Dark Dreams of Love by R.R. Shelsky

Author:R.R. Shelsky
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: fiction, romance, horror, scifi, suspense, thrillers, science fiction, ghost, historical romance, sf, ghost stories, horror stories, suspense and thrillers, fiction thrillers, paranormal romances, womens fantasy, womens science fiction, shelsky
Publisher: Rob Shelsky

Green Waters

Johnstown, Pennsylvania, 1888—

Cold! How horribly cold the water was. Could water be this frigid and not actually be frozen solid? And painful! It was as if countless needles of ice-crystalline agony lanced her living flesh, pierced every part of her.

Clara Hanson opened her eyes. Sure enough, water filled the room. As usual, the lights were still on. How gas lamps kept burning under such impossible circumstances, she couldn’t imagine.

No matter how they managed this, their glow created an eerie effect. Everything appeared insubstantial, wavering, all tinged with the greenish colour of the glacial waters. Various mundane objects drifted randomly, as if gently pushed by some invisible hand, some phantom freezing current. This flotsam included a wooden comb. It floated, bumped into one of the richly panelled walls.

Clara waited. Despite her icy torment, she was tense, knew what came next. It was always the same. Yes! A vague human shape appeared. So close, just a short distance from where Clara floated above the submerged bed.

The shape took on solid form, a defined substance. An old woman appeared. White hair streamed out about her head like living tendrils, looked like a halo of vaporous sea snakes drawn from some ocean fantasy. Her long grey nightgown billowed about her, as if in slow motion. This only added to the ghostly quality of the scene.

That the woman was drowning, was too tragically obvious. Above the high collar of the nightgown, her pale face contorted in a mask of terror. Blue eyes showed a blatant fear of approaching death. They stared plaintively out at Clara. The woman’s mouth opened. Was she trying to speak? Small bubbles emerged. In a silver string of precious pearls, they fled toward the ceiling.

Clara somehow knew those bubbles represented the very last of the air escaping the woman’s lungs. However, her eyes still showed life. They regarded Clara with an imploring look. Then the woman moved her head ever so slightly, as if admonishing Clara in some way, or was it as a warning?

Her bony arms rose from her sides, ample flannel sleeves wafting about in the water. Gnarled old hands clasped together. It was as if she was praying for Clara to do something, anything!

The woman’s expression changed. Was it resignation? Suddenly, her eyes rolled back into her head. Now only the whites of them showed. They seemed to glare at Clara, accusing. Ancient hands relaxed, floated apart, lacked any further conscious purpose.

Clara watched as the woman died. What could she do? What could she have done? After all, this was only a dream. As soon as Clara thought this, it abruptly ended.

Thank God, she thought. The nightmare was over—for now, at least. She opened her eyes and glanced about the bedroom, dimly seen in the weak orange glow from lowered gaslights. Everything appeared normal, undisturbed by any intrusion of a flood of freezing waters. A clock on the mantle above the bedroom fireplace ticked loudly into the late-night stillness. This noise punctuated the peace with monotonous reassurance. Faded pink rosettes patterned the wallpaper.

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