[Present Day]

The dreams haunted me — vast landscapes of lifeless stone creeping slowly, but inexorably, consuming an otherwise lush world, dazzling violet threads of probability weaving new reality, and the young woman... Her deep-lavender eye matched the glowing purple gem that dangled from a short silver necklace. A leather mask hid the left side of her face, including the left eye, covering something horrendous. But in the dreams, I peered beyond the physical into a scarred soul slashed by undeserved fate. Yet despite the wounds to body and spirit, her soul's light flickered true and compassion warmed her heart. With one hand steadying herself on a twisted wooden cane, she reached out to me with the other, silently pleading.

Who was this intriguing woman?

Over the months, the dreams became more frequent and so dazzlingly vivid. But they can't be real, just stubborn musings of an overactive imagination. Right?

"Earth to Micah," came a female voice through my mental fog.

"Huh?"

"What is your fortune?"

"My fortune?" As the fog cleared, I noticed the broken fortune cookie in my hand. "Oh, yeah, my fortune."

The little paper piece tingled strangely in my hand as I turned it over. "It says: To a realm of stone you are called. To a destiny you are chosen." I snorted, "Weird."

"Huh?" my ex-girlfriend, Lyrica, said, wrinkling her forehead as I handed her my fortune. "Yeah, that's strange. Mine just said: To be found, first stop hiding."

"Wow, so deep." I almost laughed out loud — she was the opposite of hiding. Her spiked hair color this week was florescent pink and she wore enough body jewelry that you shouldn't stand next to her in a thunderstorm. "Still, it's good advice. Maybe if you didn't blend in with the crowd so much, people would notice you."

Lyrica didn't appreciate my sarcasm and I became the recipient of her evil-eye look, which happened often. "Who believes fortune cookies anyway?" she grumbled while wadding the paper into a tiny ball.

With her it's tarot cards, horoscopes, and a few healing crystals, just in case. I really shouldn't tease her, but I still take her out sometimes just to marvel at her wonderful weirdness. She never turned down free food, even at a hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant like this.

I grinned. "Said by someone who chases psychic energy vortexes." Some of the local enthusiasts recently reported that a new vortex opened up near our town.

"Hey, they're real!" she retorted. "Just because you can't see something doesn't mean they don't exist."

Point taken. "Well, some physicists have theorized the existence of parallel universes and alternate realities. Maybe the vortexes form where they rub together?"

"Whoa..." Her eyes widened and they focused far away.

I think I may have validated her beliefs with science, although many cosmologists have discounted the theory as fantasy. Picking up my cookie delivered prophecy, I said with a straight face, "Perhaps that's what my fortune means, that I might get sucked into another dimension by the vortex."

Lyrica's jaw dropped and she gasped. "Do you think that...?"

A grin burst on my face. "Hell no, it's all a bunch of rubbish. That could never happen."

The evil-eye look appeared again. "Don't tempt the universe," she warned. After slurping a few noodles, she changed the subject. "What are you doing for your birthday tomorrow?"

I shrugged. "Don't know. Maybe go out for ice cream."

After parting with Lyrica, I slung my book pack over my shoulders and unlocked my bicycle. To save money, I commuted to college and work by bike — it was only six miles if I took the shortcut along the river trail. Only when the weather turned especially bad did I take the bus. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, painting the wispy high clouds in fading oranges, so I switched on the headlight and blinking red taillight.

As a side benefit, biking helped keep me reasonably fit and trim, maintaining a physique developed from high school wrestling and counteracting an ice cream addiction. I mean, I'm not exactly heart-throb material, but I garner a few looks.

As I wound through towering cottonwood and oak trees, I stopped as strange purple orbs lifted from the murky river, a dozen or more. They pulsed and shimmered, wandering about aimlessly in the stillness like giant fireflies. My skin tingled when they drew near and my arm hairs stood on end, but for some reason, I did not feel threatened. They surrounded me, weaving in circular spirals while trailing glistening purple streamers as if a mayday dance, and I was the maypole. Then one by one, they faded away.

Weird. This was the second appearance this week. The first time, I tried to snap a picture with my phone, but the purple orbs did not appear in the photos. And why so much purple?

A thought halted a breath — what if those were signs of a vortex? Nah, couldn't be. Just some strange natural phenomena and my vivid imagination.

I lived with my mom at the edge of town in a trailer house where the rent was cheap. Living with a parent had its disadvantages, although she lets me have my space and we have a good relationship. There wasn't much money, but between what she could spare, my part-time library job, and a few scholarships, I have managed to attend the local college without incurring any additional debt. All-in-all, I felt fortunate.

Later that evening, Mom came home streaked in white, a hazard from her work at the bakery. Her long brown ponytail suffered the same floured fate despite the hairnet she had to wear. She dropped a bag of leftover bread and cake on our scuffed kitchen table, tasty perks from her job. "Hey, Micah," she said, wrapping me in a hug. Some of the flour that clung to her transferred over to me. "How was your day?"

"Kinda weird." I dug through a pocket, extracted a crumpled slip of paper, and handed it to her. "You should see the fortune I got. Someone was really creative at the cookie factory."

Lifting an eyebrow, she read it, eyes widening.

"And there's more," I continued. "Been having these strange dreams about stone, like in the fortune, and on the way home there these glowing purple balls by the river--"

Mom's choked gasp and paled face halted my words. "No..." she said in a muted voice. "We had a pact. This can't be."

Her reaction took my breath away and sent an electric chill down my spine.

Tossing the paper aside, she put hands to her forehead and paced the floor like she does when worried, muttering, "They can't do this. A blood oath must never be broken."

"Mom, what's happening?" The words came out strained. Something was very wrong.

"No, no..." Coming closer, she put a hand to my cheek. "Micah, I have to go. Stay here 'till I get back. Okay?"

"What is going on?" I demanded in a stronger voice.

"A spell... There are always signs..." Moisture highlighted the yellow streaks in her hazel eyes, a rare combination, she once told me, and the reason her mother named her Dawn. "I'll tell you when I get back. Just promise me you won't go anywhere until then. Please?"

I gulped. "Okay."

She rushed out of kitchen toward her room, turning once to say in a cracked voice, "I love you, Micah."

The sentiment was heartwarming, but the tone of her voice, foreboding and fearful, sent my nerves on edge. "I love you too, Mom," I called out before her bedroom door closed.

An hour stretched out while an unknown fear gripped my heart. A cryptic fortune, psychic vortexes, prophetic dreams, signs of something — all this swirled in my mind. I tried to study in my room, failing that, to listen to music, but nothing calmed my mental tempest or racing heart. It all felt so ominous.

Our house had particularly thin walls, and sounds from one bedroom were barely muffled in the other, thus, the silence was particularly disconcerting. Was she still here?

Peering through the blinds revealed that our old rattle-trap car sat unused in the gravel driveway, illuminated by a full moon. Besides, the house front door squeals like a banshee when opened, the back door required a banging shove, and most of the floorboards creaked — nobody sneaked out of this house.

"Mom?" I said, knocking softly on her door. No answer. I knocked harder. "Are you there?"

Opening the door, I peeked inside. "Mom?"

She was not there to answer.

The overhead light was on and the bed neatly made. Her old flip-phone, which she refused to upgrade because of cost, still laid on the wooden folding tray she used for a night stand. Beside it, lined up in a straight row, were her keychain, battery powered alarm clock, and a small lamp she bought at a garage sale.

Everything was where it should be, except for the hinged oak jewelry box. Where normally it would be tucked away high on a closet shelf, now it laid open and empty atop her white painted dresser. It only ever contained a single piece — a dazzling teardrop-shaped yellow gem pendant attached to a silver chain. But she never wore it.

I only know this because one time as a curious young boy, I got into her closet and retrieved the box. The gem pulsed with energy, sending curious prickles up my arm. It was one of the few times my mother expressed anger at me. She told me in no uncertain terms that the pendant was very precious and very dangerous, and I was never to touch it again.

Now it was gone. And so was she.

A troubling thought sent a tremor down my spine. Except for gem color, my mother's tear-shaped pendant matched that worn by the woman in my dreams. Were they somehow connected?

I retreated to my much messier room and laid on the bed, fingers interlaced behind my head. Hours passed without resolution, and sometime well after midnight, I drifted off to restless sleep.

The dreams came again, but this time, with flickering scenes flashed in rapid order — expanses of lifeless stone, an abandoned castle, lush forests, strange creatures, glowing threads of swirling magic, villagers huddled in fear before an advancing army, and the mysterious half-masked woman with a single violet eye.

A voice. I heard a voice. Then it sang. A distant female voice sang out a sweet tune, but as if from within a deep tunnel.

Half-asleep, I rose and rubbed my eyes. Somehow, the voice came from my closet. Dazzling violet rays pierced through the folding door slats, painting the floor below in purple streaks.

Wordlessly, it called.

My rational self told me to get away, but another bid me to investigate. A strange compulsion swept through me, drawing me toward the light. Slowly, cautiously, I cracked open the doors, raising a hand against the brightness. Before me swirled a tubular maelstrom of blazing purple and black, extending far beyond the closet depth.

Then, an irresistible force pulled me within.