Dark Dreams Of Love

By R.R. Shelsky

Just for women! Dark Dreams Of Love, a collection of exciting paranormal romances and thrilling dark fantasy and science fiction stories, all designed for the discerning woman. This anthology includes:

A Confederate Yankee In Annabelle’s Court, a time travel romance. Annabelle spies a strange light in a nearby abandoned farmhouse. Little does she know it will lead to another time and a lost love. But is he destined to die in the final battle of the American Civil War, and long before she is even born? Does their love have a chance?

Blue Murder, a "who-dunit" set aboard a luxury star ship, where the heroine rushes to solve the mystery of a murdered heiress, before she herself is killed. Kieren, whose original home is Mumbai, India, is a "hotel detective" aboard the luxury liner. And it is on her shoulders the difficult task of solving the murder falls.

A River Darkly a fictional ghost story based on true events. Set in the early 20th Century of Scotland, this is a tale of ghosts haunting a river, of a lonely young woman whom they beckon to join them in their watery graves.

Green Waters, an historical and different sort of ghost story. Set in 19th Century Pennsylvania, this tale invokes real historical tragedies to lend an air of spooky authenticity to it. What is the meaning of the vision of an old woman drowning? What does it portend? Is it just a recurring nightmare or a dreadful warning?

Serpent Caravan is the tale of a young woman, who along with her friends tries to survive a journey on a truly hostile world. Can they find a home, or is it impossible? And even if they do, is it worth the effort after they learn the terrible secret of why they were sent there?

Lost Beacon Of The Vanished, a cozy murder mystery set in space, where Dame Elpram tries to solve a baffling murder case. Twin brothers, one dies in front of many witnesses and so it can't possibly be murder, or can it? It is up to Dame Elpram to figure out opportunity, method, and motive--if any.

Light On The Moor, a paranormal romance novella of a young woman, who having fled war-torn, WWII London, now finds herself lost on the foggy moors. There, she spies a strange light. Is it a will-o'-the-wisp, or a chance for true love? But if so, at what terrible price? And why do her parents act so strangely of a sudden? The answers lie in The Light On The Moor.

The Crossroads Ghost, a fictional paranormal romance novella, and a great ghost story, but one based on an actual crossroads grave on the English moors--still there to this day. Legend has it the young woman buried there committed suicide, but why? And who is the hooded figure seen mourning her grave late at night. Our heroine must find the answers if she ever hopes to resolve the mystery, and lay the spirits to rest. Along the way, can she find love for herself?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rob Shelsky
• Release date: Mar 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458048752

Book preview

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DARK DREAMS OF LOVE

A Collection of Paranormal Romances

And Women’s Dark Fantasy Fiction

By

R.R. Shelsky

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

R.R. Shelsky on Smashwords

Smashwords ISBN: 978-1-4580-4875-2

DARK DREAMS OF LOVE

A Collection of Paranormal Romances

And Women’s Dark Fantasy Fiction

Copyright © 2011 by Rob Shelsky

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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DEDICATION

There is one person I’d especially like to thank. I owe him so much. George Kempland, I wish to acknowledge you for your loyalty, dedication, mountains of help, and always just being there for me. Again, thank you, so very much.

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Table Of Contents

Confederate Yankee In Annabelle’s Court

The Crossroads Ghost

Blue Murder

A River Darkly

Green Waters

Serpent Caravan

Lost Beacon Of The Vanished

Light On The Moor

A Confederate Yankee In Miss Annabelle’s Court

The light, a lost topaz in the night, twinkled from a window of the house on the far hill. Annabelle stared at the winking jewel of amber through an insomniac’s eyes.

This is ridiculous, she thought for the umpteenth time. The place is empty, so it’s probably just some homeless person, or...something.

She turned from her lace-curtained windowpane and padded barefoot across the hardwood floor to her sleigh bed. Feeling irritable, Annabelle flounced down upon the soft silkiness of the covers. Shutting her eyes, she willed sleep to come, but it would not. The North Carolina humidity wasn’t what troubled her. Rather, it was that mysterious honeyed illumination.

Why does it even matter to me? Annabelle wondered. What was it that drew her so to the light, and with such an intense, almost physical longing? After all, maybe it wasn’t even there, perhaps being just an optical illusion, a trick of reflected moonlight on glass. No, there was no moon. Portentous murky clouds, foreshadowing violent summer thunderstorms, encrusted the night sky, blotting out everything, including all the stars. On the winding country road, there were no cars this late whose headlights might cause odd reflections. Besides, the glow lasted for over an hour. It usually disappeared just after midnight.

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The next morning, Annabelle pottered downstairs for breakfast. Sitting at the oak table with golden sunlight streaming down on her from the kitchen’s only skylight, she sipped from a steaming cup of aromatic tea. Annabelle nibbled on crisp toast slathered with raspberry jam that brimmed with last summer’s sun. Still, her mind was not on her food, but on that yellow light. She had to know what caused it. It was now an obsession with her, she silently admitted this much to herself.

Annabelle waited until that evening. It was a short trip by car to the decrepit house. She stopped at the entrance to the gravelled drive, struck by a sudden hesitation, almost shyness. This was trespassing. If somebody caught her here, what could she say, what explanation could she give that wouldn’t sound crazy?

Finally shrugging off her fear, Annabelle gunned her little red Honda. The car bucked as she shifted gears, and then trailing a cloud of dust, it raced up the drive, past the silhouettes of stately old oaks, sped between shadowed mounds of fragrant honeysuckle. She drove by collapsed outbuildings, now just dark piles of rotting lumber, and then pulled into the weed-choked front yard. The lurking hulks of two camellias formed a dusky arbour, guarding the old bricked pathway that led to the sagging front porch.

Annabelle just sat in the car for a moment. Through the windshield, she stared up at the house. Punctuating the facade of wooden clapboards, long ago weathered clean of any paint, were three tiers of black, gaping windows. There was one exception, the one glowing with the topaz light. The windows had little glass remaining in them. A few lingering shutters dangled at sad angles. The gabled roofline was swaybacked, its spine broken. Fallen debris and jagged shards of broken glass lay all about the yard.

What was she thinking? This place was derelict, ready to collapse. Annabelle could hurt herself by plunging through rotten floorboards, raking her pale flesh on rusty nails, or... She refused to consider another alternative: that some lunatic lurked in the dark recesses of the homestead, waiting to pounce on her.

Mentally bracing herself, Annabelle exited the car. She examined the area leading up to the columned porch. There were no signs of disturbances as far as she could tell. It was as if she were the first to visit here in years. Tilting her head, she stared up at the fitful gleam of golden light emanating from a third floor window.

Annabelle switched on her flashlight and crept up the path. The bricks of the walkway were askew and she took nimble steps to avoid twisting an ankle. She kept the bulky flashlight pointed at the ground to aid her progress, but also to help shield its glow from whomever might be in the house. Annabelle didn’t want to forewarn anyone.

I must be crazy, she thought as she stepped onto the wooden porch, treading with caution on the decaying boards. She paused at the entrance. The cracked wooden door was open, sagging inward, supported by only one rusted hinge that did little to hold it in place. Annabelle had read somewhere that these doors had served both as a means of security, and when necessary, as a bier upon which to view deceased members of the family. Funeral parlours had not been common when they built these homes.

She peered into the night-shadowed foyer. A long corridor stretched to the rear entrance of the home. There was refuse from former occupants, probably the occasional itinerant squatters. Old clothes, papers, bits of plastic, and aluminium cans lay strewn about the hall.

Annabelle stepped over the threshold. A sudden wave of dizziness struck her. She lurched, leaning against one ancient and fractured wall for support. The hall seemed to spin. Then, the moment passed, and she was herself again. But unless she was losing her mind, things had changed. The corridor was still there, but it looked to be in better repair, no longer sporting the refuse Annabelle had just seen.

She glanced behind her. Yes! The door was no longer sagging off its hinges, but hanging straight. She looked outside. A baleful moon was rising. Its metallic glow silvered now neat-looking grounds. Then it struck her; her old Honda was nowhere in sight. Annabelle’s throat went dry. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a cry.

Fighting a rising panic that threatened to overwhelm her, she ran outside, experiencing another wave of dizziness as she went through the doorway. Annabelle stumbled onto the veranda. There was her car, right where she had left it. Now the moon was gone again with only a dark overcast sky remaining. Annabelle shook her head, trying to clear it. If she was dreaming then this was some nightmare!

Annabelle looked through the doorway once more. She saw scattered trash. This was too much. She had to find out what was happening. Passing over the threshold once more, the same moment of dizziness seized her. This time, Annabelle was ready for it. She looked about her. The hallway stretched empty. From outside, there came a rumble. It seemed a storm was approaching.

Clutching the flashlight more as a weapon than as an aid in finding her way, Annabelle made her way down the hall, walking with quiet steps on sanded floorboards. She paused under an unlit chandelier. It was an antique coal-gas one, complete with etched-glass tulip shades, all of them still intact.

Rooms opened to the left and right. She glanced into some of them. They breathed a sudden austerity, revealing fresh-bared floors, and marble-mantled fireplaces, but nothing more. Halfway down the corridor, she came abreast of a spiral staircase. Nervous, Annabelle placed one tentative foot on the first step. It gave an ominous creak, but held her weight without problem.

She slowly mounted the stairs, pausing once more, this time at the second-floor landing to inspect it with her flashlight’s revealing beam. Dust motes danced, spotlighted in its shaft of light, but there was nothing more. The corridor here was twin to the one below and just as deserted. Whoever had built this house would have won no prizes for originality of design was her vagrant thought. Annabelle continued her climb to the third level.

Trying to be quiet, she moved down its passageway. A weak yellow glow spilled out onto the hall floor from the last room on the left. The door to it was ajar. Just as she came even with its entrance, a floorboard gave an inopportune groan under her foot. Its noise was sudden, harsh in the stillness.

Hezekiah? a deep male voice called. Hezekiah, is that you? Who’s there?

Annabelle gathered her courage. She leaned around the corner, looked into the room. A bare-chested man sat on a rumpled pile of bedding on the floor, facing her, his back leaning against a cornflower-papered wall. He wore tight dark trousers tucked into worn high boots. Blackest hair against whitest skin, he stared up at her with blue eyes that were like twin gleaming sapphires. Annabelle focused not on his handsome features, but on the rifle in his hand. It looked outdated but lethal, and it pointed straight at her. What’s more, the gun looked huge.

You, ma’am, are not Hezekiah, he said in a low and menacing growl. What’cha all doing here, ma’am? He kept his weapon aimed at her.

Uh...I...uh... Who are you? Annabelle asked at last, finding it easier to take the offensive. What are you doing here? What’s going on? she demanded.

More importantly, ma’am, who are you and what are y’all doing in muh house?

Your house? Annabelle’s eyebrows rose. Surely, you’re not serious? Nobody’s lived here for ages.

His mouth twisted in a hard grin, revealing even white teeth. I suppose this war must make it seem like ages, he said. But I have a right to be here, ‘cuz muh family owns this place. Now, tell me who y’all are. You don’t look like a looter. I’m guessin’ you must be a spy since you’re dressed like a man an’ all.

A man? Annabelle glanced down at herself. She wore her ex’s red-plaid shirt. James had left it behind when he had departed so suddenly last year for greener pastures. She also wore Liz Claiborne jeans. They were stonewashed, formfitting, and hardly made her look like a man. Who did this jerk think he was?

All right, Annabelle said. Let’s move past the insults, shall we? First, put that gun away. I don’t like those things. And tell me who you are. If you don’t, I’m calling the police.

The police? The tensed muscles of his blue-shadowed jaw relaxed with a smile. He laid the gun sideways across his hairy and muscular chest. Why, ma’am, he said. There never was anything here but a sheriff. And I’m bettin’ he skedaddled the minute he heard old man Sherman and his army was marchin’ this way.

Then his thin dark eyebrows dipped in a v-shaped frown. But being a spy, I’m bettin’ you already know that, ma’am. You goin’ to report me to General Johnston?

What are you talking about? Who’s General Johnston? For that matter, who’s Sherman?

He snorted and then said, Come on, ma’am, try pulling the other leg, ‘cuz this one here has a bullet hole in it. He patted his well-muscled right thigh.

She glanced down at his leg. Her eyes widened. Annabelle saw a raw-red wound through a ragged tear in his trousers. A dark kerchief, tied around the thigh above the injury, must serve as a tourniquet.

Oh, my God! she exclaimed. What happened? Did you shoot yourself? Where’s your phone? I’ll call for an ambulance. She glanced around the room, searching. There was only the lit oil lamp sitting on the floor by the window.

The young man shook his head. Ma’am, there ain’t no need for me shooting muhself when there’s a whole rebel army willin’ to do the job for me. He patted his leg again. And judging by that artillery, any ambulances must be busy over Bentonville way.

Annabelle’s eyes widened. Artillery? What artillery? On and off she’d heard thunder. Was he delusional? Did he think it was cannon firing?

What’cha think that boomin’ is, ma’am? Look out yonder window if you don’t believe me.

Annabelle moved like an automaton toward the casement. She looked through its dusty glass panes. It took a moment for her to register the fact that the window was still intact. She could see flashes on the far horizon. Seconds later, dull thudding noises rolled over the house.

Yes, thunder, she thought. Yet, the flashes seemed to emanate from the ground and not the sky. That was strange.

She turned to him. I’ll get help. I have a cell in my car I can use to phone.

Phone, ma’am? Don’t rightly know what you’re talkin’ about. But you ain’t puttin’ me in no cell. We’ve heard about Andersonville and what you Johnny-Rebs do to Northern prisoners.

"Northern? If you’re from the North why do you