Bladed Cross: An End Before The End Times: book 1

PROLOGUE: NORTHERN HAPPENINGS

The dead man returns to finish what your kind started.

Collins

                                                                                               THE RANCH

                                                                                              December 5th

                                                                                                    1883

                                                                                                Michigan

In the night, the woman lay in bed, her nightmare growing more disturbing and more real, moment by moment.

It was a dream of the slaughtering of her children. Unrecognizable had been her sons, as of some feral devil wreathed in shadows, shredding their flesh as a razorblade shreds paper. A tapestry of woven carnage against a crimson background with the center being her daughter's cruel, bloody violation. Their screams at the merciless nature of predatory claws and sadistic razor teeth were ones that would terrorize even the bravest and boldest. The brutality had become so severe that it woke her to a dusk, dim, cold and silent. It was a stiff and nerve racked moment before she exhaled, simultaneously shuttering. What exactly it was in the dream that was bloodthirsty so, she did not know. But the vividness and coldness of it was enough for her to know one thing. The fact her children were alive and unharmed neither consoled, nor compensated her for knowing this one terrible truth.

The thing was real.
She knew it was real the moment she felt its presence.

She was breathing heavily, and a cold perspiration was sticking to her skin, making her sleeping clothes uncomfortable to wear. Everyone was gone. Outside, the rooster in the coop crowed. She could hear the coyotes yapping and howling in the distance and the milk cow bowling in the pins. The woman got out of bed and changed into her work clothes. A dream is only a dream, she thought as she looked into the old mirror. But this. . .

It felt more like a vision of some forthcoming event. Nothing was clear, however, which only amplified her fear. There was the faint sound of a gunshot in the distance, which caused her to gasp. The music of the coyotes ceased.

The woman's husband had gone to the nearest pasture to check the cattle earlier, and her children were also out, hunting the coyotes to prevent more loss of their livestock. She broke her fast and went out to feed the horses and cows in the pens. She shuddered from the still cold and looked around at the country which was covered in snow. Nothing about it was beautiful as it should have been. It was six in the morning and she had scarcely slept with proper rest last night, the dream had left her entirely restless. She normally got up earlier than this, but she had gotten an uneasy feeling before she turned in. She'd felt as if something had been watching them through the windows. Her husband had gone outside with his rifle to look, and found nothing. But her feeling had not ceased. And it was now back, just as is had been. A feeling in the air. Besides the cold there was a static sensation that made goose flesh crawl about her skin, despite her warm clothes. As she stood on the porch, the feeling grew even more relentless. She felt as if the eyes of another being where on her from afar. Finally, she decided to shake it off as just an animal and went to feed, despite it not being the case.

Her family had set up their ranch in Michigan in 1876 after they had moved from Texas. She had been born and raised here and was now thirty six years of age. The woman loved it here, but now she felt as if she wasn't alone. It was so real, and disturbing, her dream. It took a while, but she got her chores done and was just about to go inside to start breakfast for everyone else when she heard a voice calling her.