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STORIES FOR SEEKERS
The Mystic
A Story of Seeking, Simulation, and the Illusion of Self

In a quiet 1970s town preserved in amber, Vic begins to suspect something is off—about his world, his neighbors, and even himself. When a mysterious outsider arrives, Vic is forced to confront the ultimate question: what if you are not what you think you are? A haunting, philosophical story about identity, consciousness, and the limits of artificial life.

IV. Leaving Home

The night before I left, I had a strange dream. It began in the most mundane of places: in the bathroom of my parent’s house. I was doing my usual morning thing, when I looked in the mirror and noticed an unruly thick nose hair sticking out of my nostril like a weed stubbornly pushing through cracked pavement. So, I grabbed the tweezers and gave it a good yank. However, pulling on it only revealed more of it. As I continued to pull, the hair extended further out from my nose, curling almost like a root. Shocked that such a thing could have come out of my body, I searched for some scissors to snip the unwieldy thing, but I wasn’t able to cut it with the small pair I found in the bathroom drawer. 

 

The dream ended shortly after my mom burst into the bathroom, her face a mix of concern and urgency, and began to frantically push it back up my nose. There was no explanation, no comfort—just a sense of helplessness, as if we were both trapped in a situation we couldn’t understand, trying to reverse something that should have never been. 

 

I decide to make my departure shortly after everyone goes to bed. That way, I would be able to cover some distance before anyone noticed I was gone and started looking for me. I pack lightly, putting only an extra sweater and a flashlight in an old backpack. Before I leave, I place a note on the kitchen table for my family. I would’ve liked to have explained things to my parents in person, but what they want for me isn’t what I want. It’s not really their fault, they just want what all parents want for their children—for them to be happy, safe, and grow to be independent. But none of that matters to me right now. Even though I have finished high school, I have little interest in anything other than finding out the truth about what I experienced that summer afternoon as a child feigning my death.

 

Memories of what happened that day had been lingering in me for years, like a fire smoldering in the back of my mind. In spite of the profoundness of the event, at the time, I was still too young to turn it into any kind of earnest quest for self-knowledge. But now that I was older and had finished high school, I decided it was time to explore the world and see what, if any, answers the world might provide. The last thing I wanted to do was to go to college and try to be serious about my studies. I knew if I went to school, I could only half-heartedly attend to my classes. Either way—college or not—I figured, I would end up disappointing my parents. College could wait. For now, I was on a journey to understand what this “I” is.

 

Leaving home without telling anyone was harder than I thought it would be. I imagined it would pain my family dearly to not know where I had gone. My mom would blame herself for not raising me properly. On the other hand, my dad would mostly deflect any sense of guilt by suggesting they should’ve sent me to a councilor early on in order to put all my philosophical inquietudes to rest. But my inner compass was strong. And it was what gave me the strength that night to quietly go through the garage, leave through the side door, and then slowly and carefully open the gate leading to the front yard—making sure it didn’t creek too loudly in the dampened night air.

 

The next step of my plan was to simply walk out of New Hinton. However, I have to admit, I wasn’t even sure if this was possible. Nobody I knew had ever traveled beyond New Hinton, nor expressed any desire to do so, which seemed strange and made me feel like a kind of renegade. What would I find? Is there even a “getting out” of New Hinton, I wondered, or is it spherical so that walking in a straight line will eventually bring me back to where I began? That would explain why nobody ever leaves New Hinton, or ever thinks about leaving it. Could such a physical limitation result in a mental limitation too, such that nobody could imagine ‘out’? Perhaps I’m the first one to even consider that there is something beyond New Hinton? Of course, if that’s the case, it’s the end of my quest, because I will have left not realizing that my destination is where I am already standing. 

 

I try to ignore my racing, inquisitive thoughts, including the one about whether or not all this is a terrible idea. If I hesitate, I might turn back—and I can’t afford that. So I keep walking ahead. Mile after mile, I press forward, avoiding the main roads, and keeping to the shadows where I can. If anyone is looking for me, I don’t want to make it easy for them.

 

By my rough estimates, I’ve already covered about twenty miles, pausing only for short breaks to rest my aching legs. As I leave New Hinton behind, the sounds of the city begin to fade. The further I go, the quieter it gets—until all that remains is an eerie, distant humming sound, low and droning, just on the edge of perception. I can’t tell where it’s coming from, but it follows me, like an undercurrent beneath the silence.

 

The houses grow sparse. The streetlights become fewer and farther between, flickering like dying embers. The roads narrow, the pavement cracks and crumbles until it’s more dirt than asphalt. I have no real sense of direction—only a singular goal: out. I walk straight ahead and yet, part of me still wonders if in a day or two I’ll end up back at my own doorstep.

 

As night falls, I veer off a lonely country road to look for a place to rest out of view from any drivers. I push through the underbrush, my steps slow and careful. The night air is still, thick with the scent of damp earth. I’m just looking for a place to rest, somewhere out of sight until morning. That’s when I see it—a small, squat structure, half-hidden beneath a tangle of vines. At first, I think it’s an old storage shed, maybe even the remnants of a farmhouse. But as I get closer, I notice the way the concrete is smoothed, reinforced, different from the weathered wood of nearby ruins.

 

I shine my flashlight over the entrance. There’s a metal door, slightly ajar, rust creeping along its edges. It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in a long time. I hesitate for a moment, then step forward and push it open.

 

Inside, the air is stale but not suffocating. My flashlight sweeps over shelves lined with canned food, neatly stacked but long expired. A few plastic containers sit in the corner, sealed tight, their labels faded with age. Someone had prepared for something here—but whatever it was, they either didn’t need it or never made it back.

 

I move further in, trailing my fingers lightly over the dusty surfaces. There’s nothing overtly strange about the place—it’s just an old bunker, likely built decades ago. But then I notice the odd mix of objects on a nearby table.

 

A thin, rectangle of dark glass lies among a pile of scattered papers. I pick it up, turning it over in my hands. It’s smooth, heavier than it looks. It doesn’t have any buttons, any markings—just a single faint crack along one side. It feels strange, almost deliberate in its simplicity, but I have no idea what it is. I set it back down and turn my attention to the supplies.

 

The shelves are lined with vacuum-sealed food packs, labeled with plain, functional text: “Soy Protein Ration – Fortified,” “Hydration Pack – Electrolyte Blend,” “Nutrient Paste – Multi-Vitamin Formula.” The packaging is unfamiliar, sleek, and minimalist—far different from the canned goods that have long since rusted. I pick up one of the packs and turn it over. The print on the back reads:

 

ISSUED: 04-23-2041

 

I pause. 2041?

 

That doesn’t make sense. I quickly do the calculation. How could it have been issued sixty-five years in the future?

 

I set the pack down and continue looking. A large, unopened case of water bottles sits in one corner, the labels still intact. Unlike anything I’ve seen before, the bottles are thicker, with a built-in filtration system inside the cap. Further back, I spot a stack of metal canisters labeled “Oxygen Reserve – Portable Use.” I hesitate, picking one up. Why would anyone need portable oxygen in a place like this?

 

Near the back wall, a heavy-duty backpack rests against a stack of plastic storage bins. I unzip it and find a small first aid kit, compact but well-stocked—antiseptic wipes, syringes pre-loaded with some kind of medication, and a tiny, folded instruction sheet written in both English and another language I don’t recognize.

 

A case of books sits nearby, stacked neatly beside the backpack. I crouch down and pull one out, running my fingers over the cover. The title is unfamiliar—not a novel, not a history book, but something technical, something about preservation science and human psychology.

 

I flip through a few pages, but the contents don’t make much sense to me—diagrams of long-term storage units, mention of a “cryo-stasis chamber,” and notes on “psychological adjustments for extended habitation.” I frown and tuck it back into the case.

 

I take a final glance around. Whoever stocked this place wasn’t just preparing for a storm or a short-term crisis. They were preparing for something much bigger—something long-term. But in spite of its original purpose, I find there’s something peaceful about the old bunker. Maybe it’s just me enjoying some undisturbed time away. I begin to think I could stay here a while. In the stillness of this place I might find a steadiness that has eluded me for some time.

 

I grab a dusty blanket from one of the shelves, shake it out, and settle into a corner, using my backpack as a pillow. The night is quiet, save for the faint sound of the wind outside. 

 

As I close my eyes, my thoughts drift. 

 

It’s strange, though—2041. 

 

For a moment, I wonder what kind of world existed back then—what kind of future this place came from. But sleep comes quickly, and the thought fades with it.

Continue to Part V: At the Edge of the World

© All content copyright 2017-2025  by Daniel McKenzie

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