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CHAPTER ELEVEN

The funny thing about the next name on the list was that
I already knew it, as did most people. Tom Hush lurked
the labyrinthine hallways of darkest folklore, having done
so for as long as I could recall. My first inclination was to
assume copycat had taken the name for himself, spreading
nightmares behind a lushly antlered mask. Yet, of the many
killers I knew to be roaming the countryside, I could think of
none brazen enough to take up the name. Of course, the title
could simply belong to a man with a wonderfully folkloric
name, having nothing in common with the infamous daemon
at all. But the chorus of whispers that purred behind my
thoughts said differently.
I shrugged off the hungry shadows and smoldering ruins
of Lastrygone, leaving it to the oblivion I’d fashioned for it.
I made my way westward for several days, hoping to learn
more about the myth of Tom Hush, as my dreams had been
disappointingly absent of any meaningful signposts—of
late, they had been concerned only with the wonderfully
dark subjects that typically populated them.
As I passed town after town, deliberately avoiding large
cities and their inherent loathsomeness, I analyzed the
arrangement I had—perhaps rashly—entered. I was now
killing on a mystery’s behalf, hoping dreams would flood
from the wounds I inflicted upon the Deadworld. But after
the many deaths fashioned by my own two hands, I could

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