Chapter 91. Eden’s Nightmares Return
Chapter 91. Eden’s Nightmares Return
The first scream tore Elijah from sleep like a hand wrenching him out of deep water. His heart slammed against his ribs as he bolted upright. The house was dark—too dark—until the second scream came, sharper, younger, unmistakably Eden’s.
He was down the hall before he realized he was moving, bare feet hitting hardwood in frantic, uneven steps. Her door was half open, pulsing with the flicker of her lamp—she must’ve turned it on sometime during the night.
“Eden?” Elijah gasped as he burst inside.
She was sitting upright in her bed, sheets twisted around her like restraints, sweat soaking her hairline. Her eyes were open but unfocused, darting around the room as if she were looking for something—or someone—only she could see.
“Eden, honey,” he said gently, moving toward her. “It’s Dad. You’re okay. You’re safe.”
She shook her head violently. “No… no, I’m not… Dad—” Her voice cracked. “Don’t let them in.”
Elijah felt his stomach drop. “Who? Nobody’s here. It’s just us.”
But she wasn’t listening. Her breathing was wild, panicked. Not the startled fear of a bad dream—something deeper. Something like terror.
Her hands clawed at the air. “They’re watching. They were in the basement again. I tried—I tried to run but the door was locked—”
Elijah froze.
The basement.
The same basement where he’d found Matthew’s bloodstained shirt two nights ago.
He sat on the edge of her bed, gripping her shoulders gently. “Eden, look at me.” His voice was low but firm. “Look at me.”
She did, but her pupils were wide, trembling.
“I saw the church,” she whispered. “Dad… why am I dreaming about the church?”
Elijah’s breath stalled.
The church.
The basement.
The blood.
“Tell me what you saw,” he said softly.
She blinked rapidly, as if the images were still strobing behind her eyelids.
“There was a hall. And the stairs. The same stairs you told me never to go near.” Her voice wavered. “And there was a truck outside. A red one. The headlights were on… but nobody was inside.”
Elijah felt a chill crawl across his spine. A red truck. The mayor’s red truck.
But Eden couldn’t possibly—
“Eden,” he said slowly, “how do you know what the church basement looks like?”
She had never been there. He was absolutely sure.
Eden rubbed her eyes with trembling fingers. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t know. I…” Her voice faltered. “Dad, what’s happening to me?”
He pulled her into a hug. She clung to him with desperate strength, her frame shaking.
“It’s okay,” he whispered into her hair. “It’s just nightmares. You’ve been through so much. All this with the trial, the threats… it’s too much for anyone.”
But even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t true.
Eden hadn’t had night terrors since she was eight—since the year her mother died. And those terrors had been different. Shallow. Faded quickly. Child-sized.
These were not child-sized.
She pulled back slightly, looking up at him with wide, wet eyes. “I dream about faces,” she said. “But they don’t have eyes. Just holes. Just…” She gestured helplessly. “Just darkness.”
Elijah swallowed hard. “Faces without eyes?”
She nodded, her chin trembling.
He forced himself to stay calm, even as dread coiled around his throat. “Can you draw them?”
She hesitated. “I already did.”
Already did?
A fresh wave of unease rolled through him.
“Show me,” he said gently.
Eden’s hand reached shakily toward the nightstand and pulled out her sketchbook. She handed it to him without meeting his gaze.
Elijah opened it.
The first drawing hit him like a physical blow.
It was the church basement. Far too accurate for any child’s guesswork. The broken stone steps, the rusted railing, the narrow low ceiling, the old table pushed against the wall—all of it meticulously sketched in pencil strokes both frantic and precise.
His chest tightened.
“Eden,” he whispered, “when did you draw this?”
“Tonight,” she murmured. “I woke up and I couldn’t stop.”
He flipped to the next page.
The red truck.
The exact model.
The exact dent in the tailgate.
He didn’t have an explanation. He didn’t even have a theory.
Another page.
Faces—half a dozen of them—featureless except for hollow black voids where the eyes should be. But what made his skin prickle wasn’t the missing eyes. It was the suggestion of movement in the shading, as if the darkness was spreading outward, consuming the rest of the face.
He kept turning pages.
The drawings got worse.
One page showed a hand reaching out of total darkness. Another showed the church pews melting like wax. Another—a figure standing behind Eden’s bed. Tall. Crooked. Watching.
He felt bile rise in his throat.
He closed the book.
Her voice came out small. “Did I do something wrong?”
That question nearly broke him.
“No,” Elijah said, pulling her close again. “No, sweetheart. None of this is your fault.”
“Then why is this happening?” she whispered.
He wished he had the answer.
When she finally calmed enough to lie down again, he stayed beside her, holding her hand until her breathing steadied. She drifted faster than he expected, exhausted by fear.
But Elijah stayed awake.
Her drawings lay on the nightstand, staring at him with eyeless faces.
He watched the rise and fall of her chest, reassuring himself she was still there, still breathing, still tethered to the world.
His thoughts churned into a storm.
She’s remembering something.
Not a dream.
A memory.
The church basement.
The red truck.
Faceless figures.
Something she saw… but shouldn’t have.
Or something someone showed her.
Elijah’s stomach clenched.
Could she have witnessed something years ago? Something she didn’t understand at the time? Kids see things adults dismiss. She might have buried the memory so deep it only surfaced through nightmares.
Or—
And this made Elijah’s blood go cold—
Someone could be trying to trigger her memory.
He thought of the surveillance van.
Of the USB stick.
Of the message on the mirror: Don’t Be Like Him.
Eden shifted in her sleep, whimpering.
Elijah stroked her hair, whispering softly, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
He didn’t sleep the rest of the night.
At dawn, he stepped quietly into the hallway. The house was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the tick of the old clock.
He didn’t turn on any lights.
He didn’t need to.
He could still see the sketches burned into his mind.
The basement.
The truck.
The faceless people.
As the sun crept over the horizon, he sank into the living room chair, feeling more hollowed out than rested.
Eden wasn’t just scared.
She was remembering.
And Elijah feared—deep in the buried place where instinct lived—that those memories weren’t dreams resurfacing.
They were warnings.
Clues.
Pieces of a truth she shouldn’t know.
A truth someone didn’t want her to speak.
And he realized something terrifying:
Whoever was trying to silence the town…
was now trying to silence his daughter.