Dreamscape

Cover Art: Cover by Calista Taylor
www.calistataylor.com

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Acknowledgement

This book is dedicated to the ones I love. Bob, I would never have followed my dream without you. Gary, Tracy and Becca Lee, you are the reason I write.

Dream Walker

With every breath we breathe, for every dream we dream,

Thank the Great Spirit for his blessings,

For the sky, the earth, the heavens,

To share all things with the Creator.

To pray when shadows prey upon our dreams,

That the evil ones cannot pass through in our world,

To weave a world of unholy terrors.

Pray, young ones, that the walker will have

The courage to defend our dreams and

We will live a life in peace, love and pray
.

Prologue

The haze broke. The glow from the full moon shone down, breaking away the darkness that Ramona Damsun had awakened in. Visions for Ramona had come before; they haunted her, enveloping her with trepidation. She stood alone along the ocean shore. A cry within to return, to leave this place, roiled inside her, but the draw beckoned. She couldn’t pull away. She walked.

A warm breeze swept through the mist. She breathed in the salt air. A wave crashed along the shoreline, spraying droplets of the cool water upon her. The call pulled her up a small incline. The sand warmed her bare feet, and sea gulls cried above her. The mist subsided, giving way to the view in front of her. Her heart raced. She hesitated, not wanting to take another step closer, but she had no choice. The draw proved stronger than her fear.

The still night encompassed her. She crossed over a small, white-logged fence into a parking lot. Few cars occupied the lot at this late hour. She ran her fingertips along a carved sign inviting patrons into the seafood establishment. The name Chieftain elucidated. She looked up. In the shadows, a lone car emerged from the darkness—a small, older car, a brown Corolla. It sat under the street light, which illuminated it in the darkness that encircled the lot. Her heart raced, for she knew well what the darkness could hold.

A noise resonated behind her. She turned toward the sound. Laughter. A form stepped from the fog. A pretty young woman bounded out of the restaurant entrance. A smile plastered on her face, she appeared not to have a care in the world. She held a cell phone to her ear, amused with words she heard, and threw a backpack over her shoulder.

“I’ll be over in a minute to pick you up. The party should just being getting started. I’m free for the rest of the night. Not much going on. Brian let me out early. My shift’s all done, and I don’t have to be back until Monday night,” she said.

She reached and released her long, dark hair from her ponytail; it fell well below her shoulders. She shook her head, and her hair fell into place. With her hand in her jeans’ pocket she walked by Ramona, who moved in front of her in a futile attempt to stop her. She walked through Ramona. Ramona shuddered. Nothing she could do but watch.

She looked over her shoulder and eyed Ramona. Flashes from the past, flashes of a summer that held everything Ramona dreamed of the beach, parties, friends, fun, adventure, skittered through her mind. From the corner of her eye, Ramona spotted an SUV turning into the lot.

The young woman took no notice. Set upon departure, she pulled keys out of her pocket. The SUV pulled to a stop alongside her. Startled, she looked up. The driver walked around to her. Recognition replaced her look of surprise. She knew the man. He spoke, and she continued with her task and answered him.

“No, getting off the shift. Going out, you know,” her words echoed.

She looked down at her car door, unaware of the burning eyes. But Ramona saw them. She tried to scream but couldn’t utter a sound.

The man placed a cloth over the girl’s mouth. She had no chance to react. A moment later, the man, the girl, and the SUV became a shadow of a memory. Ramona walked slowly over. Keys lay on the ground by the closed door, a cell phone beside them. Someone yelled from the phone. She bent down to hear, “Annie! Annie! Are you there?”

Ramona stood back up in the haze, that damn haze. Her heart pounded. The terror she’d known well the last few nights once again seized her. This night, though, it didn’t end. Ramona turned to run, run away from the pull that brought her here within the vision. The haze broke away, and she found herself back on the shore. She could no longer deny the realization. The destiny she had long ago walked—no ran from—had found her once more.

Dream Walker, her grandmother had called it. She’d said Ramona had been born to walk, to protect. She’d believed all that her grandmother had told her, been taught it was her purpose, but a purpose she believed she’d left behind.

Waves crashed along the shoreline. The force sprayed the ground where she stood. She ignored the water, but the sound startled her. She turned in the direction of the noise. Her feet stuck in the loose sand. She couldn’t move. Frozen in time, a new fear gripped her. The man who haunted her dreams of late—the man with fire in his eyes—stood in front of her. He laughed, no remorse, no concern, only a pleased expression, showing Ramona his prize.

Her gaze searched. A nude, lifeless body lay across the beach, sand sticking to the damp form, the girl, the life that had exuded from the lovely young woman now extinguished.

Ramona stared at the man. He returned her gaze, his form changing, his eyes reddening until no white remained. His skin metamorphosed to a leathery hide, and his hair seared off, revealing a well-defined skull. Around him, the ground split open to a world below.

A nightmare demon now stood before her. Heat emanated from him and kissed Ramona’s bare skin. Thick lava rivers and flames flowed. The demon man expanded. Blood oozed from within him. Unrelenting screams exploded around her.

An impious wail burst forth, proclaiming the demon’s satisfaction with his accomplishment. He looked back at her. A bellowing echo rang out, “In time, my dear. In time. Be patient. Then it will be you.”

Ramona stumbled backwards, losing her edge on the cliff where she now stood. Falling, falling down into a dark abyss. With force, she hit the ground and abruptly awoke. Sweat ran down her temple. Her hands shook; Ramona unaware for a moment of her surroundings.

Her eyes focused. Curtains draped the windows. Pictures hung on the wall, pictures of her beloved daughter. All things surrounded her familiar to the life she lived, her home. Her body ached. Instinctually, she reached down to her throbbing ankle, red and swollen. Her elbow and hand scratched and scraped, her hair soaked, her nightgown drenched, she lay back against her pillow.

Her mind raced.

A dream…a dream.

A futile attempt to disillusion, she’d tried desperately to pay the dream no heed. But she knew better. It wouldn’t dissipate, but persist. She sat back up in her bed and buried her face in her hands. She had hoped, prayed the walks were over. A fear overwhelmed her. A fear that she couldn’t resist the pull of her dreams. A fear of why her destiny had awakened once more. But the fear of where they would lead paralyzed her. For after tonight, Ramona realized she could no longer ignore the call.

Chapter One

At 6:05 a.m. Saturday morning, Lewiston Police chief, Douglas Thorpe, answered the phone before the second ring in an effort to not wake his family. Unable to sleep, he’d been up well before the call came in. He sighed after he replaced the receiver. Plans for the day pushed to the wayside, he’d leave Cindy to deal with the kids’ disappointment. He chose not to wake his wife, taking the coward’s approach by leaving a note. She wouldn’t be happy—or maybe she would be.

Thorpe had taken this job seven years earlier, a far cry for the rigors of a city homicide detective. He hadn’t minded at the time, had needed a change. His family had needed a change. Lewiston offered the amenities of a small town’s atmosphere with the promise of white picket fences and the warmth of knowing your neighbor. Residents of Lewiston slept soundly at night, seemingly safe, protected inside their own world without the worries of intercity crime. On most days, the small force of the Lewiston Police Department’s focus concentrated upon the vacationers’ traffic clogging up the roadways, but that was most days.

Chief Thorpe made a left turn and headed toward Sea Gull Beach, the quaint Cape Cod town’s most popular beach. The beach lay between Swan River’s outlet into the Atlantic Ocean and the Sesuit Harbor. On a usual August morning, families crowded the beach, childish laughter and screams echoing while kids rode the tide. This morning the beach wouldn’t be filled with children’s sandcastles or buckets of sea shells. It would be shut down, roped off. This morning’s serenity had been shattered upon the discovery of a young woman’s body on the rocky beach front.

In the early morning hours, traffic had lined up on the narrow country road. The sun shone brightly with the promise of a beautiful beach day on the Cape. He didn’t have time for this. He flicked a switch in his car as he responded to the call. His blue lights flashed, and his sirens blared. Hell, he should have taken the lower county road. In all his thirty-nine years, patience had never been one of his virtues. His mood evident, he floored his vehicle. Joggers grabbing an early morning run slid to the side of the road out of his way, confused on the urgency. Cars quickly pulled over to the side of the narrow back roads to let him pass.

Thorpe turned down an inconspicuous gravel road. He didn’t look up at the arrow on a wooden post pointing toward the beach. He didn’t need to. He knew his town. He knew the beaches. The bumpy, unpaved road took Thorpe through a thicket of beach homes, crowded together along the lane, where vacationers escaped from the chaotic grind of the big city. Rafts, boogey boards, and beach chairs littered backyards and decks.

The sirens and lights roused the usually quiet neighborhood. Sea gulls cried, circling overhead. Thorpe made another turn and drove around a make-shift barrier. He pulled his car up the dirt road at the entrance to the beach, bordered by beached sail boats. He looked out of his car window. Low tide this morning. He got out of his vehicle and slammed the door. A feeling overwhelmed him, a familiar feeling from years back. Adrenaline flowed through his veins.

Chief Thorpe walked toward the entrance to the beach. A rail-wooded fence held back a small crowd. News traveled fast. A light breeze came off the calm, clear ocean. With the cloudless sky, the scene could have been enticing except for the only deterrent. A dead body had that effect.

“Chief Thorpe,” a tall, lanky officer said, looking up from writing in his notebook. He bit his bottom lip and shook his head. Officer Michael Warren had joined the Lewiston police force shortly after Thorpe, a hometown boy, good kid, a good officer. The look on his face told the story.

Thorpe nodded in acknowledgement. In the distance, more sirens signaled more law enforcement answering the call. The Massachusetts State police would be here momentarily; for that matter, reporters. He hated the press when they prodded for answers and questioned every move the police made. He rubbed his eyes. This would be a hard area to comb for clues.