Page 14 of Dreamscape Therapies

Shane Crowley

My adoptive brother and the best detective I know.

The Crowleys took me in when I was eight years old, after my biological parents decided they didn’t want a kid who could manipulate dreams. Shane was ten at the time, but he was the first person in that house to decide I wasn’t a problem that needed fixing.

He was just my annoying older brother who taught me how to ride a bike and beat up anyone who called me a freak. He helped me through middle school and high school. He stayed up with me during my PhD program when I was convinced I’d never finish. He talked me through every breakup, every crisis, and every three-in-the-morning panic attack. He’s been on my side since we met.

If anyone can help me figure out who’s tormenting Vincent, it’s Shane.

As a detective, he has access to resources I don’t have and connections throughout the supernatural community that would take me years to build.

I could call him right now. I know he’d answer. He always does. But what would I even say?

Hey, Shane. I need you to investigate someone who’s using dream magic to torture my client with yarn-themed nightmares.

No, I don’t know who.

No, I don’t have any leads.

Yes, I’m aware that sounds insane.

I sigh, locking my phone. I can’t call him yet.

I don’t even know what kind of entity I’m dealing with, let alone who might be behind it or why they’re targeting Vincent specifically. All I have is an exhausted patient, a bizarre collection of supernatural possibilities, and an increasingly unhealthy obsession with figuring it out.

I need something more concrete before I involve Shane. Something a little more useful than there’s yarn and he’s really tired.

I’ll research some more, narrow down the possibilities, and then I’ll call him with actual useful information.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, shutting my laptop with more force than necessary.

I scrub both hands down my face and lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling fan turning lazily overhead.

My back aches from sitting hunched over my keyboard for so long.

Finally, I push away from the desk and stretch my arms high above my head.

I’m grateful I decided to work in my room tonight because the thought of climbing the rickety stairs tonight feels impossible all of a sudden.

I go through my nightly routine on autopilot. Shower. Teeth. Dirty clothes down the laundry chute. Lights off. Bed.

My head barely touches the pillow before my brain starts up again.

The yarn. The unknown watcher. The interrupted sleep cycles.

What entity works with yarn and why would they want to keep this particular man awake?

I roll onto my side, then onto my back, and over to my other side.

I groan loudly into the darkness.

My mind won’t shut up.

“You are way too invested in a man you barely know,” I whisper to myself.

I bury my face in my pillow, hoping to smother that line of thinking.

This is ridiculous. I’m a professional. I’ve dealt with all manner of nightmares, dream parasites, sleepwalkers, and enough supernatural nonsense to fill several textbooks, and somehow, the thing keeping me awake tonight is an older alpha Skinwalker with a messy beard and sad eyes.