She saw herself looking down into the well, the reflection of the blue sky and clouds, her own small shadow. She jumped as she envisioned herself falling and holding onto the rough, wet rope. The silhouette appeared of the woman peering into the well. Claire saw the outline of the woman’s hair flowing out around her face.
A shiver rolled down her spine. Her eyes flew open—that was it. She could see the face! She closed her eyes and willed herself to return to that place in the nightmare, to see the face again. She went back through the nightmare quickly, like someone skimming paragraphs to get to a particular line in a book.
There it was—the silhouette, the flowing hair—and the face. The hair now had color—chestnut brown—much like her own. The eyes were dark and frightened and the woman’s mouth was contorted and saying something—then she was gone, as if having been jerked away by a giant hand. The rest of the nightmare had repeated the same as always.
Claire opened her eyes and, with a trembling hand, wrote what she had seen and experienced. She drew a rough sketch of the woman’s face and stared at it. She could be looking at a self-portrait.
The shadows on her wall disappeared into the morning sun. She looked at the clock—seven-thirty. Stretching and sitting upright, she reached for the notepad and read the notes she had made about the nightmare, examining the sketch of the woman’s face. The face was hers, but the eyes were different. She searched the eyes, looking for recognition, something familiar.
