“I don’t want anything from you,” Conor said. Not yet, said the monster. But you will.
“It’s only a dream,” Conor said to himself in the back garden, looking up at the monster silhouetted against the moon in the night sky.
He folded his arms tightly against his body, not because it was cold,
but because he couldn’t actually believe he’d tiptoed down the stairs, unlocked the back door and come outside.
He still felt calm. Which was weird. This nightmare – because it was surely a nightmare, of course it was –
was so different from the other nightmare. No terror, no panic, no darkness, for one thing.
And yet here was a monster, clear as the clearest night, towering ten or fifteen metres above him, breathing heavily in the night air.
“It’s only a dream,” he said again. But what is a dream, Conor O’Malley?
the monster said, bending down so its face was close to Conor’s. Who is to say that it is not everything else that is the dream?
Every time the monster moved, Conor could hear the creak of wood, groaning and yawning in the monster’s huge body.
He could see, too, the power in the monster’s arms, great wiry ropes of branches constantly twisting and shifting together
in what must have been tree muscle, connected to a massive trunk of a chest, topped by a head and teeth that could chomp him down in one bite.
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