Chloe's Winter: The Genesis Chronicles, #3

By Ms. Tery

If a dream is a wish your heart makes, what are nightmares?

Asking for a friend…

One minute, fourteen-year-old Chloe James is sleeping peacefully; the next, she's upright in bed, fearing for the lives of her family and friends.

Following the girls' attack on Murdoch's factory, visions of violence haunt her. Though Samaya and Whitney have moved on, Chloe struggles as school, extra-curricular activities, and a bevy of new people and new experiences distract the girls from each other and their mission. Soon, Chloe finds herself in a battle to hold everything together, especially when her dreams start coming true.

Danger lurks around every corner as each new person and new experience challenges the girls' ability to differentiate friends from enemies and safety from jeopardy.

Will the girls identify the next threat before Chloe's nightmares become reality?

Find out in the third book of The Genesis Chronicles, Chloe's Winter.

**Due to mild depictions of violence and language, sensitive people strongly cautioned.**

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ms.Tery
• Release date: Mar 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201992729

Ms. Tery

Wife, mother, daughter, sister, storyteller & esoteric hermit. Working at the nexus of art and purpose to craft strong, authentic, characters and evocative experiences that endure.  I am a writer and this is my story.

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Ms. Tery

Chloe’s Winter

Book Three of The Genesis Chronicles

Copyright © 2022 by Ms. Tery

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Ms. Tery asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Ms. Tery has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

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To Amia,

Thanks for reminding me it’s a marathon, not a sprint.

Chapter 1

No… No…Please…

I panted and jerked, but my limbs… they wouldn’t move.

Please…

A crisp white light pierced the darkness.

Don—

Aaaahhh!

I sat up on my elbows, gasping for air. Tossing my blankets aside, I leaped out of bed and raced for my mom’s room. The soft patter of my footfalls echoed in the early morning silence. I cracked her door and sighed. Upon finding Mom asleep, I paused to take in the rhythm of her breaths before returning to my room. The instant my door shut behind me, I leaned against it and crumpled to the floor. Just a dream.

I buried my fingers in the nubby beige carpet. Sleeping had become a feat of courage. An activity for the bold. Whenever my eyes closed for rest, I woke with the irrepressible urge to collect my family and flee from a mysterious nocturnal attack.

I tiptoed over to my desk and turned on my cactus lamp—a rustic, Bondi blue bowl with misshapen sides, attached to a lamp rod. As a youngster, I staked my claim on the light after declaring it a blue agave. Mom made the lamp in her college ceramics class and hated it. However, four-year-old me had fallen in love with it. The petals crudely obscured the bulb in an unrefined yet artistic fashion. As my fingers traced the betel nut beaded chain, I smiled. My lamp reminded me that all I needed to do was touch what I loved and my nightmares would disappear.

Once my breathing returned to a near-average pace, I changed into my gauzy meditation garb and grabbed my yoga mat. Although I had three hours before my weekend volunteer work, I needed to regroup. And maybe, just maybe, if I work hard enough, I’ll escape the petrifying labyrinth of my mind’s creation.

Beginning with a self-inquiry meditation, I lowered myself to the floor and bent forward into Balasana. Folding my body over my knees while compressing myself against the mat helped me surrender to my emotions rather than struggle against them. Meditation soothed my soul. Each pose was a balm for my mental wounds.

As I strove for mental clarity, I transitioned into the opening squat for Eka Pada Koundinyasana. Events from the previous week flooded my mind. Seven days prior, my two best friends and I launched our first counterattack against a burgeoning evil threatening to lay waste to our town. We thwarted the attack by destroying a significant portion of a dangerous chemical plant. We celebrated our victory at once, but my pride was short-lived. The moment I fell asleep at Whitney’s, indistinguishable figures partnered with an inexplicable apprehension and ejected me from my slumber.

Now, back in my room, distorted gray wisps and sullen moans entered my psyche, threatening my Parsva Bakasana. My arms trembled as I shifted the weight from my hips and lower body onto my forearms. I extended my legs into a wide split with my eyes closed in concentration. At the exact moment my legs achieved the perfect stretch, and the tension from my pre-dawn scare dissipated from limber limbs, a jolt of realization pierced my senses. It couldn’t be…

I toppled to the floor. Leaping from my mat, I scrambled over to the antique drafting table I used as my desk. I lifted the angled tabletop and felt around inside until my fingers grazed the chubby notepad where I recorded strange dreams. My stomach sank as I flipped the pages to my last entry and reviewed the contents.

My dream from that morning…it was a perfect replication of my dream from Stone manor. I swallowed hard. Think, Chloe…Think!

For most people, dreams—as in the mental fantasies people had during the REM sleep cycle, not their goals—don’t come true. However, past experiences had taught me at an early age that when I had the same dream twice within a seven-day timeframe, the events would manifest themselves into reality.

From the time I was six years old or so, my dreams had done everything from revealing people’s hidden motivations to predicting the untimely death of a classmate’s mother. My double dreams were short-lived, but always held premonitory qualities. Unlike most mornings when I didn’t remember my dreams upon waking, I remembered every detail with absurd accuracy.

Focus, Chloe. Focus. I raked my fingers through my damp curls as my mind twisted, coiled, and knotted itself into a mental imbroglio.

With a deep, determined breath, I stalked over to my yoga mat and moved into Dandasana. As I bent my right knee and lifted my right foot off the mat, I focused on my breath. In and out. In and out. I wrapped my right knee around the outer edge of my right shoulder and hooked my calf onto my right shoulder. Two more breaths. On the last exhale, I firmly planted my hands on the mat and pressed from my shoulders, using my core to lift my hips and left leg off of the floor.

Maybe my subconscious didn’t agree with our activities in the factory. Perhaps these night terrors are reflecting changes in my vibrations…

I held the pose for six breaths. My arms trembled during the Eka Hasta Bhujasana, but I remained focused, desperate to decipher my dream. Perhaps I misinterpreted the symbols. When I lowered myself back onto the floor and prepared to switch legs, I shook my head. Only a neon sign could be more obvious…And there is only one way to find out how right or wrong I am. I sighed. I’m going back in.

I unwrapped my leg and went to my closet. Opening the large plastic bin Mom stocked with medicinal herbs, I rolled a smudge of cedar, sweetgrass, and tulsi, bound it with twine, and lit it. Once the smoke began to rise, I swirled it about my person before resting it on my incense holder.

Returning to my mat for the third time in a single morning, I squeezed my eyes shut and reengaged in the elephant trunk pose, wrapping my left knee on the outer edge of my left shoulder. I focused on the many lessons Mom taught me on clarifying meditation. During her ten-year stint in New Mexico, Mom learned the art of meditation and prayer from spiritual leaders on the reservations. I inhaled deeply and chanted ohm on the exhale in anticipation of entering a deepened meditative state. When a disruptive emotion arose and threatened to overpower the meditation, Mom had instructed me to buoy it with the sea of sound, or in my case, my chanting.

Pressing my hands into the mat and focusing on my chanting, I lifted my body off the floor.

Inhale, two, three, and, Ohmmm.

Darkness clouded my vision. The sights from my jumbled thoughts disappeared in seconds, and silence enveloped me.

Ohmmm.

My arms quivered as the dream entered my mind. Although fully aware of my control, I still cringed at the sight of myself lying in my darkened bedroom, unaware of what would happen next. I sank my teeth into my bottom lip when shadows appeared in the window.

Thin, silvery wisps at first, the shadows darkened and elongated, forming spindly, oil-colored fingers. They dripped from the glass to the ground like a Salvador Dali painting. The sensation of foam burrowing underneath my nails reminded me to refocus on my breathing.

Inhale, two, three, and exhale, two, three. Ohmmm.

As the shadows slithered across the frost-covered grass, they morphed into a figure. My spine stiffened, and I allowed the trepidation to seep into my veins as the dark figure twisted into the shape of a man. The faceless black silhouette retreated from my window and faded into the night.

The image glitched. My eyebrows puckered, and the man returned in triplicate. The grating screech of cut glass echoed in the night as long black fingers clawed at the window. Moisture dampened my forehead and my breath quickened as ‘Chloe’ remained asleep. The scenes flashed. Masculine shadows multiplied until they filled the window while low bestial moans filled the air. My heart thundered until ‘Chloe’ woke up. She ran through the house, calling for her mother. When they reunited, ‘Chloe’ and her mom meditated for peace in the living room, but the black figures were already there. Just as their meditative chants reached their peak, the window exploded. Shards of glass and icy swirls of shadowy hands devoured Chloe and her mother.

I screamed. The sound shattered the darkness and reverberated back to its point of origin. Angry and filled with loathing, the scream ripped through the night, splintered my consciousness, and lodged itself deep inside my heart. It attacked again and again until I toppled to the ground, unable to maintain my balance.

I lost control. My once calm breaths came out in short, shallow bursts as I lay on my side, trembling. Screaming was the mind’s most primitive and desperate way of seeking the love that would heal its pain, and my throat ached from forcing air through my vocal cords in a silent cry for help. In my effort to decipher my dreams, I had reawakened the potent blend of anxiety and terror I was trying to decode. Yet again, I had to reassure myself that it was merely a vision created by my overactive imagination. However, as I stared out my window into the pre-dawn darkness, I could no longer fight the dread saturating my body. The dreams were identical. My fears were real. And I had to get ready because soon, they would transpire.

My eyes rolled toward my fish-shaped wall clock.

Ughh. Six a.m.

Despite the quiver in my stomach, delaying my daily preparations wouldn’t solve my problems. In two hours, Mom and I would join the dedicated volunteers at the Toole Town Community Center to provide weekend enrichment classes. And I couldn’t let my art students down.

Dragging myself into an upright position, I shuffled over to my closet and opened the door. It’s a pity for one to own such interesting pieces yet remain bound by the covenants of a dress code five days a week. I traced the fabric of my colorful blouses and skirts. Their prints and patterns induced a tiny smile. The process of choosing an outfit grew longer since school started. I could dress in themes in middle school or even create costumes from my favorite stories. However, Crestwood limited my clothing selection to their navy and black uniform, and even had rules regarding undergarments. I nibbled on my cuticles and thumbed through my fall and winter clothes. Orange or yellow would lift my spirits, but blue would induce tranquility…

The resonant tick of my clock punctuated the clattering din of hangers in the wee hours of the morning. My mind flickered between clothing selection and wondering how my dream would manifest itself. I wound a few strands of my auburn spirals around my fingertips and studied my clothing. When ten minutes passed and I still didn’t have an outfit, I shut my eyes and reached deep into the recesses of my wardrobe. Whatever pops out, I’ll wear.

Clothes in hand, I headed for the bathroom. As the water warmed and steam rose from the shower, I divided my hair into eight sections and formed two-strand twists. I didn’t need to, but Mom always twisted my hair before my childhood baths, and I continued the habit. When my shower reached the perfect temperature, I stepped inside.

On most days, my meditation and yoga routine provided a much-needed hour of tranquility before school or work. But in fourteen days, I hadn’t slept a whole night or woke to a peaceful morning. Even when I didn’t have the eerie dream about shadows, I woke with an unusual disquiet that my morning routine couldn’t handle. To soothe my nerves and relax the corded muscles in my neck, I took an extra-long shower.

Once I was clean and somewhat more relaxed, I slipped on my magenta and cyan Ankara cloth dress. The bold shell design made me smile, and most importantly, the material washed well. After teaching three art classes to elementary-aged kids, I anticipated splashes,