tremendous force, brutal and unrelenting ressure, until she felt she
would be crushed by it. The darkness around her acquired weight, as if
she lay deep in a fathomless sea, though it was far heavier and
thicker than water, surrounding her, smothing, crushing. Must submit,
useless to resist, let it in, submission was peace, submission was joy,
paradise, paradise. Refusal to submit would mean pain beyond anything
she could imagine, despair and agony as only hose in hell knew it, so
she must submit, open the door within herself, let it in, accept, be at
peace.
Hammering Dn her soul, ramming and pounding, fierce and irresistible
hammering, hammering: Let it in, let it in, in, In. ... IT ... IN.
Suddenly she found the secret door within herself, pathway to joy, gate
to peace eternal. She seized the knob, twisted, heard the latch click,
pulled inward, shaking with anticipation. Through the slowly widening
crack: a glimpse of the Giver.
Glistening and dark. Writhing and quick. Hiss of triumph. Coldness
at the threshold. Slam the door, slam the door, slam the door,
slamthedoor-- ..
Heather exploded from sleep, cast back the covers, rolled out of bed
onto her feet in one fluid and frantic movement. Her booming heart
kept knocking the breath out of her as she tried to inhale. A dream.
Only a dream. But no dream in her experience had ever been so
intense.
Maybe the thing beyond the door had followed her out of sleep into the
real world. Crazy thought. Couldn't shake it.
Wheezing thinly, she fumbled with the nightstand lamp, found the
switch. The light revealed no nightmare creatures. Just Jack. Asleep
on his stomach, head turned away from her, snoring softly. She managed
to draw a breath, though her heart continued to pound. She was damp
with sweat and couldn't stop shivering.
Jesus. Not wanting to wake Jack, Heather switched off the lamp--and
twitched as darkness fell around her. She sat on the edge of the bed,
intending to perch there until her heart stopped racing and the shakes
passed, then pull a robe over her pajamas and go downstairs to read
until morning. According to the luminous green numbers on the digital
alarm clock, it was 3:09 A.M but she was not going to be able to get
back to sleep. No way. She might be unable to sleep even tomorrow
night. She remembered the glistening, writhing, half-seen presence on
the threshold and the bitter cold that flowed from it. The touch of it
was still within her, a lingering chill. Disgusting. She felt
contaminated, dirty inside, where she could never wash the corruption
away.
Deciding that she needed a hot shower, she got up from the bed.
Disgust swiftly ripened into nausea. In the dark bathroom she was
racked by dry heaves at left a bitter taste. After turning on the
light only enough to find the bottle of mouthwash, she rinsed away the
bitterness. In the dark again, she repeatedly bathed her face in
handfuls of cold water. She sat on the edge of the tub. She dried her
face on a towel. As she waited for calm to return, she tried to figure
out why a mere dream could have had such a powerful effect on her, but
