The wire snaps, and it lashes out at her like a whip, sharp and thin across her face. Shrieky's gone though. In an instant, he's gone. Buried himself in the silt at the bottom of the moat, and far away from flies and the creeping certainty of mold that infects the surface.

The Hypha seem to dissipate, and suddenly they're fishermen and villagers, men throwing lines into the water, and mothers chiding their children to stay away from the edge.

Lest Shrieky comes and gets them.

And there are knights, and maidens, and it's all like some pretty fantasy world, and it's hard to tell who the villain in the nightmare is anymore.

Maybe it's hard for both of them.