The nightmare evolved.
The swamp dissolved without warning.
Mud withdrew, fog thinned, and the suffocating weight beneath their feet gave way to solid ground. Trees rose where mire had been, trunks thick and ancient, roots gripping the land like veins hardened over centuries. The nightmare did not end.
It changed shape.
They stood in a forest now–dense, silent, and closed. No wind stirred the leaves. No insects cried. Even the ground felt restrained, as though sound itself had been disciplined into stillness.
Then the circle closed.
Ghost Prison Hollow Face Spiders emerged from between the trees.
Not one.
Dozens.
They did not rush. They did not crawl. They occupied. Massive bodies settled into place, legs anchoring to earth and bark alike, forming a perfect ring around the group. Each spider mirrored the others in posture and distance, their presence overlapping until the forest itself became a cage.
Their abdomen pulsed faintly.
