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Don't you love when you are many years late to an amazing piece of media? It seems like a longshot but just wondering if anyone else is reading The Waste Lands currently and wanted to discuss.

Found this in my local corner store lol Fruity flavoured Ka GET SOME so long it's not Ka-Ka ;)

Does anyone have a playlist of Dark Tower songs? I've been trying to compile one that includes all songs, not just those in the main Beam, but also the ones that come from connecting levels of the Tower. Also any fan reproductions of made up songs(e.g. The Rice Song) Thankee-sai for any help; long days and pleasant nights!

I read the full DT series perhaps 2 years ago and since then have read The Talisman, Black House and just finished The Stand. I have seen SO many people on here talking about how they've read the series multiple times, so while crippled by indecision as to which DT universe book to start next, I decided to start my second journey to the tower. I'm only a little ways in, specifically in Roland's telling of his experience in Tull to his host in the desert. I am already FLOORED at how packed these first pages have been with significance to the whole story - things I couldn't have known as a first time reader, of course, but I'm just still so blown away and excited!

I wish I could take notes, etc., but I listen during my commute which is not conducive to note-taking, lol!

The funny thing is that I never thought about re-reading the series the same way that I think of rewatching a very cerebral TV series (which I love doing) and I'm flabbergasted that this concept hadn't dawned on me!

Anyway, there's no real point to this post, other than to share my unexpected enthrallment on my second journey and to encourage others to do the same!

I’ll start: Josh Allen.

I just don’t understand why. Why did the industry do this? What a colossal misfire. There were so many ways to approach adapting The Dark Tower without completely derailing its essence. For instance, you could’ve started with Wizard and Glass as the foundation—it’s rich with backstory and emotional depth, and it sets up Roland’s character in a way that would hook a general audience right away. Imagine the first season exploring Gilead’s fall and Roland’s tragic past, with flashbacks woven throughout the series to keep the tension alive.

I prefer this: The first episode of Season 1 could open with Roland abandoning Jake to the depths of the mountains-a gut-punch moment that immediately raises questions and draws viewers in. Then, dive into the tarot reading/visions: visually stunning, mysterious, and full of intrigue. From there, jump straight into the lobstrocities and The Drawing of the Three. Eddie is the key to selling the audience on this world—his dynamic with Roland is electric, and it’s the perfect entry point for newcomers. You don’t need to spend a whole season building up Jake’s story when he doesn’t fully come into play until The Waste Lands. Why waste time on exposition that’s just going to sit on the back burner?

And let’s be honest: as much as we love The Gunslinger, its strength lies in rereads. That iconic opening line is legendary, but starting a TV series with the first book en Toto. It’s a risk. I would just start with Tarot and then Drawing as Season 1. I think you do the gunslinger in 1 episode opening up season 2 and the Jake story Wastelands. Wizard and glass will be season 3. Wolves and Song of Susanna Season 4. Dark Tower Season 5 for a total of 50 episodes.

Story time, Sai;

A friend and I started a Dark Tower movie podcast in anticipation for the filming of 2017's... "movie".

We were super excited about it and lined up fun guests, secured interviews at comiccon (I work in Hollywood), recorded and released a first episode and everything was looking 19!

Then an actor friend of mine randomly told me that he was auditioning for a role in the movie and had a script that I could read. Of course I leapt at the chance!

I got half a page in before I realized we were doomed :)

My podcast co-host read the script and we made an executive decision to cancel the podcast after week one :)

It would have been impossible to report on the making of this thing knowing what direction it was gonna go in.

That being said, I was left with a moral conundrum at the time; do I warn this sub that the movie was gonna be a complete piece of shit or did I let everyone be excited for another year?

I went with the former and just bit my tongue because dashing everyone's hopes, even if I knew they were faulty just seemed like a really cruel thing to do

randomly thought about that abomination of a movie today and it got me thinking; I wonder if I did the right thing?

Should I have whistle blown? It wouldn't have changed the outcome obviously but maybe people would've lowered their expectations and felt a little less hurt by the finished product?

This is not very important, but I'm a little stoned and just curious :)

Hey fam, I could use a favor. I read the first couple DT books like ten years ago. Getting through the gunslinger was HARD for me, it literally took me picking it up and getting half way through it 3 times before I finally was able to finish it. I didn't like it at all, its boring as hell, but I remember LOVING the next two books and I really want to get back in and finish the series but I WILL NOT put myself through the gunslinger again.

I'm afraid to read the wikipedia page for it in case it spoils things for later in the series, can anyone give me a quick rundown of what was actually important for the rest of the series from book 1, OR can someone vet the wikipedia page for me to let me know if It is spoiler ridden. I've made it all these years without having things spoiled for me from the later books, I really don't want to fuck it up now.

I finished my first journey and had to watch this movie lol. What a sight

Somewhere in Book 7 the Ka-Tet begins to experience Ka-Shum. The feeling that the Ka-Tet will break soon. If I remember correctly, that is the first time they feel it. But at that point the Ka-Tet was already robbed of one member. Pere Callahan was said to be a member of the Ka-Tet. Before he died in the Dixie Pig nobody felt anything coming and the Ka-Tet was still intact. Did I miss something?

In the sixth book, song of Susana, eddie drive and thinks about how much he misses it. What are the chances he ever owned a car or even drove? How many poor people in that time period had cars in New York?

I’m just finishing wizard and glass and have a question. If Roland is age 14 when he learns about and becomes obsessed with the dark tower, and a google search tells me that he is over 330 years old does that mean he has been unsuccessfully looking for the tower for over 300 years? He doesn’t really know what the tower is, what it does, or what he needs to do when he finds it. I think most people would give up after 200 years.

Should i do Insomnia, Salem’s Lot, or the Running Man first?? Excited for both

So far I've read:

All DT books The Talisman Black House The Stand (just finished that one yesterday)

I'm thinking Salem's Lot or Eye of the Dragon. Want to stay in the DT universe.

Would love input!

Thanks to u/CyberGhostface for giving me a list of recommended books to read before completing the series like a year ago. That last book hits like a truck, I don't even know where to start with my thoughts on it lol. I think Roland got a horrible (the worst?) ending being forced to chase the dark tower forever, also i don't understand the meaning behind him having cuthberts horn with him the second time around.

I hate to say it but I think Oys death was the saddest of the bunch, I can't pinpoint exactly why but I think it's the complete depression he seemed to go into when Jake died, like the idea of him wanting to lay on jake's grave until he died is heartbreaking but he got up and moved on and accepted his given duties and then choosing to stay with "Olan" at the end knowing it would probably kill him.

Idk how I feel about Susannah's exit, I am glad she and the other Jake and Eddies got a happy ending but it just felt very false to me which is a weird thing to say about a fictional book but i don't know how else to put it.

Im gonna cut it off here cuz i feel like I could just keep rambling about all the different bits and pieces of the story lol, i will end with saying that my favorite book was Wizards and Glass, Susan's death was definitely the saddest part in all these books imo

Not that a TV or movie series is even remotely possible, it's more so who I picture in my head as I continue through the series (currently at the beginning of Wizard and Glass). Anyone agree? Or vehemently disagree? Let's palaver!

Roland

Actor: Josh Holloway

Eddie

Actor: Taron Egerton

Susannah

Actress: Jennifer Hudson

Ik 19 is how old Stephen King was when he started writing it, but what if the number is the how many times Roland’s gone thru the tower, and the next spin with the horn the numbers will all be 20

Came across this in an article on msn, worlds are thin on overnight shifts

This is my first dive into King. What other books should I read and when? I’ve heard that Pennywise makes an appearance, but when should I read IT?

The first book was rough, the second book was amazing. Should I re-read as I go? I’m not a gunslinger and I can’t recognize what is important in works 30 years apart, do I just plow though and then re-read?

I’m already pissed off at Roland for seeing lives as steeping stones. This isn’t a question, please don’t answer any inferred questions.

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/talking-scared/id1530064310?i=1000686348660

One of Stephen King‘s favorite podcasts just started the series today.

Part 1

WHISPERS OF DARKNESS
(Negativum & Privatium)

The younger brother watched from the edge of the barn as his elder sibling knelt in the field, murmuring to himself. Fear coiled tightly around his chest.

For a moment, he considered retreating back into the barn to hide among the sheep. But something stopped him. Summoning what little courage he had left, he approached the hill slowly, hesitantly.
“Brother?” he whispered.

The elder spun around, his movements unnaturally quick. The look on his face froze the younger brother in place. His eyes were dark voids, his expression contorted into something inhuman.

Then the elder grinned—a wide, threatening grin that carried no warmth.

A memory flickered through the elder’s mind. A night when they’d both gazed at the stars, his younger brother pointing at the brightest one and saying:
“That star is watching over us. Together, nothing bad will happen.”

The elder had nodded, smiling back. “Yes. Together, nothing bad will happen.”

But now, the sky was black, devoid of stars. The elder knew what had replaced them.

Pain coursed through him, and he grabbed his head, squeezing his eyes shut. The darkness slithered into the cracks of his memories, corrupting even the solace they once brought.
“It’s me who watches over you,” the voice hissed. “I am everything. I have become all. The stars didn’t save you—I did. And I saved you from me.”

Morning never came.

The elder brother’s remaining fragments of sanity only surfaced when the darkness turned its attention elsewhere, perhaps distracted by some distant endeavor. But even in those moments, the man he had once been was beyond recognition.

A dreamlike life had dissolved into an unending nightmare. His fleeting awareness of this only deepened his despair. He thought of their parents. He couldn’t remember their faces—only their absence. His younger brother couldn’t even recall that much.

“Maybe it’s time to go,” he murmured.

But his whispered resignation sounded an alarm within the void.

The darkness returned.

THE CHOKING BREATH OF DECAY
(Chartarum)

Behind a tightly shut door, the younger brother endured yet another night, fighting against the endless darkness for the promise of dawn. Meanwhile, his older sibling staggered in his room, drowning in waves of a fragmented mind. Brief flashes of clarity would emerge, only to be swept away by even larger torrents of madness. His body perspired as if he were laboring under the sunlit fields of the past, and his skin reddened as though scorched by a blazing sun.

The only solace he found was the cold metal of the knife, which he gripped as though it were an extension of himself. His fingers clenched it so tightly that his knuckles seemed locked, unable to open. Pain or fatigue did not touch him. His mind spun in a ceaseless loop, consumed by a single thought: salvation.

In the corridor, footsteps echoed once more, accompanied by low mutterings and the sound of something dragging against the wall. The younger brother, seated stiffly on his bed, straightened, moving cautiously as though trying not to betray his presence. On trembling fingers, he crept to the door and pressed his ear against it.

He was there. Just outside. He could hear the heavy, uneven breathing.

Suddenly, the door groaned loudly, the sound tearing through the suffocating silence.

A sharp bang followed.

The elder brother had struck the door.

A second blow landed with unnatural force, and the hinges squealed in protest.

Another strike.

This time, the door groaned violently, its strained hinges screaming as the wood splintered. The younger brother pressed all his weight against the door, but it was futile.

One final blow sent him sprawling to the floor, the door hanging crookedly from its last hinge.

He turned over, his heart pounding in his chest as he looked up at the figure now towering over him.
"Brother…" he whispered, his voice quivering like a thin thread ready to snap.

The word fell into a void.

The figure before him did not respond. Whatever shreds of humanity had once lingered were now entirely gone. Those eyes, once full of warmth and life, were now pools of endless black.

There was nothing left to stop him.

Gone were the memories of nights spent under the same starlit sky, hands intertwined in shared dreams. The laughter, the shared meals, the promises whispered between brothers—each of these moments had dissolved into oblivion. The figure looming over him was no longer a brother, but an empty vessel, a marionette to a darkness that had severed their bond.

Even the younger brother’s desperate cries, pleading for mercy or understanding, were swallowed by the void.

Yet, in that moment, the darkness withdrew. It left the elder brother standing alone, free from its influence, and whispered one final sentence into the air:
“The choice is yours.”

The fear on the younger brother’s face served as a trigger.

That fear—it was what the darkness had craved all along.

The elder brother took a step forward, and the younger scrambled back, falling against the bed in his frantic retreat. His older sibling raised the knife. Tears filled his eyes but did not soften his resolve.

"You’re… you’re a good boy," the elder brother whispered, his voice trembling.
"I… I have to save you. I have to save us. For the one truth.”

The decision that would echo through the ages came in that room, in that moment.

The younger brother’s scream shattered the silence, piercing the suffocating air of the room.

It lasted only until the knife plunged into his throat.

Then there was silence.

The younger brother’s body convulsed, his limbs flailing as if struggling to hold onto the last breath of life. His movements slowed, his chest heaved one last time, and then—stillness.

The light faded from his eyes, leaving behind only emptiness.

The elder brother leaned down, placing a trembling kiss on his brother’s forehead. Then he rested his head against the lifeless chest and began to sob uncontrollably.

But the metallic tang of his brother’s blood mingling with the air finally stopped his tears.

The darkness swelled. It had succeeded once again, its appetite satisfied by the perfect offering.

The killer carried his brother’s lifeless body to the hilltop.

Each step felt heavier, yet he pressed on. The wind whispered to him, carrying fragments of the same whispers that had haunted him for so long. But now, those voices no longer frightened him. They were a part of him.

When he reached the summit, he gently placed his brother’s body on the ground. The sky had shifted. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the moon shone brightly, casting its silvery light over the desolate island.

Dropping to his knees, the elder brother raised his bloodied hands toward the heavens.
"I brought you my most precious," he said, his voice hollow.

A profound silence followed.

The whispers were gone. The air felt clean, the waves lapped gently against the shore, and for the first time, the killer was truly alone.

This solitude, however, was not freedom—it was a chain. Each link in that chain was forged from his brother’s blood, binding him to the weight of his choice.

Then the void shifted.

No longer did shadows or darkness dance before his blackened eyes. Instead, visions swirled and collided, disjointed and chaotic.

He looked at his hands. Once, they had been a farmer’s hands—hands that nurtured life, that tilled the soil, that grew sustenance from the earth. But now…

They were stained. His brother’s blood, dried and darkened, had filled every crack and crevice in his skin. He made no effort to clean them. That blood would remain as a mark, a permanent testament to his actions.

The void stirred again.

The darkness had kept its promise.

The killer’s body, soul, and identity were torn apart, scattered across places he could never comprehend.

The veil over his eyes lifted.

He saw the truth.

He saw the promised revelations, the hidden knowledge, the essence of all creation. He saw worlds yet to be, realms of timeless antiquity, forbidden names and unspeakable stories. Journeys never begun, secrets never meant to be told. The shadow and the truths behind it…

All of it, everything, crashed down upon him. It filled him, consumed him, suffocated him.

The killer—now a broken man—choked out one final word:
"No."

He tried to stand, but his legs buckled, and he fell.

This knowledge was a poison, a venom that rose within him, threatening to erupt and destroy him. Black ichor spilled from his lips, his body straining under the pressure of carrying truths not meant for mortal minds.

BEYOND MADNESS
(Insania)

The killer clawed his way back to the house, half-crawling, half-dragging himself. He began to write, desperate to transcribe what had been poured into his mind.

First, he tried parchment.

But every word he wrote vanished instantly, dissolving into black liquid and evaporating.

He persisted, scratching symbols onto wood, carving them into the walls, and even inscribing them into his own flesh. But nothing remained—only the blood dripping from his fingers onto the floor.

He knew what he had to do.

Retrieving his brother’s body, he donned the robes his brother had once worn. Perhaps it was shame, or perhaps it was the last remnants of his humanity clinging to him, but he covered himself completely.

At the hilltop, now a shrine of darkness, he knelt beside his brother’s corpse.

With trembling hands, he drew his knife and carved a single symbol into his brother’s cold skin. He closed his eyes briefly, as if bracing for what he might see.

When he opened them, the symbol had not disappeared. It remained, burned into the flesh like a brand.

Tears streamed down his face one last time.

Then he began his work.

Piece by piece, he flayed the skin from his brother’s body.

Where others might find horror, he found purpose. As each strip of flesh was removed, he felt the venom inside him draining.

The skin was stretched, treated, and fashioned into parchment. Each piece bore the weight of the killer’s unspeakable task.

Back in the house, he laid the flesh-bound pages across the dining table—the same table where they had once shared meals, laughter, and dreams.

He began to write.

The words flowed from his poisoned mind like bile, etching themselves into the pages with a permanence that defied nature. Every letter, every symbol, carried the weight of forbidden truths.

When the final page was complete, he bound the manuscript in his brother’s face.

The result was a book unlike any other: written in his brother’s blood, bound in his brother’s flesh.

Cradling the book under his arm, he left the island.

There was nothing left for him there.

THE DECAYED BREATH OF THE OFFERING
(Chartarum)

The moment he left the island, the world no longer appeared the same. The eyes he now gazed through were no longer his own; they belonged to the darkness. Mountains rose like thorned crowns toward the heavens, valleys yawned open like the gaping mouths of predatory beasts. The branches of trees bent downward instead of upward, contorted into grotesque shapes resembling human hands.

When the sea carried him from the island’s western shore to the mainland, it greeted him with a world populated by creatures he had never seen before. Great red-clawed crustaceans scuttled back into the ocean, sensing the malevolence radiating from the hooded figure who now served a far darker purpose. Birds altered their songs and scattered, rabbits burrowed deep into the earth, a turtle retreated into its shell, and an eagle, mid-flight, ceased to soar.

Even the guardians of the celestial wheel faltered in the face of this encroaching horror.

With each step, he realized more and more: it was not merely he who had changed. The world itself was rotting, unraveling in his presence. The corruption that spread from his touch was undeniable—he had set it in motion with his own hands.

He walked without ceasing. Days? Weeks? He could no longer tell. Nor could anyone who might still have been alive. The only thing he knew was that the book in his possession was guiding him.

Each night, he would take the book from his satchel, running his fingers over the ghastly face that adorned its cover—what remained of his brother. He traced the grooves of the eyes, the contours of the lips, finding the faintest echoes of his brother’s voice in the silent whispers of his mind.
“Keep moving. Further. Deeper. Toward the clearing at the end of the path.”

The roads he traveled had once belonged to humankind, but the land had turned hostile. What was once neutral now treated the uninvited as enemies.

With every step, the ground beneath his feet groaned and cracked. It was as if the earth itself resented his presence and sought to pull him into its depths.

The universe spun onward. The nights concealed him, and the days illuminated the marks of decay he left behind. He neither slept nor tired. The power he carried slowly stripped him of such mortal needs. The memories of his brother’s voice, the laughter, the moments of innocence—they haunted him. But they were joined by the laughter of the darkness, a mocking chorus that accompanied his every step.

It was all leading to this.

He reached a place where two landscapes split as if divided by a flawless line. Or perhaps he had always been at the threshold. Before him stretched a desert unlike any other. Its sands were black as pitch, and the dust carried by the wind hovered unnaturally in the air, making it impossible to breathe.

He knew there was something at the end of this desert. He could feel it. The book, his companion, knew it too.

The sands parted before him with each step, as though granting him passage. He advanced like a hero walking toward the eye of a perfect storm. As he entered the desert, the memories he carried were left behind, shedding from him like old skin. Each step he took brought clarity to his thoughts, preparing him for a reality that lay just ahead.

When the desert released him, he found himself standing before an expanse of endless swamp. Its surface churned with blood-red mud and searing black silt. Here and there, clusters of twisted vegetation with thorny leaves dotted the morass.

In the distance, his eyes fixed upon a shape in the heart of the crimson mire.
His brother—the book—seemed to pulse with anticipation. The parchment beneath its flesh cover swelled as if veins were filling with blood, and the grotesque face on its cover seemed to convulse. The book was pulling him forward.

As he moved through the swamp, the thorns tangled in his robe and pricked his skin. But he felt no pain. Each thorn that pierced him drew tiny droplets of blood, adding to the stains already saturating the fabric. The crimson patches of his brother’s blood were soon joined by his own.

With every step, the air thickened, the stench grew more suffocating. The metallic tang filled his throat as if his brother’s blood were once again coursing through his senses.

Finally, he reached the shadowed shape at the heart of the swamp.

It was no ordinary form. As he drew closer, he realized it was a tower—a Black Tower rising impossibly high into the heavens. Its foundation merged seamlessly with the blood and ash of the swamp, standing as a singular monolith at the center of existence itself.

The closer he approached, the larger it grew. By the time he stood before its entrance, the tower seemed to dwarf the very sky above.

The doorway loomed before him, sealed yet alive with an invisible energy. All sound fell away as he arrived. His mind, once filled with noise, fell silent.

And then the door opened.

Beyond the threshold lay a vast darkness—not a mere absence of light, but a void that swallowed everything. It was a suffocating emptiness, an annihilation of existence itself.

As he stepped inside, he felt his will being drawn toward the light that first pulled him in, only for it to fling him into the arms of the abyss.

Inside the Black Tower, all became black.

The void poured through his eyes, invading his mind and consuming every fiber of his being. It filled him completely, leaving no part of him untouched.

And then, it spoke.

A voice, deep and resonant, shattered his thoughts into a thousand pieces. The echoes rippled through him like waves crashing against a fragile shore:
“Say your name.”

But he could not.

The darkness had taken his name, his identity, everything that made him human.

What remained was a gift.

The veil of fate was torn. He was no longer a man.

He was the seal of a destiny that would resonate through all time.
He was the steward of the chaos that existed only to destroy.
He was the face of primordial disorder, the chosen herald of blackness.

The door closed behind him.

His name, forgotten by the world, was spoken only once more—by himself:
“Ram Abbalah.”

Thus, he embraced the chaos behind all truths.

The END ?

WHISPERS OF DARKNESS
(Negativum & Privatium)

Somewhere, flowers bloom; elsewhere, they wither. Maternity wards are filled with the cries of newborns, while morgues echo with the wails of the grieving.

Some stories begin well but end in ruin, while others emerge from despair only to find salvation. Every moment lived ripples an opposite truth through another reality. The content may change, but the purpose does not.

If there is an invitation to light, will darkness not claim its share?
Every living being must choose its side.

Balance must be maintained, the door must remain ajar. If one side seeks to throw it wide open, the other must seal it and destroy the key.

Ages pass; generations fade. A serpent draws a circle to reach its tail.

The door does not close; it does not open. It remains cracked, forever.

Duality serves opposition.

BROTHERS
(Fratres)

The wind of the island sang the same song every morning, a melody that only two people ever listened to: the elder brother and the younger brother.

It was as if the island's soil belonged to their footsteps, and the sky to their gazes. The ocean encircled the island in an endless loop, separating the brothers from the rest of the world, transforming their home into a paradise.

In a life where the past was forgotten, and the present was savored to its fullest, the elder brother would rise with the sun and begin tending to his garden. His bond with the soil brought him immense satisfaction. The dampness under his hands, the earthy aroma after rain, and the texture of fresh green leaves reminded him of the simplicity and beauty of life.

The earth gave generously, and he offered his gratitude in return. Every seed planted was a promise, every growing plant a miracle. He cherished the deep purple hue of the eggplants and could spend hours marveling at the way sunlight illuminated the tomatoes hanging from their vines. These moments of quiet joy were his solace, his reason for being.

The younger brother was different in his pursuits. His heart found fulfillment in the company of animals. Rising earlier than the elder brother, his groggy eyes would light up at the sound of bleating sheep. He believed each of his animals had its own personality.

Among them, a sheep named "Topak" held a special place in his heart. Perhaps it was Topak’s age, or the wisdom that seemed to glimmer in its eyes. While other sheep grazed, Topak would often perch atop a rock, watching over the flock as if a guardian. The younger brother would sit beside the old companion and share his troubles, certain that, though Topak couldn't speak, the sheep understood everything in its silent gaze.

Though the brothers spent their days pursuing separate tasks, they were inseparable in spirit. At the island's center, a hill rose—a meeting point for the two. The elder brother would bring freshly harvested fruits from his fields, while the younger would bring soft cushions made from the wool of his flock. They would sit on the hill, listening to the wind and recounting the events of their day. The elder would excitedly talk about the soil's bounty, while the younger shared tales of a lamb’s first steps or the surprise of an easy birth.

The island's home felt alive, as if it were their mutual friend. The sky always provided something to admire—its blue expanse mesmerizing during the day, its stars so close at night they seemed within reach. The elder brother believed the stars were celestial beings watching over their lives, while the younger swore they were merely glowing fireflies. This playful debate stretched over years, never truly resolved.

The sea was their eternal companion, its waves lapping at the shore like a lullaby, sending them to sleep at night. The younger brother often walked along the coast, collecting seashells to show the elder. Together, they would admire the shells on the hill, the younger asking his brother to choose the most beautiful. The elder always gave the same answer: “They’re all beautiful.” He couldn’t bear to dim the joy on his brother’s face with a different response.

Their life on the island was built upon this simple, unshakeable tranquility. The soil, the sky, and the sea were their friends. The animals were like family. Most importantly, their bond was so strong it seemed no shadow in the world could sever it.

Yet some balances are fragile, and a single fracture can unravel them forever. The descent of this paradise into an unseen abyss began with a starless night, a dark shroud cast over the island like a forewarning of doom.

The wind, once gentle and melodic, carried a colder, unfamiliar tune. The waves grew harsher, pounding against the island's shores as if in warning.

That night, the elder brother finished watering his garden and looked up at the sky, only to be met with an ominous darkness. The faint moonlight was powerless against the oppressive black. Something was different. A weight settled in his chest, as if the remaining shadows had gathered and were now staring back at him.

And then it spoke.

At the same time, the younger brother lay among his sheep, gazing at the sky. The stars had extinguished their light, covering him with a blanket of pure black. Just as he closed his eyes, a sound slipped into his dream—neither a word nor a clear form, but a whisper that seeped into his ears:
“Come closer… Listen… You will understand…”

He woke with a start, his sheep shifting uneasily around him. He scanned the darkness but saw nothing.

As the nights passed, the whispers grew more frequent.

The elder brother began noticing changes in his soil. The land, once unyielding to his efforts, seemed to brim with vitality. Each strike of his hoe yielded richer, thicker stalks of wheat, as if the darkness had seeped into the ground and blessed it with a miracle. But the abundance came with unease; he couldn’t shake the feeling that this bounty carried a cost.

The whispers permeated the island, their influence touching every corner, every grain of sand. Darkness did not simply coexist—it reversed entropy, bringing unnatural abundance wherever it spread.

Meanwhile, the younger brother found his sheep healthier and stronger. Their eyes shone with new brilliance, and their wool gleamed as if lit from within. Births became easier, lambs grew plumper, and milk turned richer and creamier. On this seemingly endless summer island, he found his greatest joy in drinking chilled milk from his stream-cooled buckets.

But the nights brought disquiet. The sheep grew restless, some bleating into the empty shadows of the barn.

Both brothers kept their silent communion with the whispers to themselves.

The elder believed the voices came from the soil, revealing the secrets of abundance. The younger thought the wisdom emanated from his sheep’s knowing eyes. Yet, deep down, both suspected the whispers belonged to something beyond what they could comprehend.

With each passing night, the whispers began to take form. The elder saw shadows slithering at the edges of his fields, while the younger glimpsed a presence weaving through the barn, vanishing among the sheep.

One fateful night, the elder brother summoned his courage and addressed the shadow.

“Who are you…?”

He whispered into the void, his voice too faint to carry the conviction he sought.

He waited...
He waited...
Until an icy sensation crawled from the base of his spine to the nape of his neck, as if darkness itself were walking along his skin. Words echoed in his mind, tearing down the limits of his perception and bending the walls of the reality he thought he knew.

“Do not name me. Names chain me. I am not the one who receives names; I am the one who gives them. Take care of what I have given you. That is my answer to you. If you want more, you must listen to me.”

By now, the darkness had merged with the blood being pumped through his heart, flowing through his thickest veins and smallest capillaries, filling his life force with black tar. He could feel it throbbing in his temples, pounding in his aching head. By the time he reached his bed and drifted into sleep, he wouldn’t even remember how or when he got there.

That same night, the younger brother sought refuge in the sheep pen. As he tried to calm his restless flock, the darkness seemed to stir on the hay, as though alive. Then, a silent voice planted itself like a seed in the depths of his mind.

“Follow me. I will show you my secrets.”

For an entire week, both brothers continued to converse with the darkness. The whispers promised them ever more abundance.

The elder brother began to realize how the shadows were teaching him to cultivate his land with unprecedented precision. The darkness placed knowledge in his mind as if it were a memory—when to till the soil according to the lunar cycle, how to plant seeds with unerring accuracy. He found himself effortlessly employing methods he had never tried before, as though he had mastered them long ago. Darkness had become the source of his prosperity.

Meanwhile, the younger brother learned how to spin stronger threads from wool and how to craft cheese from milk with a skill that seemed to come from nowhere. The newfound abundance thrilled him. Yet, he couldn’t ignore the unease that had crept into the barn. His sheep had grown stronger and healthier, but at night, they stared into the void and bleated as if warning of something unseen.

Their secrecy, however, became a heavy burden. To be alone with the darkness, they had unconsciously begun reducing the time they spent together. For the first time, their bond, which had seemed unbreakable, was stretched thin. Where something grows, something else is often lost.

One night, when the elder brother returned from the fields, the younger brother noticed the uncertainty etched into his face. The silence became too much, and he broke it, his words imbued with the faith that still lingered in his heart:

“You’re hiding something from me.”

He hadn’t meant to say it like that. The words spilled from his lips, uncontrolled, like fragments of his unraveling thoughts.

The elder brother didn’t answer. Nor did he turn to face him. He took deep breaths, the kind that sounded like a man trying to exhale a burden. Finally, as though acknowledging the cracks forming in their shared reality, he said:

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

He spoke of the whispers, the darkness, and the fertility of the soil. With each sentence, the younger brother’s eyes grew wider. Unable to bear the guilt welling inside him, the elder eventually looked away.

“I’ve heard the same things,” the younger brother admitted.

He explained how his animals had become restless, how he had initially thought their eyes, filled with some semblance of wisdom, had finally found their voice. But it wasn’t the sheep. Words had cloaked themselves in shadows, slipping among the animals, stirring the hay with fleeting movements. Every time he entered the barn, the unease clawed at him. The whispers promised more and more, always dangling the lure of greater knowledge.

As the elder listened, he realized that the darkness had touched them both. Though the whispers and shadows had visited them separately, their paths converged. That night, they fell asleep reflecting on what the darkness had said to them—and what they had said to each other.

The elder brother tossed and turned in his bed. “Is this a gift or a trap?” he wondered.

The earth had always been generous, but its gifts required effort. A farmer gave water and care, time and toil, only to reap what grew. He uprooted what the soil yielded, knowing that balance demanded renewal. The younger brother knew this, too—he raised and nurtured his sheep, only to one day consume them, ensuring the cycle of life continued without depletion.

Yet this newfound abundance was unlike anything they had experienced. It felt unnatural, like the balance was tipping too far. Prosperity was growing, but so was the unspoken tension between them.

Because darkness always gives to take. And from that night onward, both brothers would begin to feel the weight of what they owed.

The peace of the island, once so simple and serene, had already been mortgaged to the shadows.

As they listened more intently to the whispers, they began to understand the price being demanded. The ocean nourished the soil with its waves. The soil yielded crops in exchange for labor. The sky brought life-giving rain but followed it with storms to balance the scales. Nature operated in cycles, each one demanding payment.

The darkness, too, followed a cycle.

Each night, the whispers grew clearer, sinking deeper into their minds. But what the darkness offered came with the weight of something borrowed—something that was not theirs to keep.

One night, the elder brother sat at the edge of his field, playing with a worm he had plucked from the soil. The whispers returned, no longer confined to his mind but vibrating in the air around him.

“Everything has its price,” the darkness said. “Everything is opposition. You have expected to hear this. But you’ve grown too accustomed to material abundance. If you want spiritual abundance—to master the ultimate truths—you must transcend this. Choose just one thing. Not everything, just the most valuable thing. Pass the test, and you will transcend the physical. Growth requires sacrifice.”

The elder brother sensed a strange logic in the whispers. His labor and the darkness had combined to create something far greater than the sum of their parts. Yet, even nature demanded a price—crops withered without rain, and frost claimed those unready for the cold.

The elder brother found both illumination and dread in the darkness’ words.

The younger brother awoke that same night, shaken by a similar message. But where the elder had heard reason, the younger found fear.

“Abundance does not belong to you,” whispered the darkness.

“Your sheep, your hands, your efforts—they are not enough on their own. The first animal was not yours. You took what was given to you. I touched them, and I granted you a fraction of my knowledge. For more, I demand loyalty.”

He stared at his sheep, their vitality undeniable. Yet his innocence whispered back to him: “This could be a lie. Maybe everything would have been this way without the darkness. Maybe we’re being deceived.”

But as his gaze fell on the lambs—so strong, so perfect—he felt the impossibility of what he was witnessing. This was no natural miracle. It was something more potent, beyond comprehension.

And then the darkness spoke again, louder and more insistent:

“Nothing perfect comes without a price.”

The whispers were widening the unspoken rift between the brothers.

The elder began to wonder how deeply his younger brother was ensnared by the darkness. Had he succumbed entirely to its promises? Did he now follow its voice without question? Yet, he was too afraid to ask, fearing the answer would deepen his loneliness.

The younger brother, in turn, feared the elder’s silence. “What if the darkness speaks to him more? What if he’s leaving me behind?” These thoughts gnawed at him whenever he sat on the hill, watching his sheep graze.

Both brothers began to sleep less. The elder would sit by his fields, staring at the sky, but the stars no longer shone with warmth. The heavens felt like an empty void. The scent of soil, once a comfort, now smelled like rot. Every shovelful unearthed writhing worms, as if the land itself harbored secrets.

The younger brother grew uneasy with the constant restlessness of his sheep. Their bleating seemed to blend with the whispers, their cries carrying an eerie surrender. Even the ocean had changed; its rhythmic waves no longer lulled him but threatened him. At night, the wind no longer sang lullabies—it amplified the whispers, delivering them like a malignant herald.

The brothers were drifting, not only from each other but from the island itself.

The whispers pushed them closer to the edge of an unseen chasm.

One sought logic. The other clung to faith. Yet both knew one thing for certain:

The darkness demanded a price.

And it would not be a small one.

THE DECAY OF THOUGHT
(Interitus)

The darkness over the island had become as permanent as the sky itself. Though the sun still rose, its light was muted, halted by a veil of mist that consumed its glow before it could touch the earth. Its color had faded, transforming from a vivid blue dream to a lifeless gray ash. The sea, once a serene mirror reflecting peace from its depths, now churned like a dark vortex, coiling upward from its hidden abyss.

Amid this oppressive atmosphere, the elder brother’s mind teetered on the brink of collapse. Sleep had eluded him for days, and the dark hollows under his eyes etched themselves into his face like a death mask. Yet beneath this mask, a ceaseless storm raged. The whispers in his head were no longer merely the murmurs of darkness—they had fused with his own thoughts, tunneling through his mind like worms, digging deeper with each passing moment.

He wandered the remains of what had once been a flourishing garden, muttering to himself as he aimlessly drove the tip of his hoe into the ground. He was no longer sowing or reaping; instead, he dug as if hoping to unearth some hidden truth beneath the soil. With every thrust of the hoe, he murmured incoherently, his words a fractured stream of thought:
“They’re here… beneath it all… The roots are rotting, but that’s no accident. No, no… It’s them. The ground below is hollow. Everything’s hollow…”

Suddenly, he froze, dropping the hoe to the earth. His eyes stared blankly ahead, unfocused.
“It’s not hollow. I’m here. I’m full. I’m full of blood.”

Even his own voice startled him—it sounded foreign, as though the words came not from his throat but from under his skin. He looked down at his hands, caked with soil. Dark, slimy threads oozed from the cracks between his fingers, seeping like tar. His skin felt as though it had become a second layer of rotting flesh.

The elder brother’s growing madness cast a long shadow over the younger. He had stopped sleeping in the barn among the sheep and now retreated to his room, locking the door each night. Yet his brother’s footsteps echoed in the corridors, pausing just outside his door.

Sometimes, the footsteps would cease, replaced by the elder brother’s unsettling monologues. The younger brother, huddled in the corner of his bed, held his breath as he listened to the muffled voice beyond the door.
“You’re here,” the elder brother murmured. “Yes, you’re here. But how much of you is here? I don’t know. This body is here, but… are you? Are you?”

Each night, the words grew stranger. The whispers of the madman became less like speech and more like guttural sounds tangled together. Even when his brother finally moved on, the younger brother couldn’t find peace. The elder’s presence no longer inspired fear—it felt like an impending threat.

Even in solitude, the elder brother found no rest. He sat at his desk, turning a knife over and over in his hands, staring into its blade as though seeking answers in his own reflection. What stared back at him wasn’t himself—or at least, not the man he had once known.

His face seemed to have come apart, each piece shifted slightly out of place. His nose was askew, his eye sagged toward his cheek, and his grin stretched unnaturally wide. It was a monstrous visage, one that smirked back at him mockingly.

He laughed suddenly, a sound that wasn’t joyous but guttural, like a low, strangled moan. The sound of his own laughter startled him, but then he laughed again. It wasn’t humor—it was desperation, an attempt to drown out the chaos in his mind. But the relief was fleeting, and the whispers returned:
“Bring the most precious. Take the most precious.”

The next morning, as the younger brother emerged from the barn, he saw the elder standing atop the hill. In his hand, he held a knife as if it were an extension of himself. Watching from a distance, the younger brother noticed the elder’s peculiar movements, as though speaking to someone who wasn’t there—until a shadow rose from the ground beside him.

It wasn’t human. It was vast, pulsing like a heart contracting and expanding, both outward and inward.

The elder turned to the shadow, watching as drops of blood fell from the cut he’d made in his palm.
“This isn’t enough. I know it isn’t. But wait… wait. There’s more to come.”

The younger brother froze, his body cold as ice. The shadow seemed to seep into his brother’s very being, filling whatever voids remained within his broken mind. The elder’s trembling hands weren’t shaking from fear—they quivered with excitement and a grim anticipation.

That night, the younger brother didn’t sleep. He lay awake, listening to the elder’s footsteps as they passed his door, halted, then were followed by those haunting monologues. Every passing minute stretched endlessly, the silence of the island amplifying the sound like a scream.

The elder’s madness had seeped into the island itself, corrupting everything it touched. And as the younger brother watched the growing emptiness in his sibling’s eyes, he realized a horrifying truth: the elder brother had surrendered completely.

The darkness was no longer a visitor—it was the master of their fates. It had forced its way in, dismantled their reality, and rewritten the rules of their existence. They had been outmaneuvered, their minds twisted to suit its incomprehensible agenda.

The next day, the elder sat in his barren field, clawing at the earth with his hands. The hoe lay discarded nearby. His fingers moved feverishly, digging into the blackened soil as though searching for something buried beneath. His nails filled with dark muck, but he didn’t stop. When he unearthed a single writhing worm, he stared at it intently.

“You ate to grow, didn’t you?” he muttered to the worm. “But I’m hungrier than you.”

Even his own voice sounded alien to him. He flung the worm aside but suddenly froze. A memory surged through his mind, unbidden and piercing.

It was of his younger brother, years ago, coming to him in tears. One of the sheep had fallen ill, struggling for breath. His brother had sat by the animal’s side for hours, trying everything he could to save it. When the sheep finally died, the elder had placed a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder and said:
“We did everything we could. Some things are beyond our control.”

The memory brought a wave of anguish, nearly choking him. He clenched the soil in his fists, his eyes welling with tears. But these were not tears of relief—they were suffocating, drowning him. His sobs turned into guttural moans.

But the darkness would not allow him to dwell in such warmth for long. The whisper returned, colder and deeper than before:
“Memories are toys for the weak. They cannot save you. Only I can save you.”

The elder lifted his head, staring at the empty space where he thought the voice originated. No one was there.

 ( to be continued in part 2 )

Part 2