Okay.
Keep your cool. There is a rational explanation for this. You close your eyes and think hard.
The place seems pretty peaceful, which is definitely Heavenish. Nothing's on fire (although that house looks pretty flammable), which is uncharacteristic of the other place.
On the other hand, no angels, no St. Peter, and no trumpets. You think you may have heard a bell of some kind before you died but that could easily have been the sound of the butler's heel shattering your face. Also, graves. You're pretty sure there isn't a huge demand in Heaven for places to bury people.
Some people might be into that kind of thing, though. You're in no position to judge.
You're getting off-track, you realize. You're not in Heaven, you're not in Hell, and you're definitely dead. That just leaves one possibility.
"So this is Purgatory, eh? I figured there'd be more grey mist and lecturing."
The Doll looks even more confused now. You are as well; you led a fairly righteous life and figured you hadn't done anything to warrant a few centuries in the waiting room.
Was it the collateral damage and your near-fetishistic pursuit of violence? It was probably the collateral damage and your near-fetishistic pursuit of violence.
"You are in the Dream, good hunter. Did you not sign the contract?"
Contract? You had a living will, of course, but that was just to make sure your bayonet collection got passed on to Yumi and that Maxwell got a boot to the head if he managed to outlive you. You're pretty sure it didn't have any stipulations that your spirit be shacked up with Pinocchio's MILF.
"Lass, I'm dead, not dreaming. What in the Protestant Hell is goin' on here?" You're getting annoyed. When you get annoyed, you stab things.
Before you can figure out what to stab, though, something tugs on your pant leg. Instinctively, you raise your heel to stomp on it, which you've done on principle ever since your run-in with the Mongolian Death Worms, but the sight that greets you when you look down is enough to freeze you.
There are tiny, shriveled men with vaginas for mouths coming out of the ground. At least you think they're vaginas; the Catholic Church was never big on sex ed. The ones that aren't grabbing you are hurriedly unfurling a scroll. As you watch them, the letters upon the paper shine.
"To escape this dreadful Hunter's Dream, halt the source of the spreading scourge of beasts, lest the night carry on forever."
You're about to stomp them for being cryptic when you hear a giggle from a foot above your head. The Doll is looking fondly at them, like a pet owner watching her cat play with a squeaky toy.
"The little ones are very eager to help you. They are not always so welcoming towards new hunters."
By now, you're not angry. You're just confused. Nothing makes sense and you're fairly certain that your standard solution of ramming bayonets into every moving object until the situation resolves itself won't pay dividends. The Doll composes herself and places a hand on your shoulder. It's warmer than it should be and you're acutely aware that she's breathing.
"If you did not come to us from Yharnam, then I know not how you arrived here. But know this, good hunter: I am merely a Doll, but I am here to look after you."
She smiles warmly. It's one of the first true smiles you've seen in years and it's on the face of a fake woman.
"Speak to Gehrman, up in the house. He will know more, I'm sure."
As you turn to follow her pointing finger, you see her start out of the corner of your eye, covering her mouth with her fingers.
"I am dreadfully sorry; I have forgotten my manners entirely. Might I ask your name, good hunter?"
"Father Alexander Anderson," you answer.
She curtsies, the top of her head still reaching your chin even as she dips low.
"Then I welcome you to the Hunter's Dream, Hunter Anderson."
[] All your cryin' don't do no good. Come on up to the house.
[] Demand further explanation from the Doll. This shit is cray.
[] Wander a bit first. You think you see some of the little vagina-men in a birdbath nearby.
[] Write in...
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