Page 8 of Dreamscape Therapies

Then, my hook catches.

I tug once. Twice.

It doesn't move.

Of course. Of fucking course my line gets stuck on my first cast.

I slowly reel it in, but it feels… off. Not like a fishing line. Softer. Fuzzy.

I stop reeling and take a closer look.

The line isn't fishing line at all.

It's yarn.

Thick navy blue yarn disappearing beneath the water.

Oh, no. Not again.

I pull harder, and something beneath the lake shifts, the surface rippling strangely. It's not moving like normal water, but like fabric being shaken out.

The fog begins to unravel. Like, literally unravel. Loose strands drift through the air in pale gray curls, catching on my sleeves. When I brush them away, they cling to my fingers.

The dock no longer creaks beneath me, and looking down, I understand why the sound has been muffled. The wood grain has changed—huge braided stitches running beneath my boots. Thick ropes of brown yarn are woven tightly enough to hold my weight.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Dark blue yarn stretches endlessly before me, looping and tangling in slow waves.

The small fishing boat from earlier drifts closer, revealing the person inside it.

He's not fishing. No. He's... knitting?

He doesn't look at me, just continues knitting directly from the lake itself, pulling strands from the water with scary efficiency.

Someone watches from along the bank of the lake, but every time I turn my head, they disappear. I spin around, trying to catch them, but they're always just out of sight.

The trees along the shoreline bend unnaturally as, one by one, they unravel. Pine needles loosen into green thread. Bark peels apart like braided fibers. Entire trunks collapse into piles of tangled yarn with soft THUMPS against the ground.

Underneath the trees is more yarn. Everything is yarn. The dirt. The rocks. The sky. Even the clouds above are crocheted together in thick looping stitches, slowly coming undone at the seams.

My fishing pole bends suddenly, yanking so hard I stumble.

Something has taken the hook.

Before I can react, the line yanks violently, and the entire lake tightens to form a firm surface.

The weaver finally looks up. I still can't see its face under the knitted veils, but I know they're looking right at me.

"You shouldn't pull on loose ends," they say in a deep, muffled voice.

Then the world begins to unravel all around me.

Chapter Four

Vincent

I wake up gasping, my heart trying to punch its way out of my chest. The room spins, and for one terrifying second, I have no idea where I am.