Page 61 of Whisper of Nightmares

Euphemia’s eyes widen with fear.

Now what? she wonders, watching as the small pinpoint of brightness gradually blooms under the water. The light drifts upward, floating out of the river like a dripping shooting star. But if it is a star, it has lost all its luster. The colors are wrong. Sagging and dull. It is not the sort of light that dazzles and delights, but rather a pale and sickly shade that makes her feel nauseous.

The light drifts toward the bank, floats across the meadow with languid ease, and wanders toward them.

The beast of a man steps more between Euphemia and the light, raising his sword at it.

“What is that?” she asks, breathless.

His skull jerks over his shoulder. “Do you know so little of what means you harm?”

Euphemia folds her arms and mutters to herself, “At least I know my name.”

Though this close, her words reach him and his shoulders tense. He turns back toward the floating orb and she curses her brash tongue. Here he is, seemingly defending her, while she’s busy offending him. Brilliant.

With a sharp inhale, Euphemia summons a half-hearted apology. But he’s already moved past it, protectively nudging her farther behind him and out of the light’s path as it approaches.

“That—” he answers, “is a soul.”

The word ripples through her like something holy.

A soul.

Desperate to observe such a thing, she grabs his arm and pulls herself around him. After all, Euphemia has never seen a soul before. Oh, but she has heard about them plenty. It seems every sermon they discuss them—the ways a soul can be devout or damned, how they are judged in death, some granted access to Heaven while others face eternal punishment in Hell.

She’s reminded again of what the beast of a man called this place earlier.

Hell-heim.

Everything is starting to make a certain kind of morose sense. Of course she would dream about her own damnation, this place where she is trapped with her nightmare, her guilt, and…whatever he is.

The beast of a man and Euphemia watch in silence as the sickly light drifts across the meadow and into the mist.

As it does, the dim glow illuminates the fog. It begins to fade, engulfed by the dense cloud of grey. But she watches as it emerges on the other side, the glow brightening once more and illuminating a structure that had not been there before.

By silhouette alone, Euphemia might have called it a castle.

But it is not stone that fortifies those walls.

It is something porous.

Something stained with age.

Squinting, Euphemia steps closer, oblivious to the fact that her skulled companion is stepping backward. Her gaze drifts up the ivory spires that stretch into the sky like teeth—some sharpened to a perfect point, others serrated and splintered. Shattered shells of pinnacles and battlements rise higher than any castle she’s ever seen or heard of.

When her eyes fall back down, she notices a doorway below it all.

The soul drifts across the threshold and disappears somewhere beyond.

But its glow lingers in the doorway. Pulsing. Shifting from the color of rotten leaves to the magenta sky above them.

Something tugs at Euphemia, calling her forward.

Not a voice.

Not a hand.

Something stronger.