Marcus opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out. His throat tightened, his breath hitching as his eyes dropped to the plate in front of him.
There, nestled between sprigs of parsley and a drizzle of bloodied sauce, was Connor's severed head. His skin was greyish and clammy, his lips trembling as whispers came out of his mouth,
"It hurts… please… it still hurts…"
His eyes were wide open looking straight at Marcus as if pleading with him to do something.
Even when the rest of his body was gone, melted into the thick stew beside the plate or charred into the glistening barbequed meat on the skewers next to it. He was very much alive.
Marcus gagged, bile rising in his throat as he turned his face away and started to puke, only for Dylan to suddenly scream beside him.
Dylan's mother had changed.
Her body began to shift and warp with a wet cracking sound, bones rearranging themselves as her lower half split into black, chitinous limbs.
Eight long spider legs dug into the wooden floor, leaving grooves as her upper body remained mostly human, though her face was now wrong—eight beady, glistening eyes blinked at once across her forehead while her smile stretched too far across her cheeks.
She leaned in with the spoon, thick with red stew, and forced it into Dylan's mouth. He choked, cried, and yet swallowed.
"Good boy," she cooed sweetly, stroking his hair with a clawed hand. "Eat up. It's your friend."
Connor screamed. His severed head jolted on the plate as if the pain reached even the remnants of his nerves. His voice cracked, hoarse and helpless, "Stop… I can feel it… I can feel it all…"
Then the spoon turned toward Marcus.
He scrambled backward, his chair screeching against the hardwood floor, but it was like trying to move through wet cement. He wanted to scream, but all that escaped was a wheeze, thin and pitiful.
"No… no… this is just a dream!"
Dylan's mother clicked her mandibles together in delight. The spoon hovered, steaming and dripping with Connor's stew. A chunk of meat slid off and slapped onto the floor beside Marcus.
Marcus dry-heaved.
"Now, now," she whispered almost motherly.
"No wasting food. You wouldn't want to be rude, would you?"
One leg lifted and slammed down near his ankle, cracking the floorboard. Another curled around his chair, pinning him in place.
"No! I don't want it!" Marcus choked. His voice cracked. "This is crazy! Please, just let me go! I will not tell anyone!"
"What are you talking about?" she giggled.
"You liked it. Everyone likes Connor. So tender. So loyal. He gave everything for his friends, and this is how you repay him?" Her smile widened, impossibly so.
Connor sobbed on the plate. "Please make it stop…"
The spoon pressed against Marcus's lips as her other legs spread it open and forced fed him.
He widened his eyes in horror, feeling the tender meat of his friend, tasting like pork, sliding down his throat as Connor's pleas echoed in the room.
While Seamus grimaced, he was now in a different room, watching the madness of forced cannibalism with disgust.
"What the hell, Dylan? Is this how he sees his mother? A black spider monster eating children?" He shook his head slowly.
The nightmare Seamus had triggered was entirely based on his target's subconscious.
Their trauma, their worst fears, carved and twisted from their own life experiences. He didn't even need to interfere with the dream's narrative. It played out naturally, terrifying on its own.
"Though, stage one of this Blood Stage isn't that strong compared to all the combat-focused styles," he muttered, turning away from the gruesome sight.
His eyes landed on a shelf with faded photographs—Dylan as a child, smiling beside his mother, and one face furiously scribbled out in thick red ink.
There were also lots of stick drawings that depicted a dysfunctional family with the husband running with another woman while the wife blamed it all on the child who was being abused.
"But, it can be used for other things…" he took one of the drawings that depicted the angry woman in black with big red eyes.
Nevertheless, it was a terrifying weapon for destroying someone's mind. Even within the Dream Walker state, Seamus could only inflict dreams, trap enemies inside them, and gently guide their narrative.
The pain felt real, agonizing even. But at this stage, the victims still had the power to fight back, if they were strong enough.
A cold tone blinked across his vision.
[Alert!]
[The targets' Sagacitas Percentage is dangerously low. Continuing the dream will damage their minds permanently.]
[Do you wish to continue the dream?]
"But I guess this is enough. I don't think their minds will survive much longer," Seamus said, clapping his hands softly. In an instant, his eyes opened, and he was back in his room.
He sat up slowly, leaning against the headboard, rubbing his face with a tired sigh. "I really need a drink after seeing that nightmare."
Slipping out of bed, he pulled on his jacket and stepped into the hallway. The night was cold as ever, and the downside of having a mansion was a damn hike just to reach the kitchen.
"I'll buy a mini-fridge after this," he muttered under his breath, only to pause as he caught the faint sound of voices coming from a nearby room.
He stopped. Familiar voices. Viviane... and Madeline.
He leaned closer, pressing his ear to the door. He knew he shouldn't—he really shouldn't—but then he heard it.
His name.
"How about Seamus?" Viviane asked.
"He'll be fine. You can trap him in any room of this mansion, and he'll never be able to get out. What can a human do, anyway?" Madeline said with a low chuckle, as if she were talking about a house pet that needed locking up.
"Right… he'll never run. We can also drug him—"
That was all he needed to hear as a chill ran through him.
"Oh, we have a rat listening," Madeline said softly. The sound of her heels clicking on the floor sent panic racing through Seamus' chest.
The door handle turned, then it opened with a loud creak.