Page 54 of Dreamscape Therapies

The music begins to distort, the notes stretching into something slow and warped that barely resembles the song that was playing moments ago.

The scene repeats itself over and over again.

The woman at the table laughs again at exactly the same interval, and Eric continues throwing his dart, hitting the same bullseye with mechanical precision. The waitress who passed us a moment ago walks past again carrying the exact same tray, wearing the exact same expression, as though the dream has become trapped inside a loop it can't escape.

Vincent watches the room with growing confusion.

"Jay?"

"I'm right here, Jagiya."

The wooden tables begin to soften beneath us. Their solid surfaces sag and ripple, losing their shape as they turn into tangled cushions of thread. The booths along the walls collapse inward, their upholstery stretching into long strands that spill onto the floor. Even the polished wood beneath my hands feels different, soft and strangely elastic, as though the entire bar is being pulled apart and rewoven into something else.

Vincent takes another step backward.

I turn toward the shelves behind the bar just as the liquor bottles begin to change. The glass stretches upward and then disappears entirely. In their place are enormous spools of yarn. Red. Blue. Green. Pink. Black. Gold. Dozens of them fill the shelves, some small enough to fit in the palm of my hand and others large enough to wrap around a person.

Vincent reaches toward one without thinking.

"Don't."

My warning comes too late.

His fingertips brush the fibers, and the spool gives a small twitch as the yarn begins winding itself around his hand. Vincent jerks backward, but the strand tightens around his wrist.

"Jay," he squeaks, panic filling his voice.

I grab for it, but my fingers pass straight through.

This isn't my dream.

I'm an observer here, a visitor inside someone else's subconscious. I can guide Vincent when he's lucid enough to listen to me, but I can't simply reach into his mind and tear apart whatever is attacking him.

I knew that before I came here, but knowing it intellectually and watching it happen in front of me are two very different things.

The yarn climbs higher, winding around Vincent's arm and then his other wrist. He tries to pull free, but every movement seems to give the threads something else to grab. Another strand wraps around his shoulder, followed by another around his chest.

"Vincent, stop fighting it."

He's terrified. "No!" He twists violently, trying to tear the fibers away, but the yarn only tightens. It crawls across his chest and shoulders, winding around him faster and faster until his movements become frantic.

"Vincent, look at me."

His eyes find mine. They're wide with fear. "Help me,” he begs, tears in his eyes.

I reach for him again even though I know it won't work. My hand closes around the yarn and passes through it like smoke. I can't feel it. I can't pull it. I can't even slow it down.

Another strand wraps around Vincent's throat, jerking his head backward. He claws desperately at the fibers, but there are too many now. They're covering his torso and legs, winding around his neck and climbing toward his face until only his eyes remain visible.

And those eyes are terrified.

His fear pours through the dream so strongly that for a moment I can't tell where his panic ends and mine begins. My chest tightens, my hands start shaking, and every instinct I have is screaming at me to do something.

But panic won't help him.

There has to be a reason this is happening.

If I can understand what the Weaver wants, maybe I can find a way to stop it.