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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

When I awoke from the dream of Mister Hide, I could smell
the distinct aroma of burning flesh. Apparently, there were
some lingering fibers of the killing dream still clinging to
my father, indulging his penchant for distilling fire from
fury. The flesh cocoon ignited from its mere proximity to
my father’s ill temperament. Not one to look a gift horse in
the mouth, I decided to use my burning father to awaken my
captor.
I emerged from my fleshy bonds, wrapped in fire and
dream. The firelight moved into the deep hole to which
the Flesh Weaver had retired. I could see him, an utter
chaos of parts, hunkered down into itself. Like my father’s
deadly blade, my strength was still attached to the Red
Dream. I cleared the intervening distance between myself
and the Weaver in a single bound. My father seethed with
dissatisfaction at the monster that slept when it should have
been dying.
The narrower space of the Weaver’s home focused the
light of my father, and I could see the crouching horror that
had recoiled into itself like some gigantic spider within its
sanctum of web and shadow. I don’t know how many sets
of eyes opened upon me as I descended, bearing fire, blade,
and lingering nightmare. And while the creature possessed
a wealth of toothy maws, the scream that ripped loose from
them was dreadfully uniform.

214 | Mark Anzalone