The next few hours were a slurried blur of unwanted turns of circumstance, and they came in like a whirlwind. The heat was overwhelming — the heat of the sun and that of a fire were shatteringly different juxtaposed like this. Murphy was still; frozen. 

The Moisture Man snapped his fingers and demanded, in his own cold, inhuman way, for the people of the town to bring their valuables to the front, where he had laid down a blanket onto the ground. One by one, the people all took turns setting a single item onto the ground. Money, possessions, relics — anything they would take. Murphy winced when he spotted Ms. Grelch stumble forward and offer the Moisture Man a beautifully etched chalice made from wood, only for him to slap it out of her hands and furiously demand that she bring him something made from metals.

Murphy didn’t know what futility was…until this moment. It was what the entrapped tick felt in the moments before being swallowed by the spider: overwhelming, liquid dread. As the Moisture Man returned to the car, and the Torch-Man followed closely behind, Murphy could hardly move. Everybody was stationary, but not in the same way he was — the way he stood still against the midday light was reminiscent of an unkillable Achilles who had taken an arrow to the heel, shocked and unraveled.

Eventually, however, his unwellness outweighed his shock, and he moved. He shook his head, twisting and turning his body all about (he wanted to pull the skin right off of his body). After a few moments, he was on the ground, more dust spreading across his body and kicking into the air as he writhed. He clenched his teeth and let a resounding shriek emerge from his mouth — if he could not keep his people safe, then what person or thing on Earth could? He could not unwrite the Torch-Man, as it was a thing of a man! It was a mass, a conglomerate of misery and fear, it was the limit — or wherever it was, it served the limit.

Staring up at the sky, he felt a well of dread boring into his stomach and clutched tightly to the ground. He felt, suddenly and all at once, that if he was not careful, he might fall into the sky and be swallowed up into its upward depths. Murphy knew dread, and in this moment, dread knew him; the rest of the world was silent as his misery grew and swallowed him whole until he was no longer in control.

The last thing he could remember was Leonard, one of the older citizens, staring teary-eyed at the burning wreckage of the home. In his eyes, Murphy saw the unmistakable embers of blame – he was not the only one who knew it was his fault.

First, there was hearing.  He could hear the crickets, mostly. They chirped like flickering green lights on the horizon. Unusually, he heard the distant sound of a shoreline. And most disturbingly, he heard the crunch of footsteps.

When he sat up, he beheld something he wished he hadn’t. It was some human-esque thing, dressed in dark gray clothing. They had a wide-brimmed cap and a pinstripe suit. They were thin and roughly the same height as Murphy. In one hand, they held a pair of shears, and in the other, a fine syringe made from pointed glass. When they turned their head to the side to behold Murphy, he jumped. Their head was covered by more gray fabric — they were faceless, in essence.

All around them, Murphy realized he was in a lush garden. There was a small pond lying nearby with big, tall grass. The grass was thick, green and matted on the ground in a fashion some might have found overgrown, but which Murphy found fantastical. There were cattails and flowers growing out of the water, and at the very center of the water, the bright blue surface shimmered and sparkled as it sputtered slowly in the midday light. Looking upward, the sky was a shocking, icy blue as it always was. When he looked at it, he saw a confused brightness that hurt to look at. He chose not to pay it any mind.

Slowly rising upward (he found it quite a chore to rise), it was as though the matted grass clutched closely to him like an old friend afraid to say goodbye, or a new friend who desperately wanted to. He realized what the gray figure was doing. They were pacing up and down the grass, using the shears to cut the heads off of all the flowers. One by one, each head fell to the ground. Murphy furrowed his brow — he was dizzy, and it was as though he was taller than before and was challenged to familiarize himself with his new gravity. Struggling to keep himself steady, he glanced at the figure.

`“… I’m sure you have a few questions, Murphy. You always do… it’s a bit funny, really, how often you have something to ask. Like knowing another thing will answer a question. Facts don’t answer questions, they fuel the search. A face and an answer, they’re so much different.. I wonder what’ll happen when you realize that fact.”

Their voice cut through the serene landscape like a fist to a keyboard. His voice was nasally, and a bit weak. It didn’t sound familiar — just… odd. He took a deep breath, inquisitively gated in his manner as he slowly approached the current situation.

“I’m…” Murphy began, only to be cut off. “…grateful, for the present situation, I’m sure… a refuge, from.. No. I’m sure you don’t want to discuss it.”  

He flinched, slightly, being cut off wasn’t something he enjoyed. 

“Well… I-” 

But again, the voice interrupted: 

“Hah! You’re Murphy. Looking for a role… that’s what you were, hm? Maybe having one was a heaven for you…” 

Murphy shook his head, but the movement of the breeze and the airy sensation to his movements left him feeling confused and unsure, a contrast to his usual pointed and confident demeanor. 

“Yes, but I’m…” And, “But what’s a man, really? He can’t just be his accomplishments… An unaccomplished man isn’t nothing. He touched hearts. Love seems to be a relevant component, you know…”

And yet, none of this was right, was it? It was as though everything was alive — the grass clinging to him, the bright sky with no sun and the strange movement of the air, which seemed to guide him and resist. It was not something he wished to be complacent with, so with a mighty roar as he stepped forward, Murphy exclaimed: 

“Well, would you at the very least leave the damn flowers unfettered? What’ve they done?”

But the gray figure only giggled, continuing gleefully. Murphy continued. 

“Who are you, anyway? A fool? A trickster? A madman? No man who speaks like you knows what’s real and what isn’t — nobody!”

And then, the gray figure spun around on his heel and grabbed Murphy by the throat — holding him, with strength that betrayed his size, above the ground. The matted grass seemed to move, ripping open and revealing worms, which emerged wriggling across the surface as the pond turned dark, opaque red. 

“I am the Blood Man, and I shall have you heed my word, rat… the earth is the oldest woman, and you shall drown in her blood.”

Murphy awoke on his side, the crickets still chirping. A great big wave of dread washed through his head, panging back & forth as he beheld his dream. He was outside — his head resting on the ground. His ear, pressed against the ground, ached from the pressure, and he could hardly see out of it. On the horizon, he could barely make out the outline of a figure — a silhouette, tall and powerful in shape with black fabric stretched across their face dressed in loose gray robes, with a wide-brimmed cap donned on their head. It was the Blood-Man — a heavy pair of scissors in one hand and a hefty red syringe in the other. All around, the dry ground ripped, leaving great big crevices from which blood flowed openly. Murphy shuddered. Waking up from a nightmare was the scariest part…because you learned which part had been real all along.