He never came in her dreams. Not any more. Not since Yule.
But tonight… tonight there was someone. A presence. Behind her.
She turned. There, in the darkness, a softly glowing sphere. Translucent.
Within, a silhouette. A woman. Standing, arms stretched out.
Moving closer, moving through darkness, darkness that curled around her, the glowing sphere coming almost within reach.
The woman within, still, commanding.
The woman with no face.
The hesitation and the fear and then, stretching out her hand towards the sphere.
Stretching out her hand through the sphere. Passing through with no resistance.
The woman with no face, raising a hand towards her, palm outward. A hand seared by the fires of hell.
Stepping into the sphere, the shimmering glow passing over her, past her, behind her.
Looking down at her own right hand, the fingernails growing, sharpening, transforming into steel.
Thrusting her steel talons at the woman with no face. Striking soft flesh where a face should be.
The woman’s hand at her throat, on her throat, crushing her throat.
But still thrusting her fingernails forward, into the faceless flesh, surgery, butchery, slicing, gouging.
The death grip round her throat, suffocating, agonising, the woman’s death an exulting pleasure.
Locked together in the darkness, falling, falling, falling