The tower sat atop the hill, a glimmering beacon in the late afternoon sun. The flag of the Wizard Gildfroy flapped above it in the cool, salty breeze. From the cliff, Casimiro could hear the ocean's waves crashing against the rocky shore. He crouched at the bottom of the staircase; ninety-nine steps led up the hill to the tower's door, but that way held no interest for him. He required a way in that was more discreet.
He scanned the hillside and the area around the building, then looked to the ledge of the cliff as he pulled his cloak tighter against the breeze. Besides the front door, there were windows high up the tower wall and a large sewage outlet on the cliff face. Casimiro's dark eyes flitted from side to side, wary of traps and guardians as he contemplated his options. His decision made, he strode off towards the ledge.
He'd been fascinated with the tower as a child. He had dreamed about it often, dreaming that it was filled with riches or home to a damsel in need of rescue. He would daydream about it as he did his chores and would play-act with his friends about plundering its treasure and claiming it as his own. Though it had been many years since those long-ago days, thoughts of the tower had never strayed far from his mind. Now, the allure of the place compelled him, and he would deny it no longer.
Casimiro leaned over the edge, looking for handholds. But he found nothing to grab onto, nowhere to stick his toes. Instead, he retrieved a large iron spike from his backpack and hammered it into the ground. He measured out a length of rope, and with one end secured to the spike and the other tied around his waist, he dropped over the side.
He rappelled only about fifteen feet before he was in front of the rusty iron gate that covered the sewer egress. It was bolted to the cliff face, but poorly, and with bolts that had rusted through. He gave it a mighty yank and watched it fall to the rocks below.
A wave of vertigo washed over him as the grate crashed on the rocks and he realized his terrifying height. Before he lost his nerve or his grip, he swung himself inside the tunnel and rested against the cool wall.
The reek of mold and years of accumulated human waste assaulted his senses. A shallow stream of murky water ran down the center of the dark shaft and out the opening, no doubt carrying the filth of the tower's denizens. With a wrinkled nose and narrowed eyes, he set off, the outside light from the opening his only illumination.
Rodents skittered at the gentle splash of his footsteps as he felt his way along the walls. The passage narrowed, forcing him into a crouch. Any narrower, and he'd have to retreat and find another way in. But he soon reached a wider section, and his hands brushed a protrusion from the rock: an iron ladder bolted to the wall.
A warm, flickering light filtered through a grate at the top of the ladder. He made the short climb up but found that, unlike the sewer egress, this grate was sturdy. And locked.
Hanging on a rung, he took a small roll of leather from the folds of his cloak. He withdrew a narrow sliver of metal from it and reached his slender fingers through the bars of the grill. The metal slid easily into the lock; he fiddled with it, twisting and turning it until he heard a satisfying click. A moment later, he swung the gate aside and clambered into the tower's basement.
If anything, the stench at this level was even worse. He drew a dark cloth from a pocket and tied it about his face, then pulled up the cloak's hood. The cold, stone walls of the basement shimmered in the firelight of the room's lone torch. To one side was a door; to the other, barred cells. Slumped in one of the cells were the skeletal remains of its last occupant.
"Sorry, mate," Casimiro said. "Let's hope that I have better luck, eh?"
Like the grate, the door was locked. Though bigger and more challenging than the grate, it, too, opened at Casimiro's careful prodding.
The hinges squealed in protest as he opened the door, admitting a breeze that extinguished the torch. The temperature dropped, and an uncomfortable tingling ran down Casimiro's spine. He drew in a breath and widened his eyes in the sudden darkness.
A loud crack echoed through the basement. It was followed by the terrible, grinding skritch of something heavy being dragged across the stone floor. A disgusting miasma arose, warm, oppressive. Familiar. His head swam with it and the memory that it forced to the surface. He slowly backed through the door as the memory thrust itself upon him.
#
The nightmare came whenever his father went out for his evening excursions. His mother would put him to bed, and his father would tell him a story before he slipped out into the night. The next morning, if his father had managed to relieve the aristocracy from the burden of some coins, they would have fresh fruit or maybe even eggs. Otherwise, they would have to make do with their usual hardtack.
But before then, while his mother dozed and his father prowled, the nightmares came. Engulfed in darkness, he would gag on the malodorous fumes of a jungle swamp that rose around him. Though he couldn't see them, he could feel the eyes of a million creatures on him, watching his every heave, moving closer with every breath. He could hear their chittering, feel their icy hatred. He'd whirl around but find nothing except the sense he'd just avoided their grasp.
Then, a reverberating crack, like a hammer slamming a rock. A wet, slurpy footstep, then another, coming towards him. The grinding, bone-jarring sound of something heavy being dragged across stone. A painful sound that would send chills coursing through his body and set his teeth on edge.
Drenched in fear, his eyes would dart, incessantly searching the inky blackness for his tormentor. No matter where he would look, though, it was always in another direction and always just one step closer. His eyes would grow into saucers as he felt their icy tendrils reaching out to him. He'd try to back away only to find that that's where the creature was, and now there was no escape. He'd scream with all the might his child-sized lungs could manage...
#
Despite his heavy cloak, he trembled at a chill that ran down his spine, escalating his panic at whatever stalked him in this forsaken place. He hadn't had that nightmare in years, hadn't even thought of it since his father disappeared. Why did it come to him now, he wondered, when something very real was only a few yards away?
Once, before leaving for his evening prowl, his father had hung a bell on the back of the door. "If the nightmare tries to get you, this will ring and wake you up. Nightmares have no power in the waking world." That night, he remembered, he slept a blissful, dream-free sleep.
The memory prompted him to reach for the top of the door, hoping for something he knew couldn't possibly be there. But yet, there was a jingle as his fingers brushed the cool, smooth metal. Surprised, he struck it, and the crystal clear chime of his childhood bell rang loudly in his ears. There was another breeze, and the torch in the basement lit, its flame chasing away the creatures of his imagination and leaving him alone.
"What the hell is happening here?"
#
The stairwell led to a landing at the tower's front door and continued beyond it up into the tower. An archway opened on a large room lined with statues and appointed with rich tapestries. He grinned at the wealth such things portended.
The dizziness came upon him in a wave as his vision swam. He leaned against the archway and was stunned to see that the room was transformed. The statues were toppled, the tapestries moldy and torn, the floor covered with a pentagram drawn in blood. He blinked and shook his head, and the vision passed; the room was restored. Shaken and confused, he ascended the stairs.
Another door barred his way, and another lock succumbed to his skills with the pick. The door swung open, and he stood agape at the breathtaking display it had concealed.
Chests lined the walls, overflowing with gold coins that spilled onto the floor. Gold vases and statuettes filled nooks and lined shelves. A crown sat askew on the back of an ornate throne, and a jeweled scepter occupied its seat. The dazzling brilliance was nearly blinding.
With a grin stretching from ear to ear, he shook open a large sack and strategized his plunder.
The scepter first, he thought. The jewels and workmanship of it would fetch more than everything else he could carry. He stepped towards the throne and reached for the scepter. Such a fine piece, he thought, much too fine to leave behind.
The scepter swam in his vision but for only a moment. He stayed his hand and took in the room once more. Something didn't sit right with him. Something about the treasure. Too perfect, too much like...
Too much like his childhood dreams.
He snatched his hand back and narrowed his eyes. The gold gleamed brightly, shimmering, enticing. But then it wavered, and faded, and disappeared. In its wake were broken, empty chests, scorched walls, and a toppled throne. And beyond the throne, a cage of bones.
Casimiro stepped around the wreckage and approached the cage. Within it was a cot, and on the cot was a boy. The boy sat up as he approached, wide-eyed.
"You came," the child whispered.
Casimiro nodded. "Aye," he said. "But not for you, lad. I'm here for the treasure."
The boy shook his head sadly. "There is no treasure, sir. Not since Gildfroy fell."
Casimiro was incredulous. "What? It was here, I saw it!"
"I dreamed it," the boy replied. "This place, the Wizard made it. For our dreams, you see."
"But what of the Wizard?"
"He fell. And now the witch has the talisman. With it, she controls the tower. You must wrest it back from her." The boy's face fell. "But it's too late."
"What..." Casimiro started. From behind him, there was a low, cackling laughter. He turned to face its source.
"Posh, not too late, my dreamer, not at all. Just in time, my pretty." The ugly crone before him rubbed her misshapen hands in anticipation. "My lord demands a sacrifice, you see, and methinks that you are who it shall be." She hooted as her fingers crackled with energy.
Warts covered the witch's meaty face. A tattered black robe draped her decrepit body, and long, white hair sprang from her scalp in all directions. A wicked grin cracked the space under her hooked nose as she raised her hands. "A fine sacrifice, yes, a fine one you shall be."
He didn't know what sort of magic she weaved but was sure that it would do him well not to find out. The crone blocked the room's only exit. With no other options, he lowered his shoulder and charged.
She squealed as he hit her, her face contorted with surprise and fury. They tumbled and rolled, the witch spitting curses as he extricated himself and sprinted for the door.
Behind him was an eerie cackling as the hag cast her spell. The door fell away, his only escape now far out of reach. He tried to run faster, but the air was thick as molasses, slowing him to a crawl. Darkness crept in at the edge of his vision, and he swooned, the crone's hideous laughter assaulting his ears as his consciousness fled.
#
When he awoke, Casimiro found himself on the floor, within the cage of bones with the boy.
"She made me do it," the boy said. "I can touch the minds of people near me, you see." He pointed to his head. "Touch their dreams and make them my own. With the tower, I can reach farther. And the tower can make dreams manifest, after a fashion."
Casimiro sat up and examined their cell. "Can't you touch her dreams, then?" He eyed the padlock securing the cage.
"No," the boy said sadly. "Not while she controls the tower. She uses it. She forces me to lure people here. Like you." Casimiro shot him a look. "I try to fight against it, try to conjure something that will remind her victims that it's only a dream. Like your bell."
Casimiro nodded as he pulled his leather roll from his cloak and started working the lock. "A good one, that," he said as the padlock sprang open. He removed it and pushed the door. "But I think it's time to leave now, eh?"
The boy shook his head. "I can't. Not as long as she has the talisman."
A sly smile grew on Casimiro's face. "It's a good thing I nipped this from her then, don't you think?" He pulled a jade figurine from his pocket. "Snatched it from her pocket when we had that tumble."
The child's face lit up in wonder. "Destroy it, sir, please, I beg of you!"
Casimiro nodded and put the figurine on the floor. He lifted the heavy padlock and smashed it down on the talisman. The whole building shook with the impact.
"No!" The witch's cry echoed through the tower.
He brought down the lock again.
Casimiro was thrown back as pieces of jade flew in every direction. Dust and debris rained from the ceiling as the building rumbled.
"We've got to go, boy. Now!"
They fled from the room and down the steps but halted at the landing; the witch blocked their exit.
Blue lightning crackled around her fingertips. "You'll never escape me," she hissed.
The boy looked at her, concentrating. She paled, and her eyes grew wide. She let loose a bloodcurdling scream that followed her as she fled.
"The dreams of a witch must be terrible," the boy said.
They ran out the door and down the ninety-nine steps, bricks and debris flying past them. Safely away across the field, they stopped and turned.
Where the tower once stood, there was now only a pile of rubble.
Casimiro looked at the boy. "Where is your home?"
He pointed at the rubble. "There. The Wizard Gildfroy was my father, but the witch bested him. She sacrificed him to her dark lords." He looked up at Casimiro. "May I travel with you, sir? I have always dreamed of life outside the tower."
Casimiro smiled, and reached out his hand.