You come to your senses in an unfamiliar place. Everything around you feels like it should be recognizable, but memory runs through your fingers like sand. An inner voice provides the only context: you are a famous horror writer, the kind whose stories produced genuine fear in the people who read them. Whatever this place is, it is considerably more frightening than anything you wrote. Each discovery brings the answer closer — and opens a door to something worse beneath it. The line between your fiction and your current reality has dissolved. What is on the other side of that line?