I slowly opened my eyes to find the wagon I was in reduced to a bent piece of junk metal. I crawled out, feeling dizzy. My head hurt terribly, and I had no idea where I was.

  Looking around, I saw that I was in a concrete room with a locker and two doors. The train had apparently crashed through the floor, its wreckage now buried in the foundations of the building.

  Without hesitation, I approached the locker. Inside, I found a few chocolate bars with caramel filling and two small bags of rainbow-colored, sugar-coated chewy candy, along with a bottle of cola-flavored soda.

  I devoured the sweets, bitter about the irony that this was exactly the type of junk my mom always prohibited, saying, "It's not real food." I had insisted it was in a petty, childish argument.

  I bit into the candy bar, but the sticky caramel almost made me choke. I spat it out, coughing. I cracked open the soda and took a few sips. The warm cola tasted awful, but it was the only thing to drink. I tried the candies, and soon both bags were empty, yet I was still hungry. My stomach churned, and I grasped it.

  I collapsed to the floor, sipping more nasty cola, hoping it would wash out the artificial sweets and make my stomach feel better. Predictably, it was like trying to put out a fire with gasoline, and I writhed on the floor for ten minutes until my stomach adjusted.

  It felt like much more time, though; I kept shifting positions, trying to find one that didn't hurt, but the pain persisted. I got to my feet and pocketed the two remaining candy bars, still hungry but unwilling to eat more.

  I noticed my pockets were almost full, so I reluctantly dropped the big battery, which I probably wouldn't use anyway, to make room for the candy. I finished the soda and tried the door on my left.

  Locked, of course. I tried the other, and luckily, it opened.

  I pondered what I would do if this uncanny chain of events led me to a dead end. I remembered that madly scribbled note suggesting we were mice in a demonic labyrinth.

  I decided not to probe further, fearing I might not like what I found.

  I pushed the door open and entered another room, full of boxes. For a moment, I was happy thinking of all the possible treasures I could find, but as soon as I peeked into one, I realized these were ordinary trash boxes filled with broken electronics and mechanical rubble.

  If I weren't in dire need of sustenance, I could've scavenged for copper or something, but what use could copper possibly have here?

  I looked up at the ceiling and noticed fluorescent light tubes shedding light onto the grey room. There was electricity, even if it didn't make much sense to have an electrical layout in a parallel reality.

  As I traversed different rooms, their similar appearance sparked ideas about using copper. I imagined a post-apocalyptic wired cudgel powered by batteries, wielding it against monsters, flashing voltaic arcs as they approached, and shooting lightning from the tip.

  Then I remembered that a 9V battery probably couldn't display such massive voltage, and even if it did, the most likely outcome would be me dying from the voltaic cudgel zapping me, too, after all the wires melted and the wood combusted.

  Before continuing to complain about fourteen-year-olds not being taken seriously, I noticed that despite walking for half an hour straight, I was in another room that looked the same as the first one. I stopped, confused, and instead of going forward, I took a door to the left. Another storage room. A turn to the right, another storage room.

  I checked the boxes; all burnt-out electronics.

  I started panicking again as I opened door after door, only to find myself in the same room. I grabbed a box of materials and tossed them all over the floor in frustration, only to find them in the same position moments later. Non-Euclidean mazes aren't half as fun as people make them out to be. I sat, hyperventilating.

  Breathe in, then out – just like when you were hiding. Am I a coward? No, no. Don't let those thoughts get to you, John!

  I press my fingertips against my temple. Think. I searched through every box thoroughly.

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  One toaster, one blender, one fruit weight, three big, greasy cogs, a bronze cross, a thousand nails (approx.), five railroad nails, a bag of plaster... this was leading nowhere. In mystery novels, the main character just places one thing next to the other, and the mystery practically solves itself.

  I stood up and watched the mess I had made, junk lying all over the room. I grasped my head, trying to understand what it all meant. Maybe I should open the toasters and alarm clocks? Is the answer inside one of these things, or perhaps inside the crates of other rooms? I wished it were like interactive fiction where important items simply glowed golden, or a spotlight of heavenly origins shone on the item, epic music growing louder in the background...

  But no. Just silence, light gray rooms full of crates and deathly silence...

  Bam!

  Suddenly, a piece of plastic went flying across the room. I widened my eyes and looked around, startled.

  Crunch, crunch, crunch...

  The gears crushed against the nails beneath them. My heart started beating faster as I realized what those sounds were: footsteps.

  Was the thing following me all along? What does it want?

  I stood absolutely still, watching the junk move around, sensing its position.

  It moved straight to the middle of the room, then stood still for a moment, started moving slowly in spirals, as if looking for something. I slowly walked backward, trying to elude whatever that thing was.

  Is it invisible? Or is there something else going on?

  I moved out of the room and noticed that my steps hadn't gone unnoticed; the thing was moving very slowly and carefully, but surely in my direction.

  I realized I hadn't littered any junk in this room and brutally emptied crate after crate onto the floor, making sure to cover all the ground before it got here. I was trapped in its labyrinth. When would I be able to sleep if that thing were so close?

  Since the rooms seemed to loop, I couldn't rely on outrunning it; simply running in one direction could lead me straight to it.

  What would happen if I touched it? Would my skin melt, and my flesh rot off my bones? Would I suddenly become unable to control my movements as I bled from every orifice, every pore?

  I realized that the junk worked both ways.

  The thing made noise by walking, but so did I. Was it attracted to noise?

  I walked backward, step by step, until I was with my back against a wall. It was going to catch me! The steps drew ever nearer, and a cold shiver passed through my spine.

  I pressed against them ever so hard, straining myself until my back hurt – and suddenly all pressure dissipated, as if I was in a tug of war and the enemy team abruptly released the rope. I fell on my back into a dark room painted grey-blue.

  Before further exploring the room, I fixed my gaze on the thing that was so close to me. It kept going to the very edge of the junk, barely a few feet away from me. I couldn't quite tell, because I was too concentrated, but as I saw that it didn't move anymore, I realized that there was something between us, like a thin veil of fog where the wall used to be.

  I realized then that I had just phased through a wall! I stood up nervously. On one hand, I was glad to have escaped whatever that thing was, but on the other, I found myself on the other side of the wall, in uncharted territory where there could be even greater dangers.

  I approached the fog veil and placed my hand against it. It wouldn't budge, no matter how hard I pushed – solid like any concrete wall would be.

  I'd read about people phasing out of reality or getting trapped in mirror worlds, only to be killed by monsters or die from dehydration. Those were fictional stories, but none involved someone already trapped in a mirror world before phasing into another. My head hurt thinking about what level of reality this would leave me. If I phased out that night when I argued with my parents and again now, wouldn't that put me back in reality?

  I looked around, occasionally glancing at the other side of the wall where the thing waited. The room struck me as nondescript – plain and desperately needing interior decoration. I turned on my flashlight and saw, with horror, that the layout resembled the previous place, minus lights and junk crates. A pervasive humidity filled the air, making me sneeze repeatedly. Black mold grew in every corner, spreading through walls in dark patches and thin veins.

  I vaguely recalled a horror story about mind-controlling fungus, referring to those tendrils as "hyphae." But deadly fungi weren't exactly what I wanted to think about.

  I advanced through the dull, leaden-blue room, only to find myself in another loop. I felt like screaming at the wicked architecture or evil deity controlling this place.

  I imagined fiendish creatures ruling this ever-changing hellscape, weaving nightmares from chaos. What if nightmares aren't reflections of our subconscious but something real? What if I'm stuck here because I slipped into a coma? Or worse, what if I'm dead?

  I tried to shut down my mind and laughed nervously. If monsters weren't trying to get me, my own thoughts would.

  I dropped onto the floor, avoiding the black moss. What's the point of searching for an exit? I'd likely stumble upon the invisible thing and get killed.

  Nightmares struck again.

  I dreamt my dad couldn't get out of bed due to illness. I tried to help, but he worsened. Then, I woke up – still in the nightmare – to find dad truly sick.

  I woke up again to hear him wheezing, as if suffering from a pulmonary affliction. Finally, I escaped the nightmare with a sizzling sound.

  I didn't know how long I'd slept; confusion and fear consumed me. Were my nested nightmares part of reality, or was this place driving me crazy? Was my dad okay?

  The sizzling grew louder, and light emerged from the ceiling. Acid dropped onto my hand, burning terribly. The acid storm destroyed concrete rapidly.

  I examined my hand; it barely had a red mark. I expected a bone-deep injury. Perhaps, like candle wax, it wasn't intense.

  Outside, deep green storm clouds moved at terrifying speeds, resembling a tornado. Toxic miasma seeped into the building.