When I come to, an onyx prison encapsulates me. The ceiling stretches and swirls into the heavens. The floor inclines, attempting to pull me towards the bars of my cell door. Putrid ammonia singes my nostrils.

A man sits on a slanted chair; his face covered by a black veil. A keyboard adorns his lap. Organ pipes puff dissonant chords, twisting my skin with each progression. The music halts when the man notices my wakefulness.

“You have done well, painter.”

I recognize his voice; it doesn’t resemble the one from my dream, but his vowels exist within the dream voice.

“You haven’t finished the task assigned to you. You left the Palace behind. Queen Cassilda can only maintain Yhtill for so long. The King himself must be present. The days of this world are numbered, Gammell.”

“Why me?”

“Why not you? Your creativity. Your imagination. Your dreams. You embody the Yellow Sign. Are you unaware?”

“What do you want?”

“Paint the palace. Bring the King into this realm so it may merge with ours. I’ll give you some time to rest, but prepare yourself. Tonight, all becomes Carcossa.”

The Organist makes a sign with his hand, freezing me. As he leaves my cell, he glances back as if to provide a final remark. Instead, he turns back and continues his haunting melodies.

These monsters destroyed the town I loved. I doubt many of my neighbors survived, if any. 

Without a way out, the Organist has forced my hand. If I don’t help, they’ll kill me. If I do help, I’m destined to death either way. Natural laws cower here. If I don’t help, a fate far worse than death awaits me.

I’ve dreamt about this apocalypse since I left my mother’s womb. The city consumes our world. Nature and urban become twisted, as if parodying itself. The King in Yellow rules over us all with the Yellow Sign. Decadence and madness. I’m destined to paint him into our world. Should I try to resist? Is resistance futile?

I won’t do it. An escape exists somewhere. I need to warn someone about the coming apocalypse. With an army, they can stop the coming of Carcossa and send Yhtill back to its twin suns and black stars.

A tune bounces down the corridor leading to my cell. Low bass overlaid with a saxophone riff. Snapping too?

I slide down the floor to my cell door. A figure steps in front of me. The music, stretching its muffled hums for an audience, sings clearer. My gaze travels up the figure’s dark trousers and climbs up its red tie, guiding me to its porcelain mask. The music surrounds the figure in an invisible aura.

Dark irises pity my grounded form. The masked face tilts, inquiring what to do with me. It pulls at the bars, and its eyes open to the eyelets’ edges.

“Are you freeing me?” I ask.

The person strokes their chin. They snap their fingers and flick the lock. Eyes alight, the form in the pallid mask pulls at the bars once more, this time revealing an exit for me.

“I can’t believe you’re letting me go. Thank you. Won’t there be repercussions?”

The figure tilts its head and points to a door. When I turn my head back, I glimpse the figure dancing around a corner, the music disappearing with them.