"And in this corner where, from dagger hurl'd,
doth sit the creature sought to kill the worl'd."

— Book of Nod

And she wept.

Reality peeled away like broiled skin, leaving mottled smears of oily fat which also dripped away, revealing only the desolation Kyle remembered from a long-forgotten dream. Arin had tried to hang herself, unwittingly dislodging a brittle ceiling joist, and been crushed under debris large and small, sharp and heavy.

He had run away, more to escape her morose sobbing, soaked in the purest defeat most would never know. But things were different, now; Kyle turned and regarded the scene again.

Time had passed. But dreams are disingenuous beasts, eager to mislead and befuddle. It could have been hours, or days. All he really knew: her sniffles and tears were quieter, muted by her weariness and blood-loss. How she still lived, Kyle could not comprehend. The girl he remembered was malnourished, dehydrated, and bleeding profusely from grisly gashes in her hands. Then she'd likely broken several bones in her fall, and that was before a mountain of wood and nails buried her.

Kyle walked toward the smoking ruins once more, dreading what he'd find. As he approached, he saw figures roaming the rubble, a veritable brigade hauling beam, brick, and shingle from one person to the next. Jesus! Just let her die! The men were sweaty and bare-chested, covered in smeared soot and all wore an unflinching mask of concentration, stopping only to wipe sweat from their foreheads.

She wept, and they dug. One of the men in the lead uttered a shout, but everyone had seen: a bloodied and twisted arm hung limply over a cast-iron broiling-pot. They redoubled their efforts then, the end in sight, making haste to save her life, which all knew teetered on the edge of oblivion.

Kyle wanted desperately to stop them, but knew it was useless. He could not interfere.

"Adriana!" a man yelled in a thick Irish accent. "We're comin', lass. Hold on!"

What?!

"I can see her head!" another excited man roared. "Lord! She's crying in her sleep."

"Ah, what drove ye to this, Adriana... dear child," said Irish, shaking his head.

No! What is this?!

More timber dislodged. More of the girl uncovered. Finally a man wearing a Catholic priest's collar squat low and carefully pushed his arms beneath her prone body. Her arms splay wide and her legs hung limply when he stood, gently cradling her battered body and sadly gazing at her unconscious face. Tears and blood lined her cheeks, and the man looked ready to cry, himself. "Somebody fetch a doctor!" he called, voice filled with anguish. So, Irish is the town priest. "We'll save ye yet, little miss Calloway," said the priest, kissing her forehead. "Maybe there's yet hope for yer battered soul."

It was her. Kyle couldn't believe he never noticed before, but there was no question. Though he watched her on the swing, and stared as she failed to hang end her own suffering, he never really saw. But his memories were fractured by the illusions of this world, and her youth and mannerisms further obscured the truth. Adriana Calloway, over fifty years in the past, body flirting with the young woman she'd become. Kyle's mind became a churning assault of conflicting thoughts and realizations, rendering him unable to do more than stare.

The scene warped around him, as it was wont. Adriana lay in a bed, healed of her worst cuts and bruises, but scarred, breathing shallowly under several heavy blankets. The priest stood to the left of the bed, and a taller man with a stethoscope draped around his neck held his chin in contemplation.

"She's been in a coma for over a year," said the doctor. "But she's healthy enough. I personally can't believe she's alive at all." His hand fell from his chin and a significant frown creased his jowels. "I think you should reconsider. She'll be fine in the county hospital."

"I'll not hear of it," the priest admonished, clucking his tongue. "I can handle a few bed-pans until The Lord puts the light back in her eyes."

The physician grinned. "Suit yourself, you old stubborn goat. She's had her checkup, and aside from the coma, she's right as rain." He shuffled toward a trunk near the curtained window and lithely dropped his stethoscope into a wide-mouthed leather bag. "Now, if you'll excuse me Father Quinn, Mrs. Sweeny is under the impression I can cure gout." He snorted, cinching the bag closed and bowing slightly before striding to the room's portal.

"Never mind him, lass. Heal, and enjoy yer time with God. Ye need rest more than all of us. I'll join ye for a while, anyway." He swung the bed's canopy closed, letting the light netting close before easing himself into a rocking chair to the left of the headboard. He smiled and his eyes drifted shut; soon, he snored lightly, thinking of parishioners and his predecessor: Father Gringley, who had forsaken the girl when she needed help most. "Forgive us," he whispered in the darkness.

Sometime later, the canopy-curtain—that kept insects from Adriana's unprotected body—rustled, and a weight pressed into the bed. But the lights were off, and Father Quinn was asleep, so there were non to see the creature scratching its ear with a hind leg as it rested atop the blankets between Adriana's feet.

Though it could not speak, its will formed words in the blackened room. It is time.

To set the snare.

She who knew my name.

Time will slow.

Minds will stutter.

And he will come.

The sleeping priest must have sensed the unearthly vibrations, for he awoke with a start and immediately his eyes turned to Adriana, afraid something was wrong.

Rue wanted no meddling. His eyes glowed a ruby tincture of blood and the entire bed, canopy and all, burst into flame. Rivers of fire spilled quickly onto the floor, and engulfed the man before he could react. Through his pain, he thought only of his Adriana. Desperate, he surged to his feet and threw himself into the inferno, blindly digging through the covers for her body.

But she was not there.

Finally, the pain shattered his resolve, and without Adriana to save, he rolled on the ground in sizzling agony. The fire just burned brighter, and frolicked on the floorboards where he convulsed. It was alive, and malevolent. He screamed until his vocal chords boiled away. He died.

The good man was only the first. Unlike the conflagration that consumed Adriana's family, this spread like a fungus, infecting homes and trees alike, leaping from rooftop to rooftop to ignite even the stone and brick edifices dotting downtown. The only haven was the schoolhouse, shining like a beacon as the fires flared like daylight upon it.

In the flickering shadows cast by the roasting bodies and spark-filled night, danced an unholy cadre of imps and tainted things best not described. If there were any survivors, none were found.

When the fire brigades came from the nearest town, nothing remained but smashed and obliterated rubble. They did, however, find a sleeping girl in the schoolhouse, and a rabbit hopping idly in her general vicinity, bearing a name-tag: Rue.