I couldn't believe what I saw. As in, I slapped myself several times and even touched my leg injury.

  Yep, still painful as hell.

  Ahead of me, an enormous meadow of greenery extended as far as my eyes could reach. I wanted to fall on my knees and, like a pirate who has been at sea for too long, kiss the ground and the grass that grew on top of it, along with all the disgusting bugs or secretions it might have. Then, as I was about to touch the grass, I stopped.

  What if it was a trap? What if, rather than grass, it was some lure from a gargantuan monster that hid right beneath the surface? I grabbed a pebble and tossed it as far as I could. The tall grass rustled and then returned to quiet. Too quiet. Were there no rabbits, squirrels, or birds in this meadow? My suspicion increased.

  I only needed to be trapped in a nightmare hell for so long before learning the lesson not to trust the seemingly good stuff that happens.

  I stuck out one of my feet (the injured one, it was more expendable) and touched the grass with the tip of my toe. No searing pain, no grass turning into some plant-based carnivore predator.

  Hmm. I guess I had no choice, didn't I?

  I walked forward into the apparent "meadow" and enjoyed a little of the warmth of the sun. The fresh breeze made my blisters hurt a little, but it was tolerable. I looked up and didn't see any blue skies or anything alike. I observed that the opening through which I came seemed to extend all the way up to where my eyes reached, so rather than being outside, this was another cave within the system, just an extremely large one with some sort of artificial sun. How or why? No idea, and also no idea if I wanted to find out.

  I remember having watched a horror film where a particularly secluded village of Amish had elders that played the role of monsters to keep people from wandering outside, and when the protagonist found out, it was like her whole life had crumbled apart in that very instant.

  I preferred to believe this was a pretty resting room, and I wanted to enjoy that feeling while it lasted.

  I saw on the far horizon a building, some type of house or cabin. I walked faster towards it, still looking to the sides for something edible or drinkable, and still finding nothing but grass that grew like a weed around here.

  There wasn't a single patch of earth that wasn't covered in tall grass.

  I kept walking, and as the house came into sight, I almost fell into a lake that was between me and my target. The grass grew not only to the edge of the lake but also continued to grow inside it, apparently undisturbed by the water. I got a bad feeling.

  The water was crystal clear, at least, and while the lake seemed almost shallow near the shore, it went at least a hundred meters deep, maybe more around the center. I gulped, thinking that if it weren't for the suspicious grass, I would've tried to swim to the house, and when I got tired and tried to make feet...

  Better to avoid the lake, and yet again, better not to drink from its suspiciously clear water. Was the fact that the water was so clear proof that it was potable? I wished I had studied more survival techniques, preferably having been caught in this storm with a book titled "How to Survive in the Nightmare Realm" in my hands.

  I remembered having seen many shows where murky, muddy water was perfectly potable, but never had I been in a situation like this, though I suppose that's to be expected.

  I deduced that most contaminants, such as bacteria and parasites, were invisible, and after some of my recent experiences, I knew other things could also elude sight.

  I decided to make a walk-around, trying to stick to the edge of the lake so as not to fall inside due to the grass making it difficult to see the rims.

  The hours passed by, and I felt tempted to try some of the grass, but safety was first. Besides, I think I remember having a teacher who said that humans can't digest grass.

  Finally, the house was in sight. It looked rather unassuming, with a plain light yellow painting and red roof tiles in the classic gable roof. There were also three windows that I could see, two on the front and one on the side, plus a round window (smaller) on the attic. There was no garage, but I suppose that having no roads around would limit the usefulness of a car.

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  I remember when my dad nearly melted our truck's engine because the crushed grass started to build up around some of the parts, which cost us some pretty pennies to fix, and the ranger yelled at my dad about the dangers of causing a wildfire for not sticking to the roads.

  "Fire." Certainly didn't want a fire to happen here.

  I knocked on the house's door and waited. No one came. For a moment, I was disappointed, then I remembered the last house resident I met and thought I dodged a bullet. I tried the door, but it was locked.

  I wrapped my shirt - or what was left of it - around my fist and broke the window, letting myself in. My first impression was that someone old must have been living in that house.

  To the left, I saw a great display of china, with dainty little depictions of historical places and monuments, such as the Colosseum, the Eiffel Tower, and the Great Wall.

  To the front, I saw a grandfather clock, its function long halted. There were lots of small decor items, like porcelain angels and cute animals, and the table at the center of the room had a rustic design.

  I headed straight to the kitchen, as I could see the vintage fridge from where I entered, and once again, I was received by proof of old people's taste in interior decoration: green cul-de-bouteille windows on the doorways and floral motifs for the kitchen's tiles.

  I opened the fridge, hoping to find something to eat, and a repulsive smell of rot and plastic made me turn my head. The food was entirely spoiled, and it was impossible to tell what it had once been.

  The only recognizable things were the eggs against the door, but I didn't need to crack them open to know what the inside looked like. There were even small green touches here and there, like a sign saying "don't eat".

  I sighed and hoped to find something in the cupboards. Again, more plates and cups, more ordinary than the ones on display, but nothing thrilling like cereal, chocolate, or something mildly attractive.

  After much searching, I found some honey, which I guess is fine given I'm starving, but since I'm also parched, I don't really feel like eating brick-solid honey.

  I tried to dip a coffee spoon only to have it bent. If I were going to eat it, I could only do so slowly. I was angry; was this some kind of torture? Here you go, there's food. But you can eat only a third of a coffee spoon at a time.

  Not to mention that it's so old, it's dark brown, and it tastes weird. A bit like bacon, maybe?

  I even wondered if I could survive on honey alone. I explored the rest of the house, all more or less what you'd expect from an old house in a far rural area: couches with more floral motives, empty vases and pots, a fine layer of dust everywhere that made me cough, and a small room barely fitting a king-size bed and a nightstand with nothing on it.

  I wanted to give in to sleep, but I had to address my other needs first. I lay on the mattress and was seduced by its softness, but I couldn't rest yet.

  I rummaged through the house and luckily found an old-fashioned windproof lighter. I remembered that I used to like my honey well-crystallized, and that I artificially solidified it by putting it in the freezer. Therefore, I figured the opposite must also be true: I could sort of boil it to make it more liquid. I wasn't about to drink boiled honey alone, though.

  I opened the faucet, but it was dry. I guessed the plumbing in this place got about as much care as the rest of the building. With great reluctance, I grabbed a pot and went to the lake, figuring that's where the water from the faucet would have come from anyway.

  I filled the pot and returned to the house, lit the wood-fueled stove, and boiled the water. I decided to throw some of the grass into the pot to add nutritional value, however little it might be, to the mixture. The leaves writhed and twisted, turning into a soggy mush that I filtered out. I was left with a murky, greenish soup that tasted bitter and was about as appetizing as you can imagine. At least it wasn't goopy candy.

  I started mixing in the honey to sweeten the concoction and let the "meal" rest for a bit. Taking the most expensive-looking bowl (because I'm cheap like that), I poured in my honied grass soup made with water from the suspicious lake.

  I was undecided about the name of my latest creation. I recalled having heard a story about a tourist group getting trapped in a snowslide somewhere in Scotland and surviving with nothing but a type of cured ham called "presunto" and boiled snow. They called it "Scottish Fare."

  I looked at the greenish grass soup, and while I was tempted to just call it "green goop," I went for a more artistic "Forager's Fare." Yep, that's it.

  "This is no grass soup, ma'am. It's Forager's Fare." Even after adding the honey, it was still bitter and foul-tasting – imagine a cake from the worst pastry shop, a sticky rum cake made with the cheapest plastic bottle rum they could find in the store.

  With that bitter taste still in my mouth and nothing to rinse it with – all the collected water had gone into the Forager's Fare – I went to sleep. The extreme exhaustion and the feathery feel of the mattress plunged me quickly into sleep, where once again I was haunted by nightmares.

  I saw a scorched earth, stomped by the armies of hell that had come to take me. I ran for hours, with nowhere to hide, for all had been destroyed. Eventually, they caught up to me and dragged me to the bottom of the abyss, where I was tortured in every imaginable way. I was nailed to a cross and cut open, and all sorts of sewage waste were forced into my wounds and sewn closed. Venomous needles were hammered beneath my nails, and my hair was ripped lock by lock. Then, they pretended to release me and laughed as they saw me run into a road of burning charcoals to where the exit door was, only to find it locked.

  I woke up, still feeling the aftermath of all the torment inflicted upon me, and through the window, saw that night had fallen in the cave's chamber.