Charlotte dreamt of darkness, a suffocating blackness so thick it could only be the foretelling of a coming nightmare. A dark, icy presence seemed to dance around her, there one second, gone the next. But she wasn't afraid. The presence was always with her, a cold whisper on the back of her neck, and the dark made it no more frightening.
Charlotte let her mind wonder through the darkness, reaching out with blind eyes straining through the gloom. The air hung thick with the musty smell of dying leather and the after taste of stale fries. And above it all came the crunching of tires on asphalt and the reeve of a too-fast engine.
A small, dim light began to creep from the edges of her vision, glowing like melted butter. The light grew into an overwhelming whiteness that filled her eyes, and then ebbed away. Charlotte looked around and took in her new surroundings. She sat in the back of a New York City taxicab, leaning back against peeling leather and dust. Outside, the world flew by at a speed that was too fast, too loud, to be safe.
Suddenly, the car sped around a corner and onto a bridge hanging high above an ocean of lava. The metal beast tilted to the side, teetering on the edge of oblivion and, after one last moment of deliberation, rolled off the side and plummeted to the boiling lake below. A feverish screaming filled her ears as the car fell further and further and the scorching sea came closer and closer...
Charlotte awoke with the echo of a scream in her ears. Her world was dim yet again, though through the dark she could detect faint rays of light peaking through her curtains. Slowly, so as not to disturb the sleeping cat sprawled across her knees, Charlotte lifted herself onto her elbows and took in the comforting sight of her bedroom. White furniture, black walls, and carpet the color of green moss. Dirty, old, and ruined sketchbooks, filled to the brim with dark pictures and interpretations, covered every space in her room, every desk every shelf. Several even laid on her bed next to her. Her drawings were something different from the norm. She sketched monsters and demons, horrible creatures she made up, scenes of horror and torture. Visions, she called them. Visions that came to her in dreams.
Charlotte kicked the cat off her lap and gingerly climbed out of bed, ignoring the irritated squeals from the white furry creature. Careful not to step on any sketchbooks, she made her way to her window and threw back the curtains.
The day was wet and cold. It had been raining for days now, the drizzly kind of rain that caught on your eyelashes and beaded in your hair. The kind that stuck to the bottom of your jeans and soaked through your shoes. Charlotte got a sick feeling in her stomach, for today was the first day of high school. And after weeks of preparation, weeks of school shopping and picking out the perfect fist day outfit, she still felt as if she wasn't ready.
Something's off, she thought to herself as she made her way to the kitchen and fed her pet cat. "What do you think, Edgar?" She asked him as he wound through her legs. He let out soft "mew" and looked up at her with silted yellow eyes. Charlotte smiled. She had named him after the poetic genius after she found him outside of the library three years ago. She had just finished researching a project for her English class and there he was, right on the front steps, licking and old hamburger wrapper. Charlotte had taken him home immediately and, despite her mother's protests, had become a beloved member of the family.
"Good morning, Charlotte," Charlotte's mother greeted her as she entered the kitchen.
"Good morning," Charlotte replied.
Charlotte's mother, Irene O'Hara, had long golden hair, full red lips and a svelte frame. She was a sophisticated woman in her early forties, working at a law firm from dawn to dusk and often traveling on business trips. Today she wore a navy blue pencil skirt with a white button up blouse and a navy blazer. Her smooth hair was pulled back into a perfect ponytail gliding down her back and on the bridge of her small nose nestled a pair of black wire rimed glasses.
"Are you ready for your first day of high school?" she asked her daughter as she made her routine coffee.
"I don't know," Charlotte answered and took a seat on a stool at the island. "I'm afraid something bad might happen."
"I'm sure it's all just in your head." Irene responded, not at all impressed with her daughter's sense of foreboding. "You're going to be just fine." She walked to her daughter, planted a respectful kiss on her forehead, and slammed the front door as she left.
Charlotte sighed. She had realized long ago that her mother would never believe her about her visions no matter what she said. But that didn't stop her from trying. At least her father humored her.
She stood, gathered her backpack, shoes and nutrition bar, and left the house barefoot.
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A/N: The picture to the right is Charlotte.
YOU ARE READING
The Shadow Sight
ParanormalCharlotte O’Hara has never been normal. She has strange, violent dreams. Her bone white cat is more unlucky than the poet he is named after. And even the shadows seem to stir in her peculiar company. And though she is often alone with her sketchbook...
