Shadows of the Ripples — Part One from Chapter One
Read the introduction to my new paranormal, suspense, romance novel.
Darkness hovered around the perimeter of the kitchen unable to venture too close to the dim rays that drifted from the hooded bulb over the table. Sitting on the edge of a wooden chair, Emily leaned into the protective glow, with elbows propped on a worn, ragged mat. Glancing down at the quilted fabric, she saw frayed edges and broken threads that reminded her of seedlings reaching up to catch the light. She understood that need, but looked away, tightening her grip around the mug she held pressed against her cheek.
Shortly after three a.m., Emily had come down to the safety of her kitchen to brew a cup of tea for its warm comfort from the nightmare that had awakened her. But after hours of trying to make sense of the dream, the comfort never came and the barely tasted liquid had long turned cold.
‘Yellowstone Lake’ study #3 — Painting by J. Sharland Day
Staring past the glare into one of the dark corners, Emily was unable to see the spider-vein cracks that mapped the dismal walls, but her eyes focused on something far beyond them anyway.
With details of her recurring nightmare marching in and out of her thoughts — more in than out — she felt edgy sitting in the shadowy space. Yet, she couldn’t stop the images that paraded
through her mind. It seemed as if an untapped part of her psyche wanted to make her see a more demented side to herself, to make her recognize her naiveté and the boring ascetic life she’d led, to make her accept changes that needed to be made within herself. A ridiculous notion, she thought. But there it was, and there she was, feeling the turmoil from the barrage of questions that were more rhetorical than answerable.
With all the brooding she’d been doing, Emily wasn’t aware that the clock was ticking away the night, making the shadows within the room slink away. Nor did she see trees and shrubs from outside the window appear as ghostly phantoms through a putty gray haze. Even if she had noticed the coming of dawn, she’d see that the new morning held no promise of brightness. On the horizon, streaks of electricity slashed through an angry charcoal-colored mass that was churning across the sky and blotting out the rising sun.
Of course, Emily was too absorbed in reliving the all-too-familiar dream to be aware of a brewing storm.
Running through corridors, breathless, terrified, her movements too slow when someone or something loomed close enough behind for her to feel hot breath on the back of her neck. Rumbling laughter echoed behind her when the long black dress she wore tangled around her legs and caused her to stumble. Seeing, in her mind, the hand near enough to touch her, a tiny gasp slipped from her throat and the cup she clutched pressed deeper into the soft flesh below her cheekbone.
Emily didn’t know why she’d dreamed the same thing over and over the past few months, awakening just as a hand was about to reach out and grab her. Many nights she sat up in bed, sweat permeating her cotton gown, her chest heaving up and down as if pumped by bellows. Of course, she’d soon relax after recognizing her fear for what it was. She didn’t want to know at that point who pursued her in sleep or why. After all, it was just another bad dream. She’d had many throughout her life, although none were as persistent as this.
‘Yellowstone Lake’ study #2 — Painting by J. Sharland Day
But, last night, the recurring nightmare was different. She didn’t wake up at the usual point of near capture. She’d kept on sleeping while the dream progressed, and it was those new events that were obsessing her thoughts and plaguing her emotions in these pre-morning hours.
Last night, when the hand clutched the fabric of her dress, instead of waking, Emily saw the garment rip from her body as easily as someone pulling a page from a well-read book. Then the hallway’s dark walls transformed into a shiny surface that reflected her image. She saw herself wearing a translucent white gown — not her old blue flannel — that billowed softly when she moved.
She’d stopped to look at her reflection. Curious.
As she stood in front of the mirrored surface, the room’s dim light emitted a reddish glow that made the flimsy fabric appear nearly invisible. She wore nothing beneath.
Even though she should have been shocked in the dream to see herself practically nude, she wasn’t. She’d shrugged off the whole scene, for she seemed to know that a change from chaste to shameless was developing within her as part of a natural transition. But a transition to what, she did not know. And anything beyond virtuous was not natural. Not to her.
She was innocent, untouched, and as pure in mind as indeed. She had to be. Heaven help her if she strayed from that path.
Emily squeezed her eyes so tightly together her face wrinkled up in clown-like features that would have made her laugh had she been able to see.
Outside, the black clouds gathered momentum and the air grew heavy, menacing. Inside the kitchen, Emily’s thoughts brewed into their own stormy tempest. She knew she was committing a major sin by allowing the images of the dream to replay in her mind. A sin against the church, against God, by even having the dream in the first place, as if she’d had a choice in the matter. Yet she couldn’t stop the repeated flashbacks. And it was the inability to shut out those visions that made the ingrained fear of punishment tighten its grip.
Emily could still see herself twirling in a graceful pirouette, turning slowly on her toes. I looked like a “prima ballerina” trying to entertain a great crowd, her mind scolded.
A moan played with her tongue.
That wasn’t the bad part, she knew. It was when she casually strolled to her pursuer with hands on her hips, gown unbuttoned and waving gently at her sides that caused her stomach to clench. Whoever had chased her was only a dark form waiting in shadows, unclear, mysterious, but definitely someone unfit to receive the offering she seemed to be making. She was pretty sure about that point. Yet, she’d seemed eager to please who or whatever awaited her.
What made her dream such a thing? And who was she dreaming about? Nothing in her imagination could help her with an answer.
‘Yellowstone Lake’ study #1 — Painting by J. Sharland Day
Wanting to get away from those disturbing questions, Emily glanced around the room. She saw the changing light, making the shadows dodge in and out, and undulate in wavy hues. As if dancing in their own mating game, Emily thought.
She shook her head.
She felt out of control, being unable to stop thinking about the seductive way she’d run both hands up and down her body with eagerness written on her inexperienced face, her hips swaying to a rhythm she only imagined. Slowly. Back and forth. A knee bending to accommodate the rise of one hip and then the other. Her stance was wide, provocative, experimenting.
Emily had seemed to know, in the dream, the art of seduction. Wanting to find out where that would lead. Wanting to learn all the wonders her body could feel.
She wanted to relieve the unexpected cravings charging through her system that were as foreign to her as feeling a sultry tropical breeze blowing off a warm sea.