Chronicles of the Unseen: A Mandala Effect Thriller

By Amber Cadengo

Alex, a college student fascinated by time and reality, documents instances of the Mandela Effect on their campus. Teaming up with a brilliant but ostracized scientist, they uncover a catastrophic time-travel experiment gone wrong. As timelines converge and diverge, reality unravels, forcing Alex to embrace their new powers and protect the world

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cadengo
• Release date: Apr 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869345783

Book preview

1

The heavy door of the lecture hall creaked open, a familiar sound that always seemed to resonate with the pulsing thoughts in Alex Emerson's head. As they stepped into the room, a wave of ambient noise washed over them—the collective murmur of students immersed in pre-class discussions about quantum entanglements and the perplexities of spacetime. Alex’s gaze was drawn forward by an invisible tether of anticipation, their mind a hive of buzzing theories and hypotheses, each one vying for validation.

The hall itself was an amphitheater of intellect, its steep tiers filled with the future shapers of scientific thought. Sunlight slanted through high windows, casting elongated shadows across rows of aged desks and the eager occupants who perched on them like birds of prey ready to dive into the meat of knowledge. At the front, standing before a vast blackboard scrawled with equations as if it were a canvas displaying a cryptic piece of art, was Professor Richard Dalton.

Alex moved with purpose down the aisle, the soles of their shoes making faint echoes against the polished wood floor. They settled into a seat, not too close to the front to seem overly zealous, yet near enough to catch every intonation of the professor's voice. Their fingers drummed lightly on the desk, a subconscious rhythm syncing with their racing thoughts on time and reality—those elusive concepts that teased at the edges of human understanding like the ghostly boundaries of the universe.

Professor Dalton, the very image of disheveled genius, adjusted his glasses, which seemed to perpetually teeter on the brink of his nose. His gray hair was a wild tempest that no comb could tame, and his eyes held the spark of someone who had glimpsed the extraordinary and been forever changed by it. Even from a distance, Alex could see the fervor etched into the creases of his face—a map of dedication to unearthing the secrets that lay just beyond the grasp of conventional science.

As the chatter around them began to fade, replaced by the electric silence of anticipation, Alex leaned back in their chair. The room was thick with the potential for discovery, a space where the impossible was merely something yet to be understood. And as Professor Dalton cleared his throat, signaling the beginning of the lecture, Alex felt a kindred spirit in this quest for truth, a certainty that here, in this hall of echoes and enlightenment, the fabric of reality might just unravel enough to offer a glimpse into the unknown.

The lecture hall hushed, every breath held in collective suspense as Professor Dalton's voice rose and fell with the cadence of a mystic deciphering an ancient riddle. Alex Emerson, perched on the edge of their seat, scribbled furiously in their notebook. The graphite of their pencil danced across the paper, each word a step deeper into the labyrinth of quantum mechanics and the enigma of temporal flow.

Time, Professor Dalton proclaimed, is not a river flowing from past to future, but a vast sea where currents run in all directions, where cause and effect can tangle or drift apart.

Alex's brow furrowed, their mind ablaze. They chewed on the end of their pencil—a habit when wrestling with particularly complex concepts. They jotted down equations, symbols that felt like keys to unlocking the constraints of linear progression. Their notes became a mirror to the professor's discourse, reflecting his theories with additional queries and marginalia.

Professor Dalton, Alex interjected, their voice cutting through the silence that followed a profound statement about time's subjective perception. If we accept that time might be non-linear, could deja vu be more than just a feeling? Could it be a brief, conscious experience of this phenomenon?

A murmur rippled through the students, a wave of intrigue stirred by Alex's question. Some nodded thoughtfully, while others exchanged skeptical glances, their academic armor chinked by the boldness of the inquiry.

An interesting hypothesis, Mr. Emerson, Dalton replied, a gleam of approval in his eyes. He leaned against the lectern, engaging directly with Alex as if they were the only two in the room. Perhaps what we dismiss as neurological quirks are indeed glimpses through the veil of chronology.

Around them, discussions broke out in earnest, clusters of students animatedly debating the implications. Alex dove into the fray, their gestures punctuating the air as they theorized with peers, dissecting the fabric of conventional wisdom stitch by stitch. Their questions sparked others, and soon the room was alive with the sound of heated discourse—the kind that thrives in the fertile ground between knowledge and speculation.

Amidst the fervent buzz of intellectual debate, a subtle shift occurred in the periphery of Alex Emerson's vision, drawing their gaze away from the animated cluster of classmates. On a nearby table, a half-filled water bottle stood next to a stack of textbooks—an innocuous fixture in the academic setting. Yet, as Alex watched, perplexed, the bottle quivered slightly before it simply ceased to exist.

No grand spectacle accompanied its departure. One moment tangible, the next an empty space on the wooden surface, the vanishing act was as silent as it was inexplicable. The abrupt absence of the bottle was like a missing word in a sentence, disrupting the flow of comprehension.

Alex blinked, their analytical mind refusing to accept the void where the object once was. They adjusted their glasses, squinting to inspect the spot more closely, but there was no denying the reality—or unreality—of the situation. The bottle was gone.

Did anyone else see that? Alex muttered under their breath, their question lost in the ongoing academic symphony around them. No sleight of hand or trickery could explain this; the laws of physics, as they understood them, did not account for spontaneous disappearance.

Heart drumming a rapid tempo against their ribs, Alex scanned the room for any sign of acknowledgment from their peers, but the lecture hall remained a bastion of debate and discussion, oblivious to the anomaly. For a fleeting second, doubt crept into Alex's mind—had their preoccupation with time's mysteries played a trick on their perception?

Yet the scientist within, that core of curiosity and determination, rallied against the tide of uncertainty. Alex jotted down a quick note, the pencil trembling slightly in their grasp: 11:02 AM – Water bottle vanished. No observable cause.

Their eyes, wide with a blend of fear and fascination, fixed upon the empty space once more, as if sheer willpower could rewind the moment and unveil its secrets.

Alex’s gaze wasn’t the only one drawn towards the empty space on the table; a murmur rippled through the nearby cluster of students. One shrugged, chuckling to his neighbor, Optical illusion, gotta love physics, before redirecting his attention back to the professor's lecture. Another student tilted her head, squinting as if the act could somehow restore the missing object to visibility. She leaned over to the person beside her, whispering something that earned a series of rapid nods.

The reactions varied from indifference to intrigue, yet none displayed the same intensity as Alex's own alarm. Their mind raced, trying to attach logic to the impossible. Across the room, a soft debate broke out, voices low but insistent, as several students traded theories, each more implausible than the last. Some eyed the area with scientific skepticism, while others seemed content to accept the simple explanations that required no mental gymnastics.

As the lecture drew to a close, the room began to empty, most students too engrossed in their own discussions or thoughts to linger on the peculiar incident. But for Alex, the enigma loomed large, dwarfing even the allure of quantum mechanics and relativistic puzzles.

Professor Dalton? Alex called out, their voice steady despite the undercurrent of doubt. The older man paused at the lectern, peering at Alex over the rim of his glasses with an expectant raise of his bushy eyebrows.

Ah, Emerson, isn't it? You've got that look about you, Professor Dalton remarked, a hint of a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Did you see that? During the lecture—the water bottle? Alex asked, trying to keep their tone light, though their eyes betrayed a hunger for answers.

See what, my dear student? Dalton feigned ignorance, shuffling papers into a leather-bound briefcase, not quite meeting Alex's gaze.

The disappearance, Alex pressed, stepping closer. It was there, then it wasn't. No one touched it. Surely, there must be an explanation.

Ah, the vanishing act, Dalton said, finally looking up. Curious, isn't it? The world is full of such mysteries. Sometimes, the fabric of reality wears thin, and things slip through. His voice was nonchalant, but his eyes held a spark that suggested a deeper knowledge.

Slip through? Alex echoed, the term snagging on their curiosity like a hook.

Metaphorically speaking, of course, Dalton added quickly, a dismissive wave accompanying his words. The human eye is easily deceived. Tricks of light and shadow are common in this old building. I wouldn't dwell on it.

But Alex sensed the calculated evasion in Dalton's tone, the way he avoided elaboration. They watched as the professor shouldered his bag, preparing to leave the hall, and knew that beneath the guise of academic detachment, there lay tantalizing secrets. Secrets that Alex was determined to uncover.

The sun dipped below the horizon as Alex found themself pacing the length of Jen's dorm room, their steps quick and erratic like the thoughts tumbling through their mind. Shadows played across Jen's concerned face, her eyes following Alex's every move.

Alex, you're going to wear a trench in my carpet, Jen chided with a gentle laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes. She patted the space beside her on the bed, an unspoken invitation for Alex to sit and unload their burden.

Heaving a sigh, Alex acquiesced, collapsing next to Jen with an air of defeat. Jen, it was like reality glitched, they began, their voice low and urgent. One second, that water bottle was there, and then it just—vanished.

Jen's brow furrowed, the playfulness gone as she leaned in, her demeanor shifting to one of earnest concern. Vanished? she echoed, the word feeling foreign on her lips.

Completely. And Professor Dalton just brushed it off like it was nothing! Alex's hands gestured wildly, their glasses slipping down the bridge of their nose. But I can't shake this feeling, Jen. It's like... like we're on the edge of something inexplicable.

Silence hung between them, thick and palpable. Jen reached over, her fingers lightly adjusting Alex's glasses with practiced ease. So, what are you thinking? Parallel universes? Time anomalies? she ventured, her tone playful but her gaze sharp and attentive.

Maybe, Alex murmured, their thoughts racing faster than they could articulate. It's as if time itself is warping around us.

Jen nodded, though the concepts danced just beyond her full comprehension. You've always had a knack for seeing beyond the surface, she said, her words laced with admiration. If anyone can figure this out, it's you, Alex.

Thanks, Jen, Alex replied, a fleeting smile crossing their lips. I just don't know where to start.

Start where you always do, Jen suggested, her encouragement as warm as the blanket she pulled around their shoulders. Research, observations, testing your theories. You're not alone in this, okay? I'm here. We'll tackle this one step at a time.

Even if it means chasing shadows? Alex asked, their eyes meeting Jen's steady gaze.

Especially then, Jen affirmed, her smile unwavering. We all need a little mystery in our lives, right?

Alex felt the tension seep from their body, fortified by Jen's unwavering support. They knew the path ahead would be fraught with questions and uncertainty, but with Jen's belief buoying their spirits, the unknown seemed less daunting. Together, they'd delve into the enigmatic folds of reality, whatever that meant or wherever it led.

The sun had not yet climbed high enough to chase away the morning chill, casting long shadows across the campus as Alex hurried toward the physics building. They stopped in their tracks, a frown creasing their brow. The building loomed unfamiliar, its facade altered overnight. Where there once stood a modern structure of glass and steel, now there was an addition of ornate stonework that curved into arches over the windows—an architectural impossibility.

Did they renovate the building in one night? Alex muttered to themselves, incredulous. With each step closer, the weight of certainty pressed upon them; this was no renovation. The building's very essence had shifted, a silent sentinel now bearing witness to a reality that defied logic.

Other students passed by, some pausing to gawk at the edifice before shaking their heads and moving on. Whispers fluttered in the air, questioning glances exchanged, but none seemed to grasp the magnitude of the change. To Alex, however, the implications stretched far beyond mere aesthetics—it was as if the threads of the familiar tapestry of their world were unraveling.

With a deep breath, Alex pulled out their phone, snapping pictures from various angles. Evidence. Their heart pounded with a mix of fear and exhilaration. This wasn't just a curiosity anymore; it was a calling. They needed to understand how and why reality itself appeared malleable.

Focus, Alex whispered, channeling their inner turmoil into resolve. The Mandela Effect—a phenomenon where a large number of people remember something differently than how it occurred—echoed in their mind as a plausible theory. But theories required evidence, correlations, explanations.

Back in their dorm, amidst a sprawl of textbooks and scattered papers, Alex began their meticulous research. On their laptop, multiple tabs opened to forums discussing timeline shifts, quantum mechanics, and alternate realities. They jotted down notes, charting out incidents similar to what they experienced, searching for patterns or triggers.

Something fundamental is wrong, they murmured, poring over articles about collective false memories and theoretical physics. The setting sun cast a golden glow through the window, hours slipping by unnoticed. Alex's focus didn't waver; they were on the precipice of something monumental.

Is reality a fixed stream or a delta of diverging currents? they pondered aloud, their voice steady despite the gravity of the question. They were aware that the journey ahead would be filled with twists and turns, doubt and obstacles. Nevertheless, their determination to uncover the truth propelled them onward. If reality was shifting, they would find the fulcrum of change.

Proof, Alex typed into the search bar, seeking anyone who might have documented changes like the ones they witnessed. They leaned back, eyes scanning the screen, determination etched into every line of their face. The anomalies they'd seen weren't random; they were breadcrumbs on a trail that led to an unsettling and profound discovery. Alex was ready to follow it, wherever it may lead.

2

Alex's pace quickened as they crossed the campus, their footsteps creating a rhythmic echo against the cobblestone pathway that cut through the scenic green. A crisp breeze toyed with the edges of their coat, but they hardly noticed, so deeply were they entrenched in their latest conundrum. Their brow furrowed behind the lens of their glasses, eyes distant and focused not on the path ahead but on the abstract planes of thought where time twisted and reality bent.

The concept of linear time had become a maze without an exit in Alex's mind, each theory branching into another, more complex than the last. They mulled over equations and paradoxes, their mental cogs whirring with the energy of unquenchable curiosity. The world around them—the chatter of students, the rustle of leaves—faded to a mere backdrop for the silent film that was their contemplation.

As they passed the central courtyard, Alex's gaze inadvertently swept over the towering figure of the Founder's Statue—a tribute carved from marble that watched over the scholars of the institution like a silent, steadfast guardian. The statue's countenance, a visage etched with wisdom and resolve, seemed to pierce through the veil of time itself. Its chiseled features, from the gentle creases around the eyes to the determined set of the jaw, spoke volumes of the permanence it represented.

Every detail of the sculpture was familiar to Alex; they had walked by it countless times. Yet today, they took a moment to observe how the afternoon sun cast deep shadows across its surface, highlighting the intricate craftsmanship of the sculptor. The folds of the Founder's robe appeared almost fluid in stone, a testament to the artist’s skill, while the outstretched hand holding a book symbolized an eternal pursuit of knowledge.

It stood immutable, a bastion against the inexorable march of hours and days, months and years—a stark contrast to the fluidity of Alex's thoughts. In the presence of such stillness, Alex's racing mind found an odd sense of anchorage, if only for a fleeting second. Here was an anchor in the physical world, a point of reference that defied the relentless forward push of time as understood by most.

But it wasn't just the statue's artistic merit that captured Alex's attention today—it was what it represented amidst their maelstrom of theories: enduring existence, a fixed point in a universe they were starting to perceive as anything but constant.

Alex's gaze lingered on the statue, the embodiment of permanence amidst a campus alive with the hustle of transient students. A squirrel darted at the base of the monument, its tiny claws scraping against the stone. And then, without warning, the world skewed.

The hand that had been eternally poised in mid-gesture, fingers curled around the spine of a granite book, uncoiled. The stone