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Perchance to Dream

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With eight eyes, it saw him. With eight legs, it came to him. And with eight wounds, it killed him. He wanted to wake up.

Gah! He screamed, bolting upright. That nightmare... Always that nightmare. He took a second to catch his breath. Slowly recovering from the breakneck pace of his thumping heart, he sat there, unable to even think. All he could feel was his ragged breath, his pulsing heart, and his prickling legs.

His prickling legs?

He threw the blanket up, to find his legs covered in a swarm of them. Brown, hairy, and spindly, they were aggravated by the disturbance and crawled towards his face ever so faster. He wanted to wake up.

He jerked around he couldn't breathe he saw the moon filtering down drifting the shape of the bridge he flailed gulping water his heart not thumping so hard he grabbed water pulling him up to the light the light dimmed the light was gone the surface was brown all he could see was legs and hair and legs and he wanted to wake up

His muscles spasmed, but had no gain. He could feel the bonds stuck to his hands, his wrists, his legs, and all across his back. He pulled but he felt that his skin would give before the sticky netting did. He gave up.

And then the web started shaking. As if being stepped on by eight huge feet.

He struggled, all the while knowing it was futile. He could feel the pressure of one hairy leg pressed upon his shoulder.

"Heed this omen of omens..." the raspy, nightmarish voice groaned, slithering down his spine. He wanted to wake up.

The book fell out of his hand, and he started. The fire, crackling warmly, lit his right side. He gazed at it, basking in the cushioned chair's warmth. Then something brushed against his ear, and he felt a light pressure on his shoulder.

He wanted nothing more than to wake up.

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