"Hey, buddy, you okay?"

Through a throbbing fog, Daniel forced his eyes open.

"What the hell were you thinking, stepping out of that cab door like that? I could have killed you."

He blinked, bringing the world into focus. But it wasn't the right world. He was sitting on pavement, not the basement floor, and a strange man was trying to pull him to his feet, propping him up against the side of an odd looking car.

Suddenly there were flashlights all around, and more voices joined the confusion.

"What happened here?"

"Look, officer, it wasn't my fault."

"Ian Foster, is that you? Sheriff Murphy ain't gonna be happy to see you."

"Who says he has to see me?"

Daniel shook himself, trying to push off the cobwebs of this wild nightmare.

"You okay, sir?"

He looked up, meeting the gaze of a uniformed man. "I'm not sure."

"This man hit you, is that right?"

Daniel looked at the man in question, the one who'd pulled him to this feet, then he looked at the strange car. It was dark, and hard to see in the lack of street lighting, but he couldn't help thinking the car that had knocked him to the pavement was really no more than a small, two-man steam engine.

It certainly didn’t belong in Uncle Frank's cellar.

"Sir?" The uniformed man moved his light. "What's your name?"

"Daniel," he replied in a daze. "Daniel Harper."

"Could I see your papers, please?"

Daniel stared at the uniformed man's outstretched hand. "Papers?" He felt for his wallet, then remembered putting it on the nightstand upstairs. "I don't have any ID."

"Listen, guys, the man says he's not hurt. Can't we just shake it off and all go our separate ways?"

"You're going to have to come with us, sir." The uniformed officer took Daniel's arm. "You too, Foster."

"Hang on, wait," Daniel protested out of instinct. He'd done nothing wrong, other than step through his uncle's cellar door and most likely knocked himself out. "Where are you taking me?"

"You have nothing to worry about, sir. Sheriff Murphy can straighten this all out and I'm sure you'll be on your way in no time."

"Sheriff? Am I under arrest?"

"I'm sure everything will be fine, sir, but I'll need you to come with us."

He was too confused to argue further, and let himself be led down the sidewalk, along a row of very tall, poorly lit buildings beside a surprisingly busy street. There were more of the strange, steam-belching automobiles traveling down the main roadway, alongside men on horseback and pedestrians occasionally dashing from one side to the other. The uniformed officers wore badges on the outside of their long brown trench coats, but there were no names or identifying marks stamped on the metal shields.

Daniel took it all in through a fog, his head still pounding so badly it caused a noisy static to fill his ears. He figured that was the reason for the dim street lamps and occasional loud horn piercing the confusion around him.

The driver of the car, a man close to Daniel's age, and apparently named Ian Foster, was being herded along behind him, still arguing the validity of his wrong-doing.

Three blocks down, they all turned left to a side street, then into a well-lit office occupied by a massive desk, two large cells, and an imposing man with dark skin and heavily graying hair.

"Foster? What in the hell are you doing here?" The imposing man glared at the driver, his lips pursed together in fatherly disapproval. An arm nearly as thick as a tree trunk raised, and a finger pointed to the first cell. "Put him there, boys. Seems Ian and I need to have another talk."

"Sheriff, if you'd just let me explain, I could be out of what's left of your hair in five minutes."

The officers ignored his protests and gave the man a shove through the open cell door. He took off his black leather trench coat and tossed it to the cell's only cot with an angry huff.

"Sheriff Murphy, this man was hit by Foster's car, doesn't seem to be hurt, but he has no papers and seems to be a bit confused."

The sheriff scrutinized Daniel, head to toe, then inhaled deeply and slowly. "Son, you'll need to spend the night until we can get you sorted out, unless you have some identification that can clear this all up right now?"

Daniel blinked, but the room, the officers and the large man didn't budge or blur. "I'm pretty sure I'm not even here right now, to tell you the truth." He glanced around the room, wondering if there was any hint of Uncle Frank's cellar in the illusion. "But no, I don't have any ID on me. I left it upstairs."

Sheriff Murphy nodded toward the second cell. "Why don't you just take a seat then, and we'll see what we can work out."

"Am I under arrest?" Daniel asked.

"No, not at all," the sheriff replied. "Now, boys, go ahead and get back on your patrols. This young man and I will just have a talk and get everything straightened out."

Daniel was shown to the inside of the large cell, but the door was left open as the officers turned and went back out to their patrols. He looked at the sheriff, eyebrows raised as he rubbed the back of his head. "There's nothing to clear up, Sheriff. I've fallen down, hit my head on the basement floor -- those stairs were old, probably crumbling after all these years of disuse." He nodded to himself as he wandered around the open cell, taking in the spacious bunk, thick bars made of highly polished black metal, and brass-lined sink and toilet. "It's a pretty interesting dream, as far as they go. But I should be coming around any second now."

"Maybe we should have someone look you over, could be you hit your head pretty bad, knocked you 'round a bit."

Daniel shook his head. "No, I'm fine. This is all just an illusion."

"He keeps saying that," Foster said from the next cell. "Listen, Murphy, I didn't hit him. I just grazed him a bit, knocked him off his feet."

"Son, you could have a concussion. Not many folks find themselves wandering around the streets sound asleep like you say you were."

Daniel touched the back of his head. It was sore, bruised probably, but he wasn't bleeding. "No, I'm fine. Trust me, I'm a doctor. And I didn't say I was sleepwalking."

He saw shock in the sheriff's eyes. He'd taken a step back, while the man in the next cell stepped forward, looking through the bars.

"What? What did I say?"

"The hell's a doctor?" The driver asked.

Daniel looked at him, perplexed.

"It's what they call healers," Sheriff Murphy replied as he took a step back toward the cell Daniel was standing in. "It's a name they have in Otherworld."

Daniel blinked.

Foster laughed. "Ain't no such thing as Otherworld, Sheriff. It's a myth."

"Okay, now I know this is a dream," Daniel replied, throwing his hands in the air. "I'm on the floor of Uncle Frank's basement, probably just knocked out." He walked to the cot to sit down. "I hope I’m not in a coma or something. No one will check on me for a while, I wouldn't think."

The sheriff had stepped closer, staring at him with an awed, almost fearful expression. He stopped at the doorway, bracing himself against the bars of the open door. "It's no myth, Foster. Otherworld's as real as you and I. As real as Ether itself. And this boy done used a key, passed through a door without knowing it."

Daniel looked from Foster to Murphy. They were both staring at him, one in disbelief, the other in mocking doubt. "Key?" He remembered the odd copper one with the single tooth, the one he'd used to open the cellar door. "That's what sparked all of this." It made sense, really. He'd fallen down the stairs, hit his head, and he'd just spent the past three hours going through his uncle's collection of oddities. No wonder his unconscious mind put this scene together for him. "Thank God I wasn't reading a Stephen King before I fell."

"See, he's not from Otherworld," Foster declared. "He knows the king."

Sheriff Murphy held up a hand. "No, Ian, that's not what he meant. Is it, son?"

"Look, for the record -- at least through the duration of this head trauma trip -- my name is Daniel. Daniel Harper." He looked at Ian. "Stephen King is a writer, not a real king. And not one of you is real, either." It was fact, he was sure of it, but for some reason his heart was racing just a tad. As far as dreams went, this one was a whopper.

Foster laughed, then backed up a few feet to sit on the cot in his cell, facing Daniel.

Murphy leaned closer and the tone of his voice dialed down a few notches. "The key, son, do you have the key?"

"The wha--" Daniel felt his pockets, trying to recall what happened to the key. He closed his eyes, picturing the kitchen, the set of keys, the cellar door. "It's in the door," he replied, looking at Murphy with a shrug. "It's still in the cellar door. Like I said, I opened the door with that strange key, took a step into the cellar, and must have missed the top step. Or maybe it broke. I don't think Uncle Frank ever went down there."

Murphy closed his eyes and let out a sigh, then shook his head and straightened. "This isn't an illusion, son. It's not a head injury, you're not lying on your uncle's basement floor, or in a hospital in a coma, I can assure you. Where you are, is Ether. How you got here was that key."

"Ether?" Daniel laughed shortly. "As in, I'm in the ether? Like the place socks go when you stick them in the dryer and they vanish?"

"Is he nuts or something?" Foster asked.

"No, just confused." Sheriff Murphy stepped into the cell and took Daniel's arm. "Come here, let me show you something."

Confident in his unconsciousness, Daniel stood and let the sheriff take him to the front door where he pointed to the night sky.

"What do you see up there?"

Daniel dutifully looked up, at three moons. He blinked, then rubbed his eyes and tried again.

There were three moons, one quite large, the other two about half its size. The large one had a reddish tinge, almost like Mars in the photos NASA posted now and again, but not a single visible crater dimpled its surface.

"Okay, I admit that's different," he shrugged. "But it's all part of this dream I'm having." In fact, he recalled one of his uncle's journals had a sketch of three moons in a sky. Clearly that's where this had come from. "See, I was looking through my uncle's journals before I fell and knocked myself out," he explained as they walked back inside. "He had all manner of wild illustrations to go with his stories. Things he made up, stuff he found here and there. He was a master at putting tales together."

Murphy nodded, his arm wrapped around Daniel's shoulders. He uh-huhed in a patient manner, all gruff and intimidation put aside. "Your uncle."

"Yes, my uncle. He died recently, and I inherited his house. I was just there, going through some of his things, remembering his crazy stories from when I was a kid." It all made perfect sense.

"And it was a key your uncle had that brought you through the -- what was it -- cellar door?"

"Right," Daniel nodded.

Murphy stopped walking and let his arm slide off Daniel's shoulder. They were in front of Foster's cell now, and the man was watching them, listening intently. "Your uncle was from Otherworld," Murphy shrugged. "He probably came here often. It was his key, after all."

Daniel laughed, but the sheriff's expression never changed. "You're joking."

"I'd say he is," Foster chimed in.

"Your uncle's stories were more than likely true, down to the word," Murphy replied. "You only thought they were fantastical tales of wonder because you've never been to Ether."

"And have you been to Otherworld?" Foster asked with a scoff. "Look, Murphy, I'll admit I hit this guy with my car. Just enough to knock him on his ass, mind you. He's gone and hit his head. And I'm starting to think you have, too."

Daniel wondered if he was on the cellar floor, or in a hospital, hooked up to monitors. Perhaps this is what coma victims really experienced, or those in vegetative states. People had speculated on that for years, but no one really ever knew.

"Okay, let's say for argument's sake, I play along," Daniel offered. He looked at Murphy. "How do I get home?"

Murphy's smile was decidedly regretful. "You need the key."

"The key? You mean that one I left in the door back in the kitchen?"

"Gonna make it hard to use that one to get back to where that one is," Foster offered.

"There's another way," Murphy said, stepping closer to the door to Foster's cell. "There happens to be one more key that I know of, here in Ether."

Foster looked up.

"Where?" Daniel asked.

"That's just a fairy tale, old man," Foster replied. "You don't know it's really there."

"Ah, but I do," Murphy replied with a smile that put a sparkle in his dark eyes.

Daniel watched the exchange. It seemed Foster and the sheriff shared a history that went beyond scofflaw and authority. They'd exchanged angry words, but there hadn't once been a hint of fire in either man's tone.

"Let's say you're right," Foster said as he stood and walked to the cell door. "Let's say there's a key. How in the hell does this guy get to it? Or even find it?"

"That's where you come in, Ian," Murphy's smile grew wider. He turned to Daniel as if just then remembering he was in the room. "If we can get you to that key, you can use it to go back the way you came."

"Me?" Foster asked.

"Him?" Daniel echoed, nodding toward the man in the cell.

Murphy laughed shortly. "Him," he replied. "And don't let his annoying demeanor fool you. Ian Foster was the king's personal guard."

"Was, being the operative word," Foster corrected with no small amount of heat. "And that was King Frederick, not his murderous son."

"Well this just keeps getting better and better," Daniel huffed. Of all the hallucinations he could have, why weren't there more beautiful women? Why wasn't he the king in this crazy dream? Or that one he had now and again where he was stranded on a desert island, with the supermodel and that elephant with the really long tusks? "So what do I do, go to the castle and ask this king if I can use his key?"

Foster let out a snort. "Okay, Murphy, you win. This guy's definitely not from here." He turned and walked back to the cot, picked up his trench coat, then using that as a blanket, laid down and closed his eyes.

Daniel looked at Murphy with a shrug.

"Let's you and I take a seat and have a talk." The sheriff put a hand on Daniel's shoulder and steered him toward the large desk, where he pulled out a pair of chairs and set them around a small side table, then took some papers from a low drawer of his desk. After offering Daniel a seat, he walked to the other side of the room and poured two cups of a dark, steaming liquid. When he returned, he set a cup on either side of the table.

"It's coffee. Well, it's coffee-like. We don't have exactly the same beans as you do in Otherworld, but it's really quite good."

Daniel sniffed at the steam cautiously. It did smell like coffee, with that deep, heady aroma that promised caffeine and a satisfactory start to your day. "How do you know so much about Otherworld, when he doesn’t even believe there is such a place?"

"I've met enough folk from there to believe," Murphy replied as he raised his cup and one eyebrow. "Did you want sugar, or cream?"

"No, thank you." Daniel lifted his cup, sniffed at it again, then took a careful sip. It was hot, but not scalding, and had a decent flavor, but this wasn't any dark roast from Starbucks. There was a complexity there, lingering on first his tongue, then the back of his throat that spoke of the smoke of a campfire and deep, dark chocolate.

"Back in the days before I became Sheriff, I was King Frederick's personal advisor," Murphy explained as he sifted through the stack of thick, yellowed papers. "Ian was in the king's personal guard. Now the king, he was about my age, a widower, with two children. His son, Prince Stefan, and the younger daughter, Princess Marabeth." Finding the paper he wanted, he unfolded an aged parchment and smoothed it down over the table. "They, and we, lived here, in the castle."

Daniel looked at the yellowed paper and the sketch drawn out over the entire surface. It was like an aerial overview, done in pencil but with great detail. Murphy was pointing to a section at the far end, right in front of him, that showed a not-to-scale drawing of a massively complex looking castle. But this wasn’t Snow White’s fancy digs. This thing looked like a page right out of a William Gibson novel, all stark and massive. Imposingly dark walls shot up from a rocky ground as if pushed through the earth’s crust with violent distaste and an need to purge itself.

There were no pointy pink tower caps or bluebirds flying about open balconies. Just walls, a few gates, more walls and a penciled-notation indicating a complex city held tightly within like the dark, cold hug from your hated old aunt who’d always resented your mother’s good looks and ability to produce children.

“Good God, that’s a castle?” Daniel asked. “Looks more like a fortress. I think I played a video game that had a castle like that once.” His mind must be pulling things out from all over the place, stuffing them all into this one dream.

“Well I won’t lie and say it wasn’t an eyesore under King Frederick’s rule. His great grandfather built it. In that family, the good taste gene was recessive.”

Murphy pointed to the opposite end of the parchment map and Daniel’s gaze followed dutifully.

“This is where we are now.”

It was a crowded city, with sky scrapers elbowing for room. No open spaces to speak of, like green parks or recreational areas, no rivers flowing daintily through green belts. Just buildings, cobbled streets, and more buildings.

Up against the far south of the city was a massive mountain range, and as Daniel changed focus, he saw that range extending outward and upward, encompassing the edges of the entire map and coming to another head at the far north end of the castle. In fact, the entire map resembled an hour glass, with the castle at the top, forests, lakes, caves and open fields in the narrowed center, and the city at the bottom.

Everything else, to the very edges of the parchment, was mountain range.

“Now this,” Murphy pointed to the center of the hour glass. “Is what you’ll need to pass through to get from here to the castle. And as I’m sure you’re probably figuring out by now, it’s not exactly the most hospitable section of Ether.”

From the cell on the other side of the office, they distinctly heard Foster snort.

Ignoring him, Murphy continued. “Ian can get you through it well enough, I’ve seen him do it a hundred times.”

That’s when Daniel had to call a time out. “Hang on a second.” He raised a hand and looked at Murphy. “If you’re so concerned with me getting to that key and getting back home, and you seem to be at least marginally interested in my well being, why on earth are you putting me in the care of a guy you’ve tossed in jail?”

Murphy smiled. “First, this ain’t Earth. It’s Ether.” He shot the occupied cell a quick glance. “And second, Ian may be a scoundrel at times, and he definitely gives me more heartburn than I appreciate, but he’s a good man. In fact, he’s one of the best good men I’ve ever had the pleasure and annoyance to know.” He sat back, raising his steaming cup of not quite coffee. “And in Ether, good men can be tricky to find.” He took a sip, nodding as if to himself.

Daniel stared down at the parchment map, his thoughts a confused storm of emotions he couldn’t make sense of. If he was going to play along, did that mean he could find a way out of the nightmare? Would believing this madness cure him from the coma, or high fever, or whatever was really happening to him?

He had no choice. Play along, and hope to wake up, or sit here in this sheriff’s office for – who knew?

“You’re tired,” Murphy offered. “It’s a lot to take in, what with you having no clue you were stepping into Ether and all. You should get some rest. Those cots aren’t terrible, really.”

“They could be better,” Foster quipped.

“Why’s he in there, anyway?” Daniel asked. “You said he was a good man, but I didn’t see him break a law.”

Murphy sighed and shook his head as he gathered up his map and papers. “Ian Foster is, technically, a wanted man.” He stood and carried his bundle back to the desk. “Our king has accused him of treason, along with too many other citizens to count, really. But, as an officially appointed member of Ether’s peace keeping force, I’m obligated to lock him up if I find him.” He walked back to the table, a grin coloring his face. “Now, most days, Foster’s not actually here, so I don’t actually see him, you see.”

“No, I don’t. Not really.”

From the cell, Foster spoke up. “So long as I’m working, Murphy leaves me be. But if he thinks I’m spending too much time loitering around his fine city, he tosses me in here.”

“For your own good,” Murphy bellowed deeply. “You hang around too much, there’s bound to be a king’s guard come by and recognize you.”

“So, treason, you say?” Daniel wasn’t at all sure Foster was the right man to endure this illusion with. But if it was his mind conjuring all the details, what did he have to fear?

“I accused the king -- and rightfully so -- of murdering his father.” Foster sniffed. “He didn’t appreciate it.”

“And neither did the royal court when you could offer no evidence,” Murphy added.

Daniel stood and turned toward the open cell, then hesitated. “Am I under arrest?”

“No, son, you’re not. Although if you’re thinking you’d rather go out there on your own, in this city, to figure out if I’m full of shit, I don’t recommend it.” Murphy pointed to the office door. “I won’t stop you, but I’d feel obligated to go along, make sure you don’t find more trouble than answers.”

He hesitated, more than a little surprised to find his instincts weren't telling him to get out, get on his own and find out if this sheriff was even legit.

"I tell you what, you can sleep in the couch in my office if you'd prefer. It's quieter in there, might make you feel a little less exposed while you figure things out." Murphy started for a door in the back of the main room. "I'll wake you in the morning, and Foster can get you started on the road back home."

Daniel followed the sheriff through a heavy wood door and into a large room filled with books and maps. There was another desk in one corner, smaller than the one in the other room, with a small lamp fighting for space amid cluttered papers. Taking up one entire wall to the left was a leather couch with thickly padded cushions, but the rest of the office was dedicated to rows and rows of wooden shelves, filled to bursting with old, leather-bound books and polished rocks steadfastly holding them upright.

One edition caught Daniel's eye as he entered the room, and he found himself heading straight for it. "The collected works of Edgar Allen Poe." He looked at Murphy. "Where did you get this?"

"Same place I got most of the others," the sheriff shrugged. "Folks passin' through. Visitors from Otherworld, come to trade or pass the time."

"So you've met quite a few people from Otherworld." Daniel slid the book back in its place and glanced over the spines of the ones nearby. Keats, Wells, Hemmingway, they were all scattered among names he'd never heard of, and some that rang a faintly familiar bell. "Do they all step out into traffic?"

"There have been one or two travelers, yes." Murphy laughed. "But no, they don't come to Ether by stepping into traffic out of a taxi cab. They come in wherever they want to come in. The few I met were back in my days working in the castle. King Frederick enjoyed entertaining travelers and believed in Otherworld, unlike his son. You're the first person I've seen come through in nearly ten years."

"But you never gone through yourself?" Daniel stopped looking at the books and turned to face the sheriff. "All the people you’ve met, the ones who came to Ether, traded with you, told you all about their world -- not one of them offered to take you back with them? Not even for a visit?"

Murphy smiled in that way grandparents have of warning a pestering child it was time to stop asking why and just go to sleep. “There’s blankets on the other side of the couch, and the washroom's directly across this hall here. Make yourself at home and I'll wake you in the morning."

He left, closing the door behind him, and Daniel let out a huff. “Ether my ass.” It was a dream. A very elaborate and detailed dream, sure, but any minute now he was going to wake up and be cold, probably hungry, and very much alone in his uncle’s basement. With nothing else to do while he waited, Daniel explored the office.

The books and various nick knacks reminded him of Uncle Frank’s living room, and the maps all seemed to be different versions of the one Murphy had shown him. While the desk held no computer, he was surprised to find a phone. It looked like something from the 1950’s, with a thick braided cord and bulky, black handset. Daniel put the receiver to his ear and heard the familiar buzz of a dial tone.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

He put a finger to the dial face as numbers raced through his mind. 911 was an obvious choice, but maybe he should start with a quick ring at Jonathan’s house. His index finger made the choice for him as it started for the eight.

“What the hell?”

Number eight was missing, along with the nine, seven and six. The dial face only had five numbers, and the zero was alone, at the edge of the phone, on a blue button.

He set the receiver back down.

“Okay,” he said, walking back to the couch. “Relax. You’ll figure this out. Or it’ll figure itself out. No need to panic.” He found the blankets and curled up on the leather, willing his heart rate back down to a manageable level. He'd just get some sleep, wake up back home, and have a good tale of his own to tell Jane and the kids.

"And fix those steps."

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