The Echoed Realm Read online

  The Echoed Realm

  A. J. Vrana

  Copyright © 2021 by Alex Jocic. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review .

  ISBN:

  The Parliament House

  www.parliamenthousepress.com

  Cover Art by: Shayne Leighton

  Edited by Malorie Nilson, Emily Peters, Megan Hultberg

  Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, Characters, Places and Events are products of the author's imagination, and are used factitiously. These are not to be construed or associated otherwise. Any resemblance to actual locations, incidents, organizations, or people (living or deceased) is entirely coincidental.

  Praise for A. J. Vrana’s The Chaos Cycle Duology

  THE HOLLOW GODS

  Vrana's dark, folklore-infused debut, the first of a duology, introduces readers to the residents of Black Hollow, who hold their daughters close and their twisted secrets closer...Vrana crafts a unique local mythology and draws from existing lore to create a sense of creeping dread. Vrana is off to a strong start with this solid, suspenseful tale.

  – Publisher’s Weekly

  This dazzling debut pulls you in with its compelling characters and horrifying mystery and keeps you in its thrall until the final page. The writing sizzles with menace, and the dark mythology A. J. Vrana weaves from dreams and nightmares is unlike any I’ve ever encountered, in and out of books. A perfect story for contemporary fantasy readers who love their narratives razor-sharp and their secrets dark and deadly.

  – Katya de Becerra, author of OASIS and WHAT THE WOODS KEEP

  A. J. Vrana’s debut The Hollow Gods is an exciting contemporary horror-fantasy that shines when it declines to play frights, which are easy, and instead explores dread, collective and generational grief, trauma, and historical responsibility...The fragmented, surgically precise narrative builds from the utterly, painfully ordinary to the absurd and fantastic.

  – Three Crows Magazine

  Grounded in secrets, myth, fantasy, and alternate reality, Vrana's debut installment in The Chaos Cycle series is a fast-paced, deeply intriguing urban fantasy. Prepped with intriguing details, the narrative is both engrossing and vivid, the writing assured, and the pacing perfect. Exploring varied themes of grief, depression, trauma, and collective guilt, Vrana hooks the reader from the very start, leaving them anxious for the next installment.

  – The Prairies Book Review

  THE ECHOED REALM

  “Good vs. evil is cleverly turned on its head as Vrana pulls readers down the rabbit hole into her strange, folkloric world.”

  – Publisher’s Weekly

  The Echoed Realm cleverly expands Vrana’s wholly original Dreamwalker mythology beyond the town of Black Hollow, with blood-chilling consequences. Gods are more powerful, possibilities are endless, and threats are more sinister than ever. Miya and Kai are haunted by the past, literally, while the lines between dreams and reality, lore and fact, and obsession and possession are paper thin.

  – Katya de Becerra, author of OASIS and WHAT THE WOODS KEEP

  The Echoed Realm is the perfect sequel to Vrana’s stunning and original debut, The Hollow Gods. Brimming with sharp edges, dark nightmares, and menacing villains, this book will haunt you in all the best ways. Compulsively readable, with complicated characters and expansive world-building, this is an epic, macabre folktale for a new generation. Vrana’s lyrical writing is a mix of poetry, chaos, violence, and energy, blending to create a wild and wonderful potion, and I can’t wait to read more from this rich new voice in contemporary fantasy.

  – Kim Smejkal, author of INK IN THE BLOOD and CURSE OF THE DIVINE

  “The Echoed Realm pulls no punches and offers a masterfully crafted supernatural horror that’s not afraid to face the hard truths and imagine a different kind of world. The Echoed Realm leaves an aftertaste of a promise, of something bigger and better, deeper and even bolder than this. Look out for A. J. Vrana in NY Times bestselling lists in the next couple of years.

  – Three Crows Magazine

  “Everything about this book has a dark and spellbinding edge…an emerging threat in your peripheral vision, a creeping dread. Horror, supernatural, and fantasy push the threads of realism to its very edges.”

  – The Coy Caterpillar Reads Book Reviews

  This book deals with themes of domestic violence, however, there are no depictions of domestic violence on these pages.

  * * *

  If you are or have been experiencing domestic violence and would like more information or assistance, here are some resources that can help:

  National Domestic Violence Hotline (United States):

  https://www.thehotline.org/

  1-800 799-SAFE (7233)

  * * *

  Ending Violence Association of Canada:

  https://endingviolencecanada.org/getting-help-2/

  * * *

  Crisis Text Line:

  https://www.crisistextline.ca/

  For those who embrace the shadows between absolutes.

  The most painful truths are never grand. It’s the little things that kill.

  — THE SERVANT

  Contents

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Part II

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Part III

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Acknowledgments

  MIYA STILL NEEDS YOU

  About the Author

  The Parliament House

  I

  ECHOED WHISPERS

  1

  Miya

  The street was as empty as the eye of a storm. Save for the wind scattering autumn leaves over cracked asphalt, a lone young woman stood in the middle of the road. Her long, dark brown hair whipped around her face, and her muddy green eyes prickled from the sharp cold that howled at her to go home.

  Home, however, was a long way from here.

  She canted her head at the sound of a shrill cry echoing through the vacant night. A mass of black feathers and a sharp, curved beak entered her periphery. Talons dug into her shoulder, but the animal trilled contentedly.

  “Hey, Kafka.” Miya scratched the raven�
�s breast, enjoying his silky plumage.

  He squawked back, beating his wings as he clung to her.

  Miya trained her gaze on the house up ahead. Lily-white paint chipped from the rickety paneling, and the bumpy driveway, with its patchy interlocking and overgrown weeds, reminded her of a world she longed to forget. But Summersville, West Virginia was no Black Hollow. A faded, grey sign was splayed on the lawn, the text barely discernable: As seen on—

  Ghostventures.

  America loved its ghosts. Amateurs armed with EVPs and electromagnetic readers went barging into people’s homes, yelling taunts and expecting answers. Did they think proof of the supernatural would keep the demons at bay?

  Truth was never an antidote—only a drug too short in supply to meet the demand.

  Taking a deep breath, Miya clutched the pendant that hung around her neck—a copper raven with its talons contoured over the top of an iridescent stone. The dream stone—a piece of it, anyway.

  As she started up the porch steps, her companion flew away and perched on the blackened compass atop the roof. Kafka-the-boy—the one who’d gifted her the labradorite—had been absent from the dreamscape for three long years, but she suspected he was watching through Kafka-the-raven. He always stayed close.

  “It’ll be ok,” she whispered to herself. “You’ve dealt with much worse.”

  Refusing to use the ghastly colonial doorknocker—a brass lion’s head clutching an ornate hoop between its jaws—she rapped on the door three times before it swung open.

  The woman who answered looked like she’d stumbled back from the afterlife or was on her way there. The only sign of animation was the bare look of surprise on her face as she took in her visitor.

  “Are you the…”

  “I’m the witch,” Miya cut to the chase. She didn’t have the patience for dishonest terms like medium, psychic, or empath. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t a witch either, but it was the closest thing to her true nature that people understood. Outside of Black Hollow, no one knew who the Dreamwalker was.

  “R-Right,” the woman stammered. “I’m Dawn. We spoke earlier?”

  Miya strained a smile, and the corners of her lips felt like they were chapping. “I remember. I take it the Ghostventures crew didn’t help?”

  “No, they didn’t.” The door whined as she opened it further. “Please, come inside.”

  Dawn’s slouched shoulders obscured her otherwise robust figure. Miya wondered if she was having trouble eating; her clothes hung loose, and her cheeks sagged. Her light brown hair was parched, peppered with silver strands that almost looked gold against the dim orange light of the hall.

  “I’m sorry it’s so cold in here.” She wrung her knobby hands as she led Miya towards the kitchen. “The heat’s technically working, but it’s just…always so cold.”

  “Asshole spirits will do that,” Miya mumbled. She clutched her dark mauve leather jacket around her sides and lifted the hood over her head. It helped her stay focused when she knew she was surrounded by malevolence. Dawn took a seat at the table and rubbed her arms with a sigh.

  “It started a year ago, when my husband got his new job. We were struggling, and this house was such a steal. We figured it was because the town was small, too far from any major cities, but strange things began to happen almost right away.”

  Miya helped herself to the chair across from her client. “Weird noises? Bad dreams?”

  “The noises didn’t bother me.” Dawn fiddled with a wine bottle that’d been left on the table, then poured herself a glass. She’d obviously been finding ways to cope. “But the dreams…My husband, Greg, didn’t think they were a big deal. He thought I was being dramatic, or that I had a sleep disorder.”

  Miya snorted; the narrative was almost cliché. “It’s always the husband who won’t believe.”

  Dawn hesitated, then nodded slowly. “I suppose so.” She offered a tepid smile. “So, are you really a witch?”

  Miya curled her fingers under her palm. “Sort of. I don’t worship the devil or eat kids if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Dawn’s voice grew quieter. “Do you believe in the devil?”

  Miya caught her client’s gaze. “I believe in far worse.”

  Dawn bowed her head and clutched the cross around her neck. “Anyway, the dreams kept getting worse—more vivid. Most nights, it felt like I hadn’t slept at all. A few times, I woke up elsewhere, in the basement or the backyard. I did what Greg asked and went to see a doctor, but my test results came back normal. Nothing was wrong with me, so I figured it must be the house.”

  “Why not move?” Miya asked.

  “Greg refuses.” Dawn’s voice fractured, frustration bubbling to the surface like boiling water licking the lid of a pot. “It’s like he’s waging war against this thing, only he doesn’t even believe in the thing he’s fighting!”

  “And what do you think this thing is?”

  “I-I don’t know. Our church preaches that spirits aren’t real. There’s heaven and hell. Nothing in between.” Dawn covered her face with her hands, her shoulders trembling. “But I know it’s real, no matter what my faith says.”

  Miya’s heart clenched. She could feel this woman’s pain, and it sundered whatever distance she’d worked to keep. “I believe you,” she whispered. “Even if you moved, there’s no guarantee it wouldn’t follow.”

  Dawn’s breath drew in. “Is it a ghost?”

  Miya shook her head, scanning the room. Claw marks were etched into the wall, revealing the entity’s path. “Ghosts are human spirits. This one’s not, and it isn’t friendly, either. To tell you the truth,” she stood and reached into her back pocket, “I’ve been hunting this one for a while.”

  This was her life now—not out of choice but out of necessity. Miya never could have imagined just how many malicious spirits preyed on people in their dreams, and as the Dreamwalker, she was in a unique position to help them. She enjoyed it, but it wasn’t altruistic. The monsters haunted her too.

  A crack, jagged like lightning, splintered the drywall, oozing something black and tarry. A low, wet gargle reverberated through the kitchen.

  “It’s happening!” Dawn yelped, knocking over her chair as she jumped up.

  Miya’s hand steadied on her back pocket. She glared down the fissure in the wall—or rather, a fissure in the seam of reality.

  “Dawn,” Miya said evenly. “Get behind me and stay in cover.”

  The older woman scrambled to the other side of the kitchen and ducked behind a cabinet. Grateful Dawn didn’t peek, Miya pulled a single playing card from her jeans.

  It was the king of spades, copper stains marring him from a nightmare long ago.

  She threw it down, face-up, and unsheathed a hunting knife strapped to her belt. “I didn’t think we’d do this here,” she called to the spirit, and it answered with a ferocious roar that ruptured the drywall around the blackened rift.

  Miya winced as she dragged the blade across her palm. Clenching her fist, blood ribboned around her fingers and speckled the card on the floor.

  She grinned into the oncoming void. “Long live the king.”

  Wisps of black mist slithered upward and coalesced into the shape of a man.

  The house rumbled in dissent, and the border between Dawn’s world and the dreamscape pulled taught. Something sinister was lurking.

  Normally, Miya had to lie down and let her spirit descend into the dreamscape, but the demon spared her the effort and shunted her wholly across realms. The quaint kitchen, decorated in canary yellows and smelling of fresh casserole, stilled like a film on pause. The lemony hues melted to muddy browns. Tables and chairs fused into ghoulish shapes. A vase levitated from the crumbling windowsill, then hurtled towards her.

  The man made of smoke extended an arm, clipping the vase just enough to slow it down. Miya stepped aside, watching, unfazed, as it drifted past her nose and dissipated.

  The house was gone. Miya found herself in a sea of black fog
, the laminate counter and spring-coloured backsplash sinking like sand through an hourglass. The plywood chimera, fused from fragments of domestic life, roiled in the dark. Its misshapen wooden joints screeched painfully as it tottered away. The stench of sulfur wafted with the haze, and Miya clamped her jaw to keep from retching. The spirit’s true form glinted up ahead. With the dream stone glowing against her chest, the darkness parted around its lavender light. She could see a silhouette: an imposing figure with long, slender limbs and fingers that dangled like knives.

  “Are you the dream demon that calls itself Drekalo?” Miya stopped several feet from the grotesque creature, spindle-like with a head too large for its elongated neck. Its dappled skin was a chalky grey, scaly and splintered like a stone gargoyle.