Once the gentle numbing blanket of sleep overtook Matthew, a new world, a new story formed fuzzily in his mind. A mystical one of impossibilities, ones that swirled his mind into a downward spiral of content fun and enjoyment. He could feel the soft long grass under his bare feet, the tiny winged people fluttering around his shoulders and head, one deciding to rest on his nose for a moment until the male giggled and swatted her way. The breeze was cool and crisp but, mixed with the gentle warmth of the sun, mingled into a rather comfortable degree that he was completely hesitant to leave, even for his blankets. He wandered the open field he found himself in with his new little friends, the familiar ones he always remembered seeing, his eyes grazing across the barren and pristine area. Much unlike the smoggy city he lived in.

Though, after a few moments of this, his little flying friends gave squeaks and shrill cries of alarm, hiding against the Canadian's chest. He could feel his heart stumble a beat in confusion, gazing down at them for a moment before slowly turn to glance over his shoulder to see what had startled them. The sight indeed startled Matthew as well.

Darkness. Utter darkness. It was if the section of the world behind him had just fallen off into oblivion, the edges of what was left of the earth and grass smudging off as if put into a bad filter of an editing program. A nearby tree was sliced in half by the darkness. Deep into the expanse of nothingness, small lights flickered on and off, tiny and white like stars.

Matthew wasn't sure how long he'd stood there, be it seconds, minutes, or hours, as it certainly felt like the latter, each ticking moment emphasized by the fierce thumping of his heart under his chest, his breath catching and wheezing deep in his throat. Though, as soon as he decided to move, his limbs felt leaden and heavy, resisting his movements. One small step after another was taken towards the gaping hole, his little flying friends tugging on his shirt and hair and anything else they could get a hold of to try and get him back, crying at him not to approach it, but their pleads fell on entranced and deafened ears.

Slowly, Matthew's quivering hand rose to reach over the precipice of the remaining land and into the darkness, which felt strangely cold, as if he were reaching into a freezer. But nothing seemed to happen. Confused and honestly a little disappointed, the male moved to draw his hand back, when suddenly a tendril of the darkness snapped out and coiled around his arm with an unmatched speed of a snake, yanking on the limb harshly. It drew a shocked yelp from Matthew, who went to pull away, only to have the fleshy black attachment constrict his arm, quickly rendering it numb. Another yank and Matthew was on the ground, trying to crawl away, only for more of the whipping tendrils to rise from the blackened ground. They hooked around anything that got near—his arms, legs, waist, even the pull strings of his jacket. Fighting and struggling at this point was useless, he found, his breath coming in ragged frantic gasps, his heart pounding in his ears. But even so, he wriggled and writhed, hoping for any sort of escape or release. And then he heard it. A soft, low, almost soothing voice that whispered from nothingness into his ears, as if the very voice belonged in his head.

"We warned you, Matthew." It spoke. "We warned you."

With that, a blackened hand shot out from the darkness towards his face. The mere instant it reached him, his eyes opened and he found himself back in the peaceful and safe silence of his room. A cold sweat beaded across his brow, the blonde simply staring up at the ceiling. He knew about these sorts of things—Dreams often indicated a real-life issue. He supposed his dream had been nothing more than a simple nightmare, his subconscious worrying about the strange letter he'd gotten. Matthew sighed heavily and rubbed a hand at his face as he carefully sat up. His body ached and weighed heavily as if he'd been thrashing in his sleep, a short glance to his crumpled bed sheets confirming this. The boy got to his feet, a shiver running through him when he felt the chilled wood floor against his bare skin. He walked lightly to the kitchen. He needed a drink.

The only thing that made him pause was when he happened to glance down the hall, and the door was wide open, a drifting breeze causing the teen to shiver and wrap his arms around himself.

"The hell?" he murmured as he slowly walked over, once more feeling his heart flutter and race. Was someone in the house? This one suspicion made him quickly close the door again, turning to hurry off to the kitchen. Within moments he'd yanked open a drawer and had a knife in his hand, his violet eyes shimmering with anxiety as he started to go on a walk through the house. He didn't care that he was just in a pair of boxers and a white shirt, he wanted to make sure nothing unseemly was lurking about.

Nothing other than the door was out of place, all of the rooms completely normal. The last room he decided to check was his fathers, having decided that once there he'd stay there. The discovery of the door had severely unsettled him after all. But… The room was empty. Not even Francis was there, sleeping in bed like he usually would. His bed was in disarray, showing he had indeed been there at one point. Matthew gave a childish whine, holding the knife up in an aggressive way, whirling around quickly to look around the room. "Papa?" He called, eyes wide. Perhaps this was another nightmare—he hoped that was all it was. It wouldn't be the first time he'd woken up in a dream, to still be in the dream. Though as he backed away from the closed and nearby door, he jumped when his foot landed on something wet and chilly. He glanced down quickly, only to find an old rag under his foot.

He knelt to pick it up, inspect it, his brow furrowing. Cautiously he took a slight sniff at it, almost immediately jerking away and holding the rag to arm's length. It was chloroform, he'd smelled it before at his work. He shook away the slight dizzy feeling he had, both from the chemical and worry. Where was his father? The Canadian held the knife close to his chest as he stepped quickly to the side of the room, scooping up his father's cellphone from the desk. Turning it on, he immediately dialed up the first number he thought of. He sat on the bed, shuddering, as he waited, hoped, for the other to pick up. Ring after ring, his hope diminished, before he heard the familiar voice he'd anxiously waited for.

"Yo. Who's callin', it's so fucking early…" A tired voice murmured into the phone, obviously irritated for being woken.

"Alfred! It's Matthew. I really need to—Can you come over? No, wait- can I come to your place?" he asked rapidly, the other male groaning.

"Mattie, come on… I'm not in the mood for morning hockey. I still have bruises from falling on the ice last time—"

"It's super important, and it's not hockey. Something's wrong, Francis is gone." Matthew cut him off, whining softly.

"Matt, he probably just went to the store or somethin'…" Alfred slurred, his voice trailing off into a yawn.

"No, Alfred, the door was left wide open and there was a chloroform rag on the ground. I'm not making this up, I swear." he pleaded, "Whoever it was may still be here, I really need to come over."

"Really? Well… I'll go unlock the door then… Mmn, just come on in when you get here." Alfred replied, now sounding a little concerned. After that, he didn't bother waiting for a reply, simply hanging up.

Matthew gave a small sigh of relief, simply pulling on a pair of his father's pants and one of his jackets before heading out, knife still in hand. He tugged his bike from the side of the house, seeing as how Alfred's house wasn't that far away, and within a few breath-losing minutes he was up at the American's door.