Page 21 of Dreamscape Therapies

I keep walking. My heart is starting to pound.

The aisles twist upward into knitted tunnels. Yarn hangs in curtains from the ceiling. Massive webs made from thick braided wool stretch between towering shelves.

Somewhere above me, something enormous moves.

THUNK.

The ground shakes beneath my feet.

Oh no.

THUNK.

Dust drifts from the ceiling.

THUNK.

The spiders around me begin to panic.

"Oh no," they whisper, skating frantically toward the exits. "Management is awake."

The ceiling tears open.

A colossal creature descends from the darkness above.

My breath catches in my throat. I can't move. Can't think.

It's part spider, part centipede, part tangled pile of knitting supplies. Its body is wrapped in endless layers of yarn and unfinished scarves. Dozens of glowing button-eyes blink independently across its face. Massive knitting needles jut from its back like spears.

Its legs don't tap against the floor. They sew. Each step stitches reality together behind it.

I'm frozen. Completely frozen.

The monster lowers its gigantic head toward a crooked web hanging between two shelves. It glares at a single loose stitch.

The creature lets out a deep, offended hiss.

Then it pulls an industrial-sized crochet hook from somewhere and begins repairing the web at lightning speed.

"Who anchored this with a half-double crochet?" it mutters, the hook moving impossibly fast. "Who would do this? Who fucked with the tension?"

A spider with glasses points directly at me and screams, "IT WAS ARNOLD!"

"I'm not Arnold!" I shout, but the creature is already roaring.

The sound shakes the entire store.

Run. I need to run.

But my feet won't move.

Somewhere in the distance, a tiny bell rings. "Code orange. Structural unraveling in produce."

The ground shifts beneath me. A loose thread catches on my shoe.

The entire grocery store starts unraveling.

Shelves collapse into spirals of yarn. Spider employees scream as they surf the collapsing webs. The floor buckles. The ceiling caves.