It began with one of the townsfolk. He woke with a start in the middle of the night, sweating and shivering, incapable of recalling what he had witnessed in his sleep. He laid back down and tried to rest once again but was torn from his slumber almost immediately after losing consciousness. This time the dream felt closer, more real, though still beyond grasp. Whatever troubled him in the night had shaken him to his very core.

His town, Telos, was a small one, typical for its time, just a myriad of cobbled streets and stone structures huddled together like sheep on a winter’s night. It was a town of average folk. Even its richest citizen had a house only slightly larger than the others and kept a mere two horses within his stable. Men worked at their trades, women reared their children, and they all existed in peaceful quietude. There was nothing particularly exceptional about Telos or its people – or so they thought.

The phenomenon was barely noticeable at first. A few of the townspeople would wander about, bleary-eyed and fatigued. Those who suffered from this exhaustion considered themselves to be its lone victim. But this strange phenomenon grew until nearly a third of Telos ambled through its streets with dark circles beneath their eyes.

Those who did so regarded one another with knowing glances, though they didn’t speak of what troubled them. They knew not why, but they felt ashamed, as if their state conveyed a certain weakness. But still, it grew and grew, and eventually the entire town moved about with a lethargy that was impossible to hide.

You see, what had come upon Telos was a plague, though one unlike those which had previously ravaged their country. For this plague was not necessarily an illness, at least not the physical sort. What befell them was a dream plague, a disease of the mind which penetrated to the very core of their psyches.

The dreams grew more vivid, more palpable, until no one had any trouble recalling them. They were the same for everyone. It began with them waking in the middle of the night, blackness shrouding their rooms and a strange weight upon their limbs. They could see little of their surroundings, but everything seemed to be cast in shades of gray. Even the most vividly colored bedsheets were reduced to a pallid ghost of their former selves.

They roused themselves from their beds, somehow certain that something was in their home. They felt drawn to the front door. And, as they approached it, things became even more monotone, completely losing any semblance of color. That was when the knocking began, a thunderous bang, as if a battering ram was crashing against their homes. And with that knocking came an icy and sinister voice which seemed to speak into their very minds. It was a powerful voice, one fit for a king.

“Open the door.”

It was at that point that the dream ended, and the townspeople woke with sweat pouring down their backs. Still, that knocking continued within their heads. It became a constant, haunting noise even when they were awake. If one were to observe closely, they might notice that the people had begun to move slowly, yet rhythmically, to the beat of that damned sound. It instilled in them a perpetual feeling of impending doom, of something monstrous standing just beyond the gates of slumber.

They began to talk to one another. It started with whispers to their closest confidants – wives, siblings, and dear friends. They recounted their nightmares only to discover that the same dream plagued everyone in town, everyone except for a single person.

Anastasia was thought to be the most beautiful woman in Telos. However, her elegance extended beyond merely the physical realm. She was beautiful in body, mind, and soul, every aspect of her exuding grace and refinement. She was kind, intelligent, and the pride of the town. Deep in their hearts, her fellow townspeople considered her to be special, perhaps even holy in a way. Some whispered that she had been touched by the gods and treated her with reverence. She, graceful as always, took this reverence in stride and treated everyone as equals.

It came as no surprise when the people discovered that she was the only one unaffected by the dreams. She slept soundly through the night, placid in the sea of despair which now enveloped Telos. At first, the others viewed her with the same reverence as always. How typical of Anastasia to remain pure in this time of troubles. And yet, they soon began to despise her for her fortune, and so the seeds of hate were sewn.

These seeds, however, did not grow unaided. There was still that knocking, that terrible sound which pervaded the mind of every citizen at every waking moment. In time, they began to hear something else beneath that sound, a language of sorts. It told them things, secrets which they dared not believe. But it persisted, and soon they broke. They knew what was being asked of them.

That voice told them that Anastasia truly had been touched by the gods. In some way, she was special, a creature beyond the madness which tainted their world. She was holy. And holiness is a lock that holds back the darkness, a lock which must be broken. That eternal knocking beat into their minds a singular and overpowering thought: the door must be opened.

As if the gates of revelation had been thrown back, they were imbued with a terrible knowing, a set of instructions carved into their very psyches. However, this knowledge divided the town. The majority, in their suffering, were desperate to comply with the demands of that blackness in the night. However, a small number of others challenged them, perhaps driven by their moral strength, or perhaps merely afraid of that which might step through once the lock is broken.

However, as always, the majority won. And so, the ritual began. Pale and hollow-eyed, all moving to the same torturous rhythm, the people gathered in the town square. A great circle was drawn there, and in it, they chalked countless archaic symbols found in the blackness of their subconscious. They lit fires, each torch dotting the perimeter of the circle. And in the center of it all, they drew a great eye from which the king would be born.

Three men dragged Anastasia from her home. At first, she fought, but, seeing the desperation and pain in the eyes of her people, she began to comply albeit stiffly. She was conflicted. She knew that the others only wanted to stop their pain, but still, she could feel the evil that pervaded the town, a blackness which tapped at the edges of her mind with crude tools. Whatever laid on the other side of the door was a darkness that could not be allowed to exist in our world. She fought back again but was quickly subdued.

As they carried her to the center of the circle, the people began to sing. A monstrous cacophony of sounds that in no way resembled human speech filled the air. Their mouth’s moved with gnashing teeth and bloody tongues, each man, woman, and child overtaken by forces beyond recognition. Then the knocking began. It was no longer in their heads, but filled the very air of the town, emanating from that eye in the center of the square.

As that terrible singing continued, Anastasia was taken to the center of the eye and forced to the ground, each limb tied to posts. The knocking grew and grew until it was as if they were listening to the earth’s very heartbeat. Flames danced wildly upon their torches and the air grew icy cold. In the midst of the chaos, a terrifying stillness spread across the town until all stood as if frozen, except for their mouths which continued that bastard hymn.

The townspeople could feel it coming. Everything had gone perfectly thus far, as it needed to. If even the slightest aspect of the ritual was off, it wouldn’t work, and the people would never know peace. Tension built and built until it felt as if the world was balanced on the edge of a razor, swaying one way or the other, ready to fall at any moment.

Anastasia strained at her bonds, but to no avail. Guided by the monstrous pounding that pervaded every corner of their minds, the townspeople had taken every step to ensure the ritual was completed properly. The lines that formed the eye began to glow, emitting a white light that cast everything it fell upon in sickly shades of gray.

At that moment, great trumpets sounded from the sky which announced the approach of the king. He was almost here. A great pit of blackness formed beneath Anastasia, and a fog-like entity began to creep from out that blackness, rolling across Telos’s cobbled streets and desaturating everything it touched. The town had become sick, demented, cast into lifeless agony by a plague of dreams. Such was the nature of the king.

Anastasia screamed as the fog rose against her back, clawing up from the eternal darkness beneath her. She almost seemed to be cradled by it for a moment. Then, it enveloped her as swirling tendrils crawled their way up her limbs and over her torso. They entered through her nose, her mouth, her ears, creeping into every available orifice as it filled her with the vile essence of the king.

The townsfolk continued their monstrous chant, growing more frenzied and ecstatic as they felt his impending arrival. She would be his vessel. Her very soul would be destroyed, and Anastasia would host the king. No longer in pain, no longer fearing what came next, the townspeople began to dance in rhythm to the great drumming that pulsed within them. They no longer cared for escape. At that moment, with the king before them, they realized that there was only lunacy, only mad desire for a world gone gray. For the townspeople had learned to love the king and the horrors he brought.

Like burning coals, Anastasia’s eyes began to glow a crimson red as she was enveloped by an ever-changing blackness. The ritual was almost complete. The king had arrived, and from her mouth came his voice, a great and terrible twisted sound that tore at the tissue of her frail human tongue.

Perhaps it was divine providence. Perhaps it was only chance. But as Anastasia’s bonds were broken, and she began to rise as the raging force of the king burned within her, there was a sudden flash of light. A bolt of lightning arced down from the sky, striking Anastasia and spreading fiery veins along her flesh.

With a great, monstrous cry, the king was cast from her now lifeless body. The vessel had been broken before the ritual was complete. All had come undone. The fog retreated to the eternal darkness from whence it came, and the thunderous trumpets announcing his arrival ceased to blow. As the gray miasma which enveloped the town began to fade, there was only silence and the wretched scent of burning flesh.

The townsfolk no longer chanted, nor did they dance. They only stared in horror at what had occurred. Anastasia was dead, and the king had returned to his damnation. If they had the presence of mind, perhaps they could have realized that the world had been saved from his wrath. But they thought of no such thing. They could only hear the eternal thrumming of that wretched knock within their skulls and longed for release from its grasp.

Hollow and bleary-eyed, gripped by unending lethargy, the townsfolk dispersed. They returned to their homes and sat around their fires. There would be no more plowing of fields. No more festivals. No more meals. No more sleep. There was only the drumming, which beat on and on until every last person in Telos withered away in agony.