Nightshadow

NIGHTSHADOWA NovelM I A R O G E R S[[A Foggy Bay Book]] Copyright © 2023 by Foggy Bay LLCAll rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact Foggy Bay, LLC.The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.Book Design by Mia RogersFoggy Bay, [email protected] For Mom, Dad, Ian, and Alyssa TABLE OF CONTENTSONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIXSEVENEIGHTNINETENELEVENTWELVETHIRTEENFOURTEENFIFTEENSIXTEENSEVENTEENREVIEWSACKNOWLEDGMENTSABOUT THE AUTHOR ONEBoom. The room shakes. The ceiling tiles fall, shattering as they crash onto the hard floor. Screaming, crying and shouts for help. Yelling and chaos. She can’t feel her hands, nor can she see them. It is like she’s invisible, only able to sit and watch all the destruction and pain and agony. She tries to yell, but it comes out as a muffled grunt. Her ears are stinging from the loud echoes coming from the streets below, and the room smells of blood, dust, and as if something is burning. Smoke and ash cloud her senses, limiting her line of sight to only what is nearby.She does not recognize the building, and its interior is destroyed, keeping her from telling what it once was. The concrete walls are painted black, and the windows are stained gray, the few remaining shattering at each new explosion inside the building.A man crawls in front of her. He is bleeding and his leg twists in a way it shouldn’t. His eyes are filled with pain and grief, his face marked with burns and soot, coated in a thin layer of dust from the falling rocks.Another explosion goes off, rattling her ears when he speaks. “Help,” he whispers, looking straight into her eyes. His voice is hoarse through the ash and smoke surrounding him. He lets out a pained cough, followed by a choked sob.“I’m trying!” she wants to shout. “I can’t!” she yells in her mind at him. She tries calling for help again, but no one is there. There’s no one else left alive in the building to help them.Another explosion rocks the building, and the structure collapses, light blinding her vision. The man is crushed beneath layers of cement and wood and rock. Suddenly she’s outside the building and can see the rest of the city. Buildings are crumbling down, killing all inside and around them. People are panicking, running and screaming, but no matter how much others might want to, they can’t help. All they can do is try to stay alive themselves without success.Fire engulfs her, and her vision turns dark. I let out a gasp as I fully wake up. Dreams again. No, not dreams. The dream. The one that plays again and again in my head, each time from a different view of the same place. A dying city.“Wake up. It’s not real,” I murmur to myself. But it felt real. It feels real, and it keeps happening. Maybe I’m going mad. I sigh and decide I can think about the dream later. It’s not important at the moment, if it ever will be.My bed is warm, and the scent of pine needles floats through the room. I stand up and walk to my window, seeing a very small city unlike the one in the dream in the distance. Looking beyond my neighborhood, light colored buildings stand tall in the near distance. I can see the roofs of shops along the main street of town. Each building features an abundance of windows, allowing as much sunlight in as possible. At the right angle, some windows reflect the forestlands that form a natural barrier behind my house. This is the only city I’ve ever seen, yet somehow deep down, I feel like I know the place in the dream. I wave away the thought and continue down the stairs to find the house is empty.“Where is everyone?” Then it hits me. It’s Friday. They’re at Lily’s doctor’s appointment.My brain immediately links that thought to a memory exactly six months ago, the last time I was in the hospital, and it still hurts. To think about it, to think about him. To hear all those things they said at his funeral… A tear rolls down my pale face. Maybe it’s fine to cry for a moment. No! I can’t cry. He’d want me to be strong.“And that’s what I’m trying to do, to move on like you said. But it’s hard. I’ll never forget you,” I whisper to the empty house. Standing, I push my bright red hair out of my face and calm myself down. For a moment it feels like he is there, listening. But he’s gone. Forever. Another tear escapes, and I wipe it away. I have to find something to do. To distract myself. Something to occupy my thoughts and my hands.I make my way across the room to the front door. My mother, followed by my sister, father, and best friend, told me to skip today, anticipating a meltdown on a death anniversary, but I have to do something. Doing nothing is making it all worse. I make quick work of getting ready to go. Throwing on some clean clothes, I brush my teeth. My naturally pale skin still looks paler than normal. It makes my freckles stand out more than usual. My blue eyes look huge, ringed by dark circles, and deep sockets. I’ve lost weight over the last year, in stress, in grief, making me look almost gaunt. I quickly turn away from the mirror; the face looking back is no longer recognizable.My backpack is hanging on the coat rack where I left it yesterday. As I open the front door, a rush of cold March air hits me. I can drive, but it’s