Page 22 of Dreamscape Therapies

I'm falling.

No. Not falling. Sinking.

Yarn wraps around my ankles. My knees. My waist.

The mysterious shadow appears again high above the chaos, standing silently atop a dangling bridge of black thread. Watching. Always watching.

The being roars again, ripping a giant hole into the yarn universe with its claws.

The last thing I see is the shadow disappearing into the void.

Chapter Ten

Jay

Vincent wakes with a gasp, jerking upright on the couch; his chest heaving, and eyes darting wildly around the office. For a second, he looks like he's still trapped in the dream, caught somewhere between my office and that endless yarn nightmare.

I know exactly what he saw because I was there for all of it. The crocheted grocery store. The endless tunnels of thread twisting in impossible directions. The giant Weaver dragging silver strands through clawed hands while that shadowy figure watched everything from somewhere beyond.

“Hey.” I crouch beside the couch, keeping my voice low. “You're okay. You're here. Everything is fine.”

Vincent's blue eyes finally find mine and they're wide with terror. I reach toward him carefully, intending nothing more than to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

The second my fingers brush his arm, he grabs me.

Hard.

His hand closes around my wrist, and then he's pulling me toward him like I'm the only solid thing left in the world. My heart does a little kickflip. I probably shouldn't be this affected by a client grabbing me, but then I remember what I saw in his dream, and all I want to do is make sure he's okay. I gently run my fingers through his messy hair and rub slow circles between his shoulder blades.

“You're okay,” I murmur as he presses his face against my shoulder. “No evil yarn dimensions. No giant monster. No spiders stocking groceries.”

A weak, breathless laugh escapes him.

Good, that's something, at least.

I keep talking quietly, grounding him in the room. “You're in my office. This is real. You're safe. The shadow person isn't here.”

His breathing slowly begins to settle and the tension drains from his body inch by inch until he slumps against the cushions, looking completely exhausted.

Then the tears start.

I was waiting for this. Someone can only hold themselves together and be so strong for so long.

“I just want to sleep,” he says miserably, his voice cracking. “Why can't I just sleep?”

My chest hurts for him. This is the hardest part of these sessions. You would think it was the nightmares, but it’s not. It’s the hopelessness and endless exhaustion. It’s the fear that this will never end; that he’ll keep waking up like this every night until he can’t remember what it feels like to be rested.

Without thinking, I sit beside him and pull him against my side and he folds into me immediately. His big body somehow seems smaller when he's like this, all that strength disappearing beneath the weight of weeks of sleepless nights. I keep rubbing his back while mentally replaying the dream.

The Weaver.

The yarn.

The shadow.

Someone is controlling the Weaver, or at least directing them.

I’m sure there are dozens of Weavers in Nevada, which means narrowing down the list is going to be a nightmare in itself.