Page 19 of In Her Fears
“Over here,” the voice called, sounding strangely different now.“Just a little more to your left.”
Alexis turned in the direction of the voice, unease beginning to prickle her nerves.Something felt wrong.The acoustics in the cramped space were playing tricks, surely, but the voice seemed to have shifted in quality somehow.
“Lily?How old are you, honey?”she asked, still moving forward but more cautiously now.
A pause.Too long.
“Eight,” the voice finally answered, but the pitch had changed, dropping ever so slightly.
Alexis froze.Ice spread through her veins as realization dawned.The voice that had sounded like a child’s from a distance was wrong up close—too controlled, too calculated.This was no child.
“I need to go get help,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady as she began to back up.
“No, you don’t.”
The voice dropped all pretense now, deepening into an adult’s register—still high for a man, but unmistakably male, with a cruel edge that made Alexis’s skin crawl.
Pure fear exploded in her chest.She scrambled to turn around in the tight space, desperate to crawl back toward the faint outline of light that marked the entrance.Her jeans caught on something sharp, tearing as she struggled to orient herself in the pitch darkness.
“Who are you?”she gasped, voice breaking in terror.“What do you want?”
No answer came except the sound of movement behind her—the shuffle of fabric against dirt.
Alexis lunged forward, scrambling toward where she thought the exit must be.Her hand struck something solid—a wooden beam, not the opening she sought.She was disoriented in the absolute darkness, panic making it impossible to remember which way she had come from.
Then strong hands seized her ankles, yanking her backward with shocking force.She screamed, the sound deafening in the confined space, and kicked out wildly.Her foot connected with something solid—a face or chest—and she heard a grunt of pain.The grip on her ankles loosened momentarily.
Alexis clawed at the dirt, dragging herself forward, desperate for escape.She opened her mouth to scream again, to call for help, for Chloe, for anyone.
The weight came down on her suddenly, a body pinning her to the ground.Her face pressed into the dirt, cutting off her cry for help.She couldn’t breathe.Couldn’t move.A hand tangled in her hair, wrenching her head back painfully.
“You shouldn’t have come alone,” the voice whispered, hot breath against her ear.“But I’m so glad you did.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rectangles floated in the darkness, suspended in mid-air like cryptic monuments.Jenna moved among them.The space around her had no walls, no ceiling—just an endless nighttime void punctuated by these hovering white shapes that glowed in a bright white light from the moon far above.
A woman’s voice echoed from somewhere in the distance, the sound rippling through the darkness.
“It’s my fault,” the voice wept, each word distorted by sorrow.“It’s my fault.”
Jenna turned, trying to locate the source of the voice.The rectangles shifted around her, rearranging themselves as if responding to her movement.That’s when she realized—this wasn’t the everyday world.She was dreaming.
The familiar sensation of lucidity washed over her, that peculiar awareness that came with knowing she was asleep while simultaneously experiencing the dream as reality.Her heart quickened.These were the dreams where the dead came to her, where they reached across whatever boundary separated their world from hers.
“Hello?”Jenna called out, her voice strange in her own ears.“Who’s there?I can hear you.”
The weeping continued, punctuated by the same refrain: “It’s my fault.”
“I want to help you,” Jenna said, moving toward what she hoped was the source of the voice.“But you need to tell me who you are.”
As she moved deeper into the strange space, the floating rectangles became more defined.They weren’t just shapes—they were canvases, stretched on wooden frames and mounted on easels.They were all blank, pristine white surfaces waiting for the touch of a brush.The arrangement wasn’t random; it was deliberate, like a maze designed to be navigated.
Jenna weaved between the easels, which now stood firmly on what had solidified into a concrete floor.The air around her had changed too, carrying the sharp, distinctive smell of linseed oil and turpentine.It was as if she had found herself in some kind of vast, labyrinthine, open-air painter’s studio.
“Please,” she called again.“Let me find you.Let me help.”
The voice grew closer, the weeping more distinct.Jenna rounded a particularly tall easel and finally saw her—a woman kneeling on the floor, face buried in her hands, shoulders trembling with each sob.She wore a paint-stained smock over a simple dress, her dark hair pulled back in a loose knot at the nape of her neck.Several strands had escaped, falling forward to curtain her face.
