Continuing through the journal of J.C. Rudolph, the man who would one day become the Storyteller. This is the 3rd of a sequence of dreams, and for the first time, we’re left with the possibility that Rudolph’s world of fantasy might not only be real, it might very well be alive.
July 25th, 1956
I now believe that these dreams–as I have been prone to call them–are not dreams at all. Or, at the least, they are images from another place, reaching out through my dreams. I have given reflection to their purpose for the past two days, following the third such dream over a four-day span. It’s an absurd thought and there is little chance I will ever mention it beyond these pages. Oh, what the Sister would say if I were to propose the idea that my dreams are connected to a world of fantasy. A world that had only ever existed on pages, in stories and drawings of my design. She would insist, I’m sure, that my mind has been poisoned by the presence of a demon. She would insist an exorcism to cure my delusion. I’ve seen it here before. The only evil I know that is…
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