Had he dreamt of the screaming, blue-flamed guitar? Had he dreamt himself smashing that guitar?

She had spoken to the crow, the raven and the coyote. Heard their truth.

Opening sharp-toothed mouths, they lunged, and he screamed. He woke, vaguely aware he’d been screaming.

Now in this dream, for it must be a dream. In front of her, she could see two figures silhouetted by the headlights of a car.

When he finished, his hands were raw, and the guitar sat, a scarred beauty gleaming in a chair.

Jacob turned to leave when the beam of his flashlight caught something shiny tucked up in the rafters of the shed. “Wait, what’s that?”

He woke, his mind populated by horrible images of the night’s dreams.

“Been a fuck of a day.” Jacob slid onto a bar stool as Brandi started pulling them a pint.

Wincing again, he thought of the song that had forced its way out of him yesterday. He tried to play it, but it would not come.

He needed to speak to someone who had connections in both worlds. There was only one man he could think of who may know what was going on.

His fingers became sore, then painful until they split and tore, but he played on, harder and better than he ever had.

Mr. June and Mr. September stood and watched as Clyde drove away, Jacob at the wheel.

He woke curled on his side, with the sound of breathing beside him.

Once, the lonely house had been painted light green and white, but now much of the paint was peeled, flaked off, revealing weathered grey boards. Some windows still held glass, reflecting a washed-out and colourless sky.

Once, the lonely house had been painted light green and white, but now much of the paint was peeled, flaked off, revealing weathered grey boards. Some windows still held glass, reflecting a washed-out and colourless sky.

Once, the lonely house had been painted light green and white, but now much of the paint was peeled, flaked off, revealing weathered grey boards. Some windows still held glass, reflecting a washed-out and colourless sky.

It was unbearable. And then suddenly it all stopped.

Once, the lonely house had been painted light green and white, but now much of the paint was peeled, flaked off, revealing weathered grey boards. Some windows still held glass, reflecting a washed-out and colourless sky.

It was unbearable. And then suddenly it all stopped.

Allen crashed through the back door into the alley, writhing in pain. He stumbled. His fingers clawed at his skin.