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making them seem not unlike trophies within a display case.
Garret House immediately transformed from a faceless
name into a monstrous identity—Mister Hide.
My heart leapt so hard with unrestrained delight that I
wondered if its frantic clapping had compromised my quiet.
My fellow artist was a monster of a man who exchanged
the skins of his victims with the hides of other creatures—
creatures that he believed better suited the nature of his
victims. He had once reupholstered an entire room of
bankers with the pink leathers of swine.
It occurred to me to challenge the Flesh Weaver’s
assumptions concerning the Unbegotton’s endgame—the
world was becoming absorbed in dream, as it should be.
Here I was, confronted by a killer who obsessed over the
appropriate skinning of both man and beast, and in the waking
world I had been met by a beast who was itself a fusion of
untold numbers of reconstituted skins. The Deadworld had
become merely a symbol for dreams to come, a signpost for
wonders waiting to be dreamed into existence.
Unfortunately, I should have been a little less delighted by
my surroundings and a bit more observant, as something had
drawn close to me, undetected. “Another interloper, I see,”
sounded a voice made of rock and deep places. “What name
has the waking world given you, my scripted opponent and
future victim? Wait just a minute now, that impressive axe of
yours has already given you away, I think. Why, you’re the
Family Man, aren’t you?”
I turned around to see a massive man, every inch as large
and powerfully built as myself, dressed in the skins of men.
By his sides hung two great skinning knives, every inch the
size and sharpness of my sisters. “Indeed, I am,” I replied.
“And you, my friend, must be the infamous Mister Hide. My
compliments on such a wonderful dream. I’ve been hosted
by many of my victims’ nightmares, and I must admit, yours
is by far the most splendid.” My sisters emerged from their

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