

Jack FrostJack's shouts are quieter than most men whisper. His voice is the trickling of melt water from glaciers, the grinding of icebergs in the near-frozen oceans, the cold creep of fear when we're alone in the dark. When he speaks things grow still and quiet and the undertone of something even worse - Death, the ultimate stillness - resounds and reverberates as the echo of Jack's voice. Jack is there when silence isn't enough. Jack will take your breath and make it an Arctic wind. Jack will cut your throat raw with thousands of tiny ice-shards with every lungful of his air. Jack is tJack Frost


Mina in the Haunted GardenOn the fourth day, the rain had mostly cleared up but for a few light sprinklings and the odd, comparatively mild cloudburst. Mina found some wellies that weren't too big and dug out a wax jacket from Aunt Venutia's closets of old coats and scarves and gloves, pausing over the hats, wondering if she'd look extra silly if she put on a wide-brimmed trilby. It wasn't Venutia's sort of hat, she thought vaguely, holding it up and admiring the dazzling cobalt blue felt and jazzy trim. She wondered where it came from, but as soon as she'd put it aside it was forgotten.Mina in the Haunted Garden
Mina went back to her room to get h


A beginningShe watched them from the doorway, squinting against the light of the setting sun to make out the dust that rose from the galloping horses as they neared the farm, one hand bracing herself against the wall as she waited. The crisp autumn air tasted like ashes in the back of her throat.A beginning
"You'll get a head cold," Mara muttered as she passed, herding Will toward the bedroom with a clean shirt. "They'll arrive whether you stand there shivering or not. Come inside."
Tess responded with a small shake of her head, eyes still fixed on the horizon. She felt Mara's eyes on her with t


The Striding ManShe dreams about the Striding Man, arm outstretched, trident in hand; she dreams about his fierce, beautiful face and the ceaseless flow of the world around him. She dreams in blue, turquoise and green, shot through with dashes of weakened sunlight that flickers as if it is trying to stay alive in that deep, dark place, but is overpowered. She dreams of fish and shells and the deep pull and thrust of the tide, the shadowed murk of the bottom of the sea; where the boat lies, rotting now.The Striding Man
It used to be bright and bold, that boat. It scythed through the waters at all times of the day and
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Tread softly because you tread on my dreams
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Maria Aragon
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Tread softly because you tread on my dreams
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Tread softly because you tread on my dreams...
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