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dream any longer, it died into a commanding silence, as
though by the authority of dead kings.
The now vanished dream undoubtedly belonged to Mister
Trill, of that I was largely certain. It was simply logical to
assume the supernaturalism surrounding the list and the
persons named within it were connected. But that was only
logic, just mindless, meandering connections. There was
also an unscientific connection, thankfully, one that I could
feel in my bones, granting me knowledge through mystery
rather than matter. This deeper intimation scored the name
of the dreamer into the dream, and I was now wiser for it.
I went back inside, deciding to sleep in the residence
hosting my most recent work, before heading to the
church. I hoped to chase down my quarry’s dream before
it disappeared too deeply into sleep. Settling on the small
bed, I proudly looked upon the congealing piece I’d created
earlier—out of a man who lived only to supply misery its
living equivalents. But now, wonder—as much as I could
coax from so sorry a subject—reclaimed the spaces once
filled by so much loitering debris. Had the glistening piece
still possessed them, I’m confident its eyes would have
shined with an abundance of gratitude. With that vision in
mind, I drifted into slumber.

***

Unfortunately, I wasn’t brought any closer to the desired
dream, but I did manage to glimpse something sleeping
beneath Suttercraft. I saw strange coffins nestled in deep
earth, waiting like monsters under a child’s bed. Far deeper
into the black soil, within a stratum of earth so old it was
little more than liquid darkness, I spied a casket the size of
the entire city. The dream conducted me beyond the petrified
wood of its construction, allowing me to peer at the thing
within. Rotting and waiting within that damp, titanic box

24 | Mark Anzalone