like something dripping. And in the distance, a glow, beckoning her.
There were paintings on the walls, frenzied drawings of the cruelties of war and the excesses of victory, the revenge those who had won took on those who had lost. There seemed to be lines carved in the stone, but when she looked, they werenât lines at all, but something dripping down the face of the stone. She blinked, and saw that it was crimson. It was as if the ancient walls were crying tears of blood.
There were holy drawings between those images of war and brutality, oddly peaceful despite the chaos around them. Halos of light above kneeling saints, angels singing cherubically. A lion slept at Davidâs feet, and a cross glowed, the ray of illumination that spared the catacomb from the darkness. Knowledge streaked through her like lightning. She was in a catacomb. A place where the dead lay rotting beneath their shrouds.
Was she, too, clad in a shroud, lying in a niche in the wall, one with the rows of the dead who had been buried in corridors beneath the earth for centuries?
Of course not, because none of this was real. She was dreaming.
She couldnât remember the last time she had dreamed so vividly. Perhaps once, in a different timeâ¦
She realized she was afraid, and she was never afraid.
Suddenly a silhouette appeared in the glow ahead. It loomed large, a shadow snaking along the glistening walls with their tears of blood. She wanted to shrink away from that shadow, to pretend that she was only the detritus of time, dust to dust, ashes to ashes.
But at the heart of that dark figure, there seemed to be a light. Something that was warm and strong. She dared to open her eyes, dared to look. She felt a sense of flesh and blood, bone and breath, a living being, one who had come to offer comfort, perhaps, and hope.
âI am here, waiting,â it said.
Which was ridiculous, Melanie told herself. Shadows didnât talk. But this was a dream; the shadow could do whatever it chose, and apparently it had chosen to be there in that place of death and decay, the light in the darkness. But the shadow had form, human form. The whisper was melodic, a soft, feminine voice. The shadow was cloaked, wearing some voluminous garment that swallowed it whole.
The shadow looked like a nun.
âI am the Oracle,â the shadow said. âI am waiting. I know you will come, and that we can make it to the light.â
The figure faded away, then, leaving Melanie in the darkness, aware of the pungent smell of everything that came from the earth and then returned to it. The scent of mold teased her nostrils, that deep earthy scent that smelled like death. And she felt a growing heat, like the slowly simmering threat of brimstone from the bowels of hell.
Melanie jackknifed into a sitting position, shaking. She panicked at first, looking around, then realized she was in her own room, in her own home, with Maggie sleeping in the guest room down the hall.
She reached over and turned on her bedside light. Her hands were trembling. The scent of the dream seemed to hover for a moment, but she hugged her arms around herself, and then it was gone.
She was tempted to cryâ¦. All she wanted was to live as normal a life as she could, but thisâ¦bizarre drawings, dreams of hell and nuns promising salvation.
âIâm turning on the television and watching a totally ridiculous sitcom rerun,â she announced, as if someone could hear.
Then she turned on the television, and let canned laughter filled the room.
Â
A mile away, Scott was immersed in a dream, as well.
He was standing on a hill, and he could feel the wind ripping around him. There was dirt beneath his feet; he felt the grime between his toes. He was wearing sandals, and some kind of aâ¦skirt? Andwhen he moved his head, he realized that he was wearing a helmet. Not only that, he was holding a massive spear.
He heard moans, and above the moans, screams of agony. When
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