Niamh's dreams were not peaceful. She dreamed of a cold, icy place that was blanketed white for as far as the eye could see, and in this place she stood in the middle of a vast, frozen lake. She didn't know why or how she got there, but in the dream it made sense, and it also made sense that she was afraid. But she had to be out there, she had a mission to do, and so she inched carefully along, step by cautious step, mindful of the ice crunching ominously beneath her boots.
From behind her, she heard someone call her name, and when she looked over her shoulder she recognized the distant figure of her mother. And she wanted to go to her, she did, and her heart ached at the sight of her, but she knew she had to keep going forward. Away from her.
And then, suddenly, the ice beneath her burst open and so many hands grabbed her, pulling her down. But it wasn't into water—just into darkness and confusion, and the harder she struggled, the tighter they gripped her, hands all over her, touching everywhere even as she panicked and fought and tried to scream, though no sound came out.