“The name doesn’t matter. It’s your kingdom, Andy,” the well-dressed, chiseled-jawed man said from across the table. I felt my feet tremble in my dress shoes, my nicest ones, for my father’s funeral. Just hours before, I was looking at his body. Now, I was at the will reading, being told I was the heir to his kingdom and throne.

He had never mentioned a kingdom or a throne. He had always been a quiet, reserved man, but a good enough father. I didn’t have many bad memories with him. My brother was another story and he wasn’t at the will reading since he hadn’t been named. I thanked my father for that. But I wondered why he never mentioned leaving me this throne.

“So, what’s next?” I asked. It was also my 30th birthday and I had plans to meet up with friends after the due diligence of funeral rites.

“Next is, you go there.”

“How do I do that? Where is it?”

“Close your eyes, I guess,” the lawyer replied. It struck me as odd but I did it anyway, and when I opened them again I found myself not in my father’s kingdom, but in a rocking chair in a safe house, staring at decaying walls and hearing the screams of decaying minds. A kingdom all my own. He had really left it all to me.