"Dad, d'you think I'll catch a cthulhu?" Father pulled the last cooler out of the trunk. "You can try, but I think you're more likely to catch some trout."

"No, I'll fish in the deepest holes and... I need some special bait."

"Maybe when we're not fly fishing, son."

For a couple hours, Father and Son fished up and down the river. The cooler was half full and Father had just cast his fly when his son called out.

"Just a second, son." He watched the drift.

"Dad!"

"What?" He pulled in his line and turned. The bait knife entered his belly with little resistance, and he looked down, unbelieving. "What..." he gasped, "...what are you doing? Son?"

"Special bait, Dad." He twisted the knife in a cruel horseshoe and his father stumbled back, clutching his entrails. People with grey, translucent skin appeared from the woods around them. "They told me this would make good bait."

The figures chanted while the boy brushed his father's blood across his hook and cast it upstream. In his last moments, the father watched a tentacle pull the hook beneath the river's surface, through a hole in space opening on a distant, many-angled city.