Page 20 of In Her Fears
Jenna approached slowly, careful not to startle her.“Hello,” she said softly.
The woman’s head jerked up, revealing a face streaked with tears.She appeared to be in her late forties or early fifties, with features that might once have been beautiful but now seemed carved by grief.Her eyes widened at the sight of Jenna.
“You can see me?”she asked, her voice hoarse from crying.
"Yes," Jenna said, kneeling to be at eye level with the woman."My name is Jenna Graves.I'm the Sheriff of Genesius County.Can you tell me who you are?"
The woman stared at her, confusion clouding her features.“I...I don’t know if I should be here.”
Jenna had seen this before—the disorientation, the uncertainty that often seemed to plague spirits who visited her dreams.Some seemed to understand their condition immediately; others existed in a fog of confusion about their state.
“That’s all right,” Jenna said gently.“Can you tell me what’s troubling you?You said something was your fault.”
The woman’s expression crumpled.“It’s going to happen again,” she whispered.“And it’s all my fault.”
A chill ran down Jenna’s spine.“What’s going to happen again?”
“I should have stopped it.I should have seen what was happening.”The woman’s hands twisted together in her lap.“But I was too consumed by my own darkness.”
“Who should you have stopped?”Jenna pressed.“What did they do?”
The woman looked past Jenna, her gaze fixed on something only she could see.Jenna felt frustration building.These cryptic conversations were common in her dream visits, but knowing that didn’t make them any less maddening.
“Please,” Jenna said, leaning forward.“I want to understand.What do you think you did?”
Before the woman could reply, something exploded in theair, splattering across the blank canvases surrounding them.On contact, each drop expanded into abstract shapes of crimson that spread and dripped down the pristine surfaces.The smell of paint became the metallic scent of blood.The woman’s face started to blur, features running like watercolors in rain.
“Find him,” she whispered, her voice now coming from everywhere and nowhere.“Before he makes another masterpiece.”
Then the entire dream collapsed in on itself in a swirl of red and white.
Jenna jolted awake.
Sunlight was streaming through the gaps in her bedroom blinds.She was drenched in sweat, her t-shirt clinging uncomfortably to her skin.
“Jesus,” she muttered, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes.
The dream had already begun to fade around the edges, the way dreams do, but the image of blood splashing across blank canvases remained vivid.So did the woman’s final words: “Find him, before he makes another masterpiece.”
Jenna pushed herself upright, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.Her alarm clock read 6:17 AM.She reached over and switched it off, knowing there was no chance of falling back asleep now.
She padded to the bathroom, turned on the shower, covered her hair, and stepped under the spray before the water had fully heated.The cold shock helped clear the last cobwebs of sleep from her mind, though it did nothing to dispel the unease that clung to her like a second skin.
Under the beat of the water, Jenna’s thoughts circled back to the dream.The woman had been warning her about something—or someone.The message seemed connected to art somehow, given the setting and the canvases.Could it be related to the murder of Martin Holbrook in Pinecrest exactly a month ago?His death had certainly been staged like some kind of grotesque artwork—tied to a tree with a stake through his heart, a pentagram carved above his head.
At the time, the ritualistic nature of the killing had suggested to Jenna that it might be the first in a series.Serial killers often escalated, their murders becoming more elaborate, more “artistic” in their staging.But a month had passed with no similar incidents reported in Pinecrest or any of the surrounding counties.The case had grown cold, with Chief Morgan stubbornly refusing further assistance from outside his jurisdiction.
Jenna shut off the shower and reached for a towel, her movements mechanical as her mind continued to work the problem.If not the Holbrook case, then what?The Harvesters had been dismantled, their operation shut down.What other threat could the dream woman be warning about?
She dressed quickly and strapped on her gun in its holster.In the kitchen, she made coffee on autopilot, the ritual comforting in its ordinariness.She poured cereal into a bowl, added milk, and sat at her small table with the meal she barely tasted.The dream woman’s face kept appearing in her mind’s eye—those features lined with grief, the terrible calm as blood filled the air.
It had to mean something.Her dreams always did.But without more to go on, Jenna was stuck.
“Damn it,” she muttered, pushing her half-eaten breakfast away.
She grabbed her keys, badge, and phone, and headed out to her car.The early morning air was crisp with the promise of autumn, a welcome relief after August’s oppressive heat.Leaves had begun to turn on a few trees, splashes of red and gold amid the green.In another month, the forests surrounding Trentville would be ablaze with color.
As she drove toward the station, Jenna mentally cataloged everything she knew about the dream.A woman in an art studio.Blank canvases.Blood splattering like abstract art.“Find him before he makes another masterpiece.”A warning about something that was going to “happen again.”But what?And who was “he”?
