Chapter Text
On a crisp autumn night in February, Dr. Finkelstein sat at a desk in his bedroom. Unintelligible notes were scattered about the table, and the only noise he made was the tap-tap-tapping of his pen, along with a stray hum or two of thought.
The Doctor never liked to be too far from his work, but he greatly enjoyed his privacy — and so his room was tucked, inconspicuously, into a corner of his laboratory and away from prying eyes.
With another hum, Finkelstein opened the metal skull-cap that contained his brain and scratched at it; the Doctor did this whenever he really had to think hard about something — perhaps he was the one who started the phrase, “to rack one’s brain”.
With both hands Finkelstein shut his skull-cap in frustration, and got to his feet to search the desk’s drawers.
“Igor!” The ageing scientist shouted from his room and it carried through the hemispherical lab, the concave walls amplifying the volume and allowing Finkelstein’s hunchbacked assistant to hear from the observatory’s cold, dark basement, “Bring me my tomes on apparitional properties!”
There was the sound of stumbling feet, and after a moment, Igor had entered the Doctor’s private room with a small tower of dusty books.
“I-I thought Master wanted to get rid of these,” said Igor as he tried to crane his head over the books.
“Nonsense,” Finkelstein stated matter-of-factly, “I never get rid of anything! Give them here.”
As Finkelstein moved to take the tomes from Igor’s hands, a particularly dusty one slipped out from between two considerably less dusty books, and fell onto the floor with a heavy ‘thump!‘
The Doctor peered down at the book from behind his small, black spectacles.
“Igor,” he said with a hint of both intrigue and irritation, “what is that?”
Through the dust, the book in question was a cool blue, adorned with a sparkling golden border on the covers both front and back. The book bore no title, yet in place of one was a dark blue silhouette of what looked to be a lanky, bearded old man, cut off at the chest.
Not bothering to wait for his assistant’s answer, Finkelstein scooped the tome from off the cold, stone floor with a grunt. It was fairly large in his small hands, and the dust collected upon his gloves, sparkling like tiny stars.
His right hand quivered as it reached for the cover, as though something dangerous would happen if the book were opened.
“Master?” Igor spoke up, seeing the Doctor’s apprehension.
Finkelstein’s hand clenched tightly.
“Set the other books on the desk, Igor. I’ll look through them later.”
Right now, this tome was the only thing that held his attention.
The Doctor sat in a large reading chair that was nestled in a corner of his room, and opened the strange book to the first page.
He was greeted with wondrous penmanship, a shimmering gold.
DREAMLAND: THE REALM OF DREAMS AND NIGHTMARES
the first page said. There was no author mentioned anywhere.
Finkelstein continued to read,
The realm of dreams and nightmares is nestled in the deepest and darkest of wood.
One can only find it if they have a strong dream they wish to fulfill.
The souls of dreams will call to you.
The Doctor’s brow furrowed. He looked over, staring past the doorway of his private room, and into the laboratory.
On the operating table, covered in a white sheet, lay a body. It was nude, save for several layers of gauze completely surrounding the head and neck to the point of suffocation.
Tightly stitched seams of dark blue thread held the pale blue skin together in a random fashion.
Finkelstein had been working for a long time on a creation he could spend time with, have conversations with. He felt he was far too old to start a meaningful, proper relationship with anyone in town — that part of life was well past him now.
And so, instead of finding companionship, he would make one.
But a creation made to converse with, to spend time with, needed a voice. A mind. The scientist of Halloween Town couldn’t simply ask a resident ghost to inhabit his dear creation, no — a ghost already had a life lived, its own memories and loved ones.
Yet a soul, made of dreams… his dreams — that seemed enticing.
Soon, Finkelstein made his way down to the observatory’s foyer, dressed in a moth-eaten cloak for warmth and an oil lantern in hand. Igor followed behind him.
“I’ll be alright, Igor. Don’t tell anyone where I’m going.”
“Master, is that wise? Going out into the Hinterlands alone? Igor should go with Master.“
“Don’t follow me. You need to stay here and look after the lab.”
“But…”
There was a tug on his sleeve — a useless attempt to have Finkelstein stay — and the Doctor whirled his head to face his assistant, a small hand clutching the door handle in fury.
“Igor, that is an ORDER from your MASTER!”
Silence seemed to fill the entire observatory and, not wanting to anger the scientist further, Igor backed away.
Finkelstein exhaled deeply from his nose, having opened the door. The cold night air greeted him, as did the silence of the town.
“I’ll return soon,” he told Igor, softly, and the door shut behind him, slow and heavy.
The moon hung in the sky, bathing the town in its soft light. It had been a few days since the Doctor was last outside; the air in the observatory was old, dusty. The lab itself was no better. The strong smell of chemicals and strange liquids from jarred, pickled limbs were things Finkelstein was perfectly used to — yet a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as the crisp, earthy scent of dead leaves and cold, wet dirt mingled in the air.
He made his way through the town and into the graveyard, lantern in hand all the while. No one, not even the ghosts or vampires were out tonight, it seemed. Not even the black cats that would stalk the town like living shadows.
Finkelstein crossed the log bridge that connected the graveyard to the Hinterlands — an endless sea of wilderness that made up the rest of the Halloween realm. His surroundings were covered in a dark, evening blue, and through the trees the Doctor could spot the glowing red peppering of bonfires in the distance.
Witch covens were not uncommon out in the Hinterlands; Finkelstein had visited them often when he was younger.
He briefly contemplated asking anyone in the nearest coven if they knew of Dreamland. But the old scientist was stubborn, and he continued further into the forest of leafless trees.
~*•*~
The lantern in his hand was starting to wane, its light fading in and out. Finkelstein turned his head — he couldn’t see the flickering bonfires anymore, much less the warm light of jack-o-lanterns or street lamps of the town. Nothing but the blue of night, and the black of darkness.
His legs were beginning to ache. Finkelstein started to wonder just how long he had been walking, when a gust of wind suddenly kicked up. Dry leaves and dirt swirled about, causing the Doctor to pull his cloak closer to his face in a pathetic attempt at protection. His legs buckled from the strong wind, before the lantern flung from his hand and hit the ground with a ‘smash!’
“No…!” The glass case had shattered into pieces, mingling among the leaves that littered the forest floor. The metal handle and frame were merely dented, but otherwise useless, and the light had snuffed out after striking the damp ground.
Normally rather composed, Finkelstein slumped to his knees, thin eyebrows furrowed in anger and frustration. He couldn’t see well in the dark, much less with his poor eyesight — it would be hours until the sun rose. And here the Doctor was, alone in a part of the forest he had barely even explored.
A light caught his eye, then. A rich, blue light that peeked through a nearby cluster of small trees.
The Doctor stared, and slowly got to his feet. Was someone else in the forest with him? A ghost lighting their surroundings with an ethereal glow?
“Who’s there?” Finkelstein called out with a raised voice. His eyes squinted, and he awaited an answer.
Nothing.
He moved closer, and it soon occurred to him that those weren’t small trees at all. They were roots, wrapped so tightly around each other in an attempt to seemingly keep something — or someone — out from the deepest part of the forest.
The ethereal light continued to peek its way through, unyielding.
Finkelstein placed a steady, gloved hand to one of the roots, the dust from the book that clung to his glove twinkling in the moonlight.
Slowly, the roots began to move, twisting and creaking. The Doctor took a step back and watched as the roots curled themselves away from each other, revealing… a door.
A door, behind the roots, carved into a tree. A very, very old tree. It looked petrified, as though made of stone. The door was in the shape of a crescent moon, a ghostly blue glow shimmering between where the door was carved in and the tree itself.
Finkelstein tentatively reached for the door, and the glow faded. His small fingers retreated against his palm in uncertainty.
Determined, Finkelstein furrowed his brow and gripped the edge of the door. He pulled hard with a grunt, and despite his aged body, managed to open the heavy door just enough for the Doctor to walk through.
The souls of dreams will call to you.
He stepped through the doorway, and Finkelstein was met with a sprawling field of sparkling, golden sand. The field looked to be endless, and the Doctor turned to the tree he came out of; the forest was gone, leaving the petrified tree standing alone.
Turning back to face the never-ending sea of sand, Finkelstein began to walk, eager to explore this world and find any new discoveries. And as he walked, see-through beings of all shapes and sizes appeared and disappeared, near and around his location in the desert sea.
They looked like images from a faded photograph, and they moved in a stutter.
He watched them with fascination; the ghostly figures never took notice of him, nor one another. They didn’t talk, or communicate in any way that considered them ‘living’. It was as though each were in their own separate world. If only Finkelstein could take a sample of these strange beings to be studied back home. Their seemingly non-corporeal forms could very well be useful for Halloween festivities, as well as experimentation.
In the far distance, blurred structures dotted the landscape. The Doctor didn’t know what they were. Mountains, perhaps, or buildings.
As he pondered, his foot made contact with a piece of stone-like material, half-buried in the sand, causing the old scientist to trip and roll down a small dune, crying out in surprise as he tumbled.
At the bottom of the dune, Finkelstein struggled to his feet, hoping he wouldn’t find any sand in his skull-cap later. His skinny, elderly body ached as he rose to his feet. The Doctor spat sand out of his mouth with a growl, and was about to check himself for injuries… when his old eyes spotted something.
A small, glowing orb. It hovered above the ground lazily, behaving in a similar manner to the ghostly, stuttering beings from before.
“Fascinating…” Finkelstein murmured, a hand to his chin. He spotted more orbs scattered in the distance, twinkling like fireflies.
Perhaps the see-through creatures and the orbs were connected somehow.
A soft voice was heard in the back of his mind, saying a single word. It was muffled, as though Finkelstein were hearing it from under water.
It sounded like a name.
The Doctor placed a hand to his skull-cap to amplify the sound.
The orb pulsed eerily, and Finkelstein heard the name again. It was a name he had heard before, he was certain, many years ago. He didn’t know what it was, or what it even meant, but — If this firefly orb had the same properties as the other strange beings…
His fingers twitched; this… could be what he needed. What his creation needed.
He produced a small bag made of rat skin from his cloak, and carefully — but quickly— scooped the luminous orb into the bag.
“There we are,” the Doctor murmured, tying the bag up and placing it back into the cloak’s inner pocket.
“Now, to get out of this place.”
Finkelstein began to walk back to the petrified tree.
It should be close, he thought. He hadn’t walked that far.
Finkelstein stopped right where the old tree had been. Or, he thought it had been.
Wasn’t it here? No, it was over there…
Don’t panic, the Doctor told himself, and he began looking about in order to spot the way back to the Hinterlands.
“How did you arrive here?” an old voice arose from the silence.
A thin eyebrow raised in confusion, Finkelstein turned to face the voice—
—And found a tall, old man standing in front of him. He wore a flowing blue robe and hat, both accented with gold and sparkling dust. The man’s face — what was uncovered by his white beard and moustache, at least — was dry and withered with seemingly countless ages. His beard was as long as his gaunt, ancient body, the tapered end touching the sandy ground in a serpentine twirl.
Finkelstein exhaled through his nose at the stranger. “How does anyone get anywhere? I walked.”
“Do not make light of this,” the bearded old man answered. His voice sounded as though his throat was coated in sand. Scratchy, worn, harsh. And yet, it echoed powerfully around the mad scientist, tone a mixture of anger and confusion. It made Finkelstein's own throat feel raw.
He wheezed and raised a pale hand at the Doctor, his limb looking as though it could crumble to dust at any moment, “You are not meant to be here.”
“Am I not?” Finkelstein glanced around, before resting his old eyes upon the much taller figure. “Strange, I certainly found my way here.”
“This is my realm,” said the old man, ignoring the Doctor’s response. “And you…”
His glowing, pupil-less eyes glared, which didn’t perturb Finkelstein in the slightest.
“… Are trespassing.”
In fact, Finkelstein glared right back; he opened his mouth to argue, when a gust of wind picked up, forcing him into the air. Sand swirled about, stinging his face and blurring his already poor vision.
The taller man stepped closer, calm and collected as Finkelstein struggled.
The Doctor watched the sand continue to spiral around him, sparkling in the moonlight. Just like the dust that had been on the book, on his gloves… He discovered, then, that it hadn’t been dust at all.
“You told me you walked,” growled the bearded old man. “I will make you crawl.”
Finkelstein then felt a sudden pain in his legs, as though something were shredding his very nerves.
“S-Stop…” the old Doctor begged, the pain so intense he could barely speak. “Please…”
“Consider this a warning,” the taller man said, gesturing at Finkelstein’s legs. They hung, limp in the air as the rest of him continued to struggle.
“Do not speak of this to anyone, Doctor. Do not speak of me, nor of my realm.”
The man of sand, of dreams, looked at Finkelstein right in the eye; even from behind the Doctor’s black spectacles, the bearded old man’s eyes were a blinding light.
“If you do, there will be severe consequences.”
Finkelstein wanted to speak, to berate the man with the many questions that buzzed in his brain. But he was exhausted; the Doctor tried to fight it, but the more he stared into those bright, pupil-less eyes, the more his own old eyes began to close.
~*•*~
Dr. Finkelstein awoke on the cold, wet ground of the Hinterlands. He blinked rapidly, trying to adjust his eyes to what was now cloudy daylight.
Had it all been a dream?
The Doctor struggled to his feet — only for his legs to immediately collapse, the pain strong and searing.
His gloved hands balled into fists as he lay there on his stomach. His eyes blurred with tears of anger and frustration; he felt the glowing orb twitch about in his cloak pocket. It hadn’t been a dream.
The outskirts of Halloween Town could be seen in the distance. The graveyard, the pumpkin patch. He could smell the familiar, comforting scent of wet dirt and decay. Finkelstein began to crawl, pulling himself and his limp legs along the forest floor with great difficulty.
He soon heard voices.
“Over here! I found him!”
The old Doctor craned his head to spot Jack Skellington sprinting down the path towards him. The Mayor was close behind.
“Doctor! Dr. Finkelstein! Are you alright?” asked Jack, kneeling down from his long, spindly legs. Though the skeleton had no eyeballs, Finkelstein could tell Jack was looking him up and down.
“M-My legs,” the old scientist explained, “I can’t walk.” His mouth quivered, wanting to say more.
The Mayor’s worried face glanced rapidly from Finkelstein to Jack, watching the skeleton carefully scoop up the Doctor into his arms.
“Where have you been?! When Igor told us you had gone out into the Hinterlands alone, we were worried sick!”
Finkelstein gave a gravelly laugh, managing a weak smile as he rested his head against Jack’s shoulder,
“Good old Igor…”
The three of them made their way back to town and entered Finkelstein’s observatory, Igor greeting them with a rush of questions.
“Calm yourself, Igor,” his Master answered. “I’m alive.” As injured as he was, Finkelstein still couldn’t keep himself from giving a stern response.
He was gently placed upon a nearby, dusty settee. Jack stood to full height, hand to his skull in concern. The Pumpkin King began to pace the foyer, mind racing for anything to help his old friend’s mobility.
“Well, Doctor,” The Mayor started to scold, “was it worth it?”
Dr. Finkelstein was silent. He slowly turned his head to look at The Mayor, and, instead of a response, gave him a sullen, dead-eyed stare.
Even through the black spectacles The Mayor felt the withering look the Doctor had given him. He curled into himself and stepped back, quietly muttering an apology.
It was a while before any of them spoke.