Page 2 of Dreamscape Therapies

“What the fuck?” I repeat, because really. What the fuck is going on?

The characters run, except the hallway isn’t a hallway anymore. It’s a cushioned nightmare made entirely of yarn. The walls pulse with tightly stitched patterns. Giant silver knitting needles click overhead like insect legs, stabbing in and out of the ceiling.

Some scream, desperate to escape, but the sound is swallowed almost instantly by the walls. Soft wool closes around their mouths, muffling the yell even more.

I reach for more popcorn, my fingers digging through the bowl. Instead of delicious buttery kernels, I grab a tiny ball of yarn. It’s warm, like it’s fresh out of the dryer.

I drop it, and it lands in the bowl without a sound.

The static on the television grows louder. A high-pitched hiss fills the room. The camera in the movie races toward a closed closet door.

The music builds.

The characters scream.

“Don’t open it,” I whisper.

Slowly, almost painfully, it opens.

There is no closet behind it, only an endless yarn store.

Towering shelves stretch into the darkness, packed with skeins arranged by color. Deep reds bleed into oranges. Blues melt into purples. Greens fade into black. The aisles go on forever.

Something moves between the rows. It’s tall and dragging its feet.

I lean closer to the TV, hoping to see what it is more clearly.

The screen flickers, flipping between gray and black and white.

Then yarn starts coming out of it. One strand slips through the glass, followed by another, then another. Then dozens more. Thick loops of yarn spill into the room, crawling across the floor like living things.

One wraps around my ankle, and I jerk backward. Another coils around my wrist. It’s soft, almost comforting, until it tightens horribly. I yank against it, but it doesn’t let go.

The couch beneath me shifts. The cushions are no longer cushions, but crocheted granny squares sewn together, creating a hammock-like structure. My fingers sink into the thick stitches, and then it starts unraveling around me.

“No,” I whisper, pulling desperately at the restraints.

The room pulls with me. Everything is yarn. The walls. The ceiling. Everything. Even the rain outside is yarn, falling in long strands to puddle on the ground.

Something moves in the corner, and I turn, expecting the worst.

The killer steps out of the television, but he isn’t holding an axe anymore. Instead, he wields a crochet hook like a machete. His mask is gone, and in its place is a face made entirely of black yarn, with yellow stitched into a wide, crooked smile.

He tilts his head menacingly. “You really should’ve fixed that stitch,” he says in a soft, almost gentle voice.

He gets closer, the crochet hook dragging along the floor.

Click.

Click.

Click.

I pull against the yarn until my wrists burn from the effort, my skin peeling off from the tight bonds.

He keeps moving.

Closer.