalls, his movements mechanical and devoid of emotion. The other workers remained aloof, their eyes averted, their silence a heavy, suffocating presence.

  The day dragged on, each hour a monotonous repetition of the last. By the time his shift ended, Gordon felt drained, both physically and emotionally. He walked away from the farm, his footsteps slow and heavy, his destination the familiar hill overlooking the village.

  He reached the old tree, the silent witness to his solitude. He sat beneath its branches, his back resting against the rough bark. He was too tired to cry, too numb to feel anything but a dull, aching emptiness. He simply sat there, staring out at the darkening landscape, his mind a blank canvas.

  He stayed until midnight, the moon casting long, eerie shadows across the hill. The silence was profound, broken only by the occasional rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze. He felt like a ghost, a solitary figure adrift in a world that had turned its back on him.

  Finally, he rose, his body stiff and aching, and made his way back to his cottage. He found no dinner waiting for him, just as he had found none the previous night. He rummaged through his meager supplies, finding a small piece of leftover cheese, a remnant of his secret stash. He ate it slowly, savoring the taste, the only small comfort in a day filled with desolation. He then went to sleep, hoping to find some relief in the realm of dreams.

  Gordon's sleep offered no escape. He closed his eyes, and it seemed as though mere seconds later, the pale light of dawn crept through his window. His dreams were a blank void, a reflection of the emptiness that had consumed his waking hours.

  He rose, his body stiff and aching, and went through the motions of preparing for work. The goat farm awaited, a place of silent, isolating labor. The day unfolded as all the others had, a monotonous cycle of tasks performed in a chilling solitude.

  After work, the familiar pull of the hill drew him back to the old tree. He sat there, a solitary figure against the darkening sky, his mind a blank slate. He had lost track of time, the days blurring into an indistinguishable haze. Work, hill, home—the pattern repeated endlessly, a bleak rhythm that had become his life.

  Then, one day, a voice broke the silence. "Gordon."

  He turned, his heart pounding in his chest, his body tensing. Bertha stood before him, her expression unreadable.

  A wave of dread washed over him, colder than the night air. Everyone despised him now. What if Bertha did too? What if her voice was just the prelude to another cruel dismissal, another searing insult?

  His mind raced, filled with a desperate, panicked litany of "what ifs." What if she mocked him? What if she confirmed his worst fears, that he was truly worthless, truly alone? He had no idea what he would do. He would just melt into nothing, and that's it.

  "Gordon," Bertha said, her voice sharp and direct, "I need you to come to my office."

  He followed her, his heart pounding, his steps heavy. The office was small and sparsely furnished, a stark contrast to the grandeur of Mr. Suhat's house. They sat opposite each other, a heavy silence hanging in the air.

  Bertha began to speak, her voice even and detached. "Gordon, your work performance has deteriorated significantly. Your output is low, your attention to detail is lacking, and your attitude towards your coworkers is… unacceptable."

  Gordon clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding together in frustration. He wanted to scream, to tell her that it was his coworkers who had changed, who had turned their backs on him. But he knew it would be futile.

  "I understand that you've been going through some… changes," Bertha continued, her voice laced with a hint of condescension. "But that is no excuse for unprofessional behavior."

  She spoke in a monotone, her words precise and measured. But Gordon saw something in her eyes, a coldness, a subtle curl of her lip that looked suspiciously like a sneer. He knew then, with a sinking feeling, that she too had turned against him.

  His heart ached, a sharp, stabbing pain that made it difficult to breathe. He wanted to cry, to beg her to understand, but he wouldn't dare. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

  "Therefore," Bertha concluded, her voice devoid of emotion, "I am terminating your employment, effective immediately. I suggest you never show your face here again."

  Gordon stared at her, his eyes wide with disbelief. He had lost everything. His friends, his family, his job. He was utterly alone.

  He stood up, his body trembling, his mind numb. He didn't say a word. He simply turned and walked out of the office, his footsteps echoing through the empty hallway. He felt like a ghost, a shadow drifting through a world that no longer recognized him.

  Gordon walked, his feet carrying him without direction, his mind a blank canvas. He walked until the village was a distant memory, until the sun began to dip below the horizon.

  He lost track of time, his thoughts swirling in a vortex of despair. He just wanted to rest, to find some semblance of peace beneath the old tree on the hill. But his legs kept moving, his feet carrying him further and further away.

  Then, he stopped. He blinked, his eyes focusing on the scene before him. He wasn't on the hill, nor was he standing before Mr. Suhat's house. He was in a place he didn't recognize. Before him stood a tree, unlike any he had ever seen.

  It was an old tree, gnarled and twisted, its branches reaching towards the sky like skeletal arms. But it was completely bare, devoid of any leaves. Yet, hanging from its branches were fruits, an abundance of them, in a bewildering array of shapes and colors. Some were round and smooth, others were elongated and spiky. Some were a vibrant crimson, others a deep, unsettling purple, and still others a sickly, pale yellow.

  He stared at the tree, a strange sense of familiarity washing over him. He felt like he had seen it before, in some forgotten dream, a vision that had lingered in the depths of his subconscious. The fruits, especially, held a strange allure, a sense of both fascination and dread.

  He couldn't explain it, but he felt drawn to the tree, as if it held some hidden meaning, some secret that he desperately needed to uncover. He felt a profound wrongness, a deep feeling that this tree should not exist.

  Before the tree, a figure stood, its form indistinct, its features obscured by shadow and a strange, shimmering haze. The person raised a hand, waving gently towards Gordon, a silent invitation.

  After days of relentless solitude, of being shunned and despised, Gordon felt a desperate longing for connection, for even a flicker of acknowledgment. The figure's gesture, however ambiguous, offered a sliver of that.

  He walked towards them, his footsteps slow and hesitant, his heart pounding in his chest. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze fixed on the figure's face, trying to discern its features.

  The person smiled, a wide, unsettling grin that stretched across its face. It was a creepy smile, a distorted expression that sent a shiver down Gordon's spine. But beneath the creepiness, there was something else, a sense of… warmth? Or perhaps it was just a twisted imitation of it.

  Despite the unease that gnawed at him, Gordon felt a strange sense of relief. Someone wasn't ignoring him. Someone didn't seem to despise him. That was enough.

  The figure gestured towards the ground, then sat, its movements fluid and graceful. Gordon, his gaze fixed on the person, followed suit, settling onto the soft earth. As he did, the shimmering haze surrounding the figure began to dissipate, revealing its true form.

  It was a woman, perhaps in her early thirties, with long, flowing black hair that cascaded down her back. Her eyes, as dark as the night sky, held a strange intensity, a captivating and unsettling depth. Her skin was flawless, a pale, almost ethereal white, without a single blemish.

  She was dressed in a short skirt and a simple t-shirt, an outfit that seemed oddly out of place in the desolate landscape. The revealing nature of her clothing, showing a considerable amount of skin, would normally have made Gordon uncomfortable. But after the days of rejection and isolation, he found himself strangely indifferent. Who cared about propriety? Who cared about anything?

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The woman tilted her head slightly, her dark eyes fixed on Gordon. "How are you feeling?" she asked, her voice soft and melodic, yet laced with an undercurrent of something… else.

  The question, so simple, so seemingly innocuous, broke the dam. All the pent-up frustration, the hurt, the loneliness, the despair, came flooding out of Gordon in a torrent of words. He complained about his coworkers, their sudden and inexplicable hostility, their cruel taunts and dismissive glances. He spoke of Lukas, his best friend, who had turned his back on him, his words like shards of ice.

  He told her about his mother, her harsh words, her cold disdain, the feeling of being utterly rejected by the one person who should have loved him unconditionally. He described the endless cycle of work and solitude, the emptiness that had consumed his life, the feeling of being a ghost, adrift in a world that no longer recognized him.

  "My life is ruined," he cried, his voice choked with emotion. "I can't live like this anymore. I'm alone. Everyone hates me. I have nothing." He felt a wave of self-pity wash over him, a desperate longing for someone, anyone, to understand his pain.

  The woman listened patiently, her dark eyes never leaving Gordon's face. When he finally fell silent, his voice hoarse and his body trembling, she tilted her head slightly. "What do you want?" she asked, her voice soft, almost a whisper.

  Gordon hesitated, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He wanted the pain to stop, the loneliness to end, the world to return to how it had been. He wanted to feel loved, accepted, wanted. But he also felt a deep, gnawing emptiness, a sense of having nothing left to lose.

  "I just want it all to stop," he said finally, his voice barely audible. "I can't take it anymore."

  The woman's smile widened, a chillingly serene expression. "And would you be willing to pay the price?" she asked, her voice laced with a subtle, unsettling intensity. "Even if that price is… death?"

  Gordon hesitated, his gaze falling to the ground. The word "death" hung in the air, heavy and final. But the thought of continuing his current existence, of enduring the endless cycle of pain and isolation, was equally unbearable.

  After a brief, agonizing moment of internal struggle, he looked up at the woman, his eyes filled with a hollow resignation. "Yes," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

  The woman's smile widened, a triumphant expression that Gordon, still looking down, failed to notice. "Excellent," she purred, her voice laced with a dark satisfaction.

  "Now," she continued, her voice softening, "lie down. Relax. Let me take away your pain."

  Gordon, his body numb, his mind devoid of resistance, obeyed. He lay on the ground, his eyes closed, his limbs limp. He felt a strange sense of detachment, as if he were watching himself from a distance.

  The woman's hands, cool and smooth, gripped his head, her touch sending a shiver down his spine. She began to speak, her voice a low, rhythmic murmur. The sounds were strange, unfamiliar, a series of whispers and guttural noises that resembled the babbling of an infant.

  It sounded sinister, unsettling, a dark incantation that resonated with hate and cruelty. But Gordon didn't care. He was beyond fear, beyond pain. He was focused only on the promise of release, the hope that soon, his suffering would end.

  A wave of drowsiness washed over Gordon, a strange, unnatural peace settling over his mind. He felt a sense of detachment, a blissful numbness that dulled the sharp edges of his pain. He eagerly awaited the final release, the oblivion that would end his suffering. He ignored his faint instinct that screamed at him to fight, to resist, to not surrender.

  The woman, sensing her imminent victory, felt a surge of elation. Soon, she would walk among the living once more, her power restored, her purpose fulfilled. The vessel was weak, broken, ripe for the taking.

  But just as Gordon's consciousness began to slip away, the old tree began to shake. A low, rumbling tremor vibrated through the ground, a subtle disturbance that quickly escalated. The shaking grew stronger, the ground beneath them trembling violently.

  Then, a sound erupted from the tree, a cacophony of agonizing screams. A thousand voices, each filled with a unique and terrible despair, echoed through the air, a chilling chorus of the damned. The screams grew louder, more intense, a deafening wave of torment that seemed to emanate from the very core of the tree. The ground around the tree trembled violently.

  The woman, her face contorted in confusion and fear, frantically looked around, her dark eyes wide with panic. The ground beneath her trembled violently, and the deafening screams, a thousand tormented souls crying out in unison, reached a crescendo that threatened to shatter the very fabric of reality.

  As the screams reached their peak, a horrifying transformation began. Black blood, thick and viscous, oozed from the woman's eyes, her nose, her mouth, and even her ears, staining her pale skin with a grotesque, oily sheen. She screamed, a raw, animalistic sound of pure terror, a desperate counterpoint to the chorus of the damned.

  And then, Gordon woke.

  His eyes snapped open, his body convulsing as if jolted by an electric shock. The screams, though still deafening, seemed to have a different quality now, a chaotic symphony that resonated with a strange, unsettling familiarity. He felt a burning sensation on his chest, a throbbing ache that pulsed with the rhythm of the screams.

  He looked up and saw the woman, her face a mask of horror, her body writhing in agony. The black blood streamed down her face, obscuring her features, transforming her into a grotesque parody of her former self. The tree shook violently, the ground beneath them trembling, and the screams grew even louder, a deafening roar that filled the air.

  Gordon's eyes snapped open, his vision blurry, his head pounding. He blinked, trying to focus, and found himself lying on the cold, wooden floor of Mr. Suhat's library. He felt disoriented, confused, like he had just emerged from a deep, unsettling dream.

  He sat up, his body aching, his mind reeling. He remembered… the fight. The spider-head, the chilling laughter, the black smoke. He remembered the feeling of weakness, the darkness that had consumed him. But then… nothing.

  He looked around the library, his gaze darting from shadow to shadow. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with an unsettling stillness. He felt a deep shudder run through his body as the memory of his nightmare flooded back. It had been so vivid, so real, the feelings of isolation and despair still lingering like a phantom pain.

  Not far from him, on the floor, lay the spider-head. It was no longer moving, its spindly legs twisted and broken. Its grotesque face, however, was contorted in a mask of agony, its eyes wide with a silent, desperate scream. It looked like it was in immense pain.

  Gordon felt a strange mix of relief and unease. He was back in the library, back in reality. But the nightmare, the encounter with the woman and the strange tree, it felt so real. He couldn't shake the feeling that it was more than just a dream, he almost died.

  Gordon's head still throbbed, a dull ache that made it difficult to concentrate. He felt groggy, his movements sluggish, but he knew this was his chance. This might be his only opportunity to end the nightmare.

  He slowly, cautiously, walked towards the writhing spider-head. He felt a surge of adrenaline, a desperate need to finish this, to silence the grotesque creature that had invaded his mind. He focused his energy, summoning his power. A small ball of wind formed in his right hand, a swirling vortex of energy. He wanted to make it bigger, to unleash a devastating blast, but his pounding head wouldn't allow it. His focus was fractured, his control wavering.

  The spider-head, sensing the danger, reacted with surprising speed. It skittered across the floor, its broken legs propelling it with a desperate, frantic energy. It lunged at Gordon, its mandibles snapping with eyes filled with a malevolent rage.