Page 43 of Whisper of Nightmares

But something new happens this time.

Instead of the nightmare running after her, a gravelly voice calls from behind. “Back away, you wretched creature.”

Euphemia’s heart leaps with gratitude. For some naïve reason, her first thought is that this person has come to protect her. Defend her. To frighten away the beast once and for all.

Euphemia twists around to thank her mysterious savior⁠—

Only to find a cloud of fog that had not been there before, and a figure emerging from within it.

Not a man.

A creature shaped like one though.

He descends upon her like the darkening sky.

His cloven hooves strike the rocky soil. Lichen-dipped horns protrude from his skull—and it is just a skull. Not a human face at all. But something bone-white, the jaw elongated like it belongs to something equestrian. Something monstruous.

And then Euphemia realizes…

This is the figure she’s been seeing.

The one stalking her from the shadows, the nightmare horse always close at hand.

He hasn’t come to threaten the creature away from her.

He’s come for her.

And as he approaches, Euphemia realizes with horror that those are not eyes inside his skull but flickering ethereal flames. She loses the battle with the scream that had gathered in the back of her throat earlier, and it finally erupts.

Stumbling away, Euphemia trips over the hem of her skirts, careening into the brook with a splash. The deathly mare rears again, its purple flames brightening like a protective halo of fire around it. But Euphemia almost isn’t even scared of it. Her terror is reserved only for the man of nightmares, a beast unlike any she’s ever seen and one who will surely haunt her for the rest of her days.

That is, if she lives to see them.

Only a dream, she reminds herself.

But the voice in her head is shaking, and new words scream into her skull.

If he is only a dream, how come she’s seen him in the daylight?

Euphemia scrambles to her feet, slipping on rocks and algae. Her bare toes scrape on something jagged. She hardly notices the sting, let alone the trickle of blood merging with the dark stream. How the water churns black on contact.

Euphemia stumbles through the frigid waters. She claws at the bank on the opposite side. Grasps at the cold soil that turns into bones beneath her fingers.

And then⁠—

The dream blinks away.

Euphemia bolts upright, her dusty bedchamber reappearing around her.

But not even the briefest glimpse of familiarity can ease the frantic beating in her chest.

Euphemia tears at the bedsheets as if they are vipers strangling her. For a frightening moment, she cannot tell what is real and what is imagination. The bed. The candles. Her own hands. Euphemia is no stranger to vivid dreaming. Ever since her father’s death, dreams have been a constant plague upon her, invading her sleep most nights, and haunting her waking hours well into the day.

But this is different.

This dream was not a memory, nor some mangled amalgamation of one.

This was something new.