The sounds reached her first. The soft music of crickets blended with the deep, mellow bass of night frogs in a soothing nocturnal symphony. Occasionally, the hoot of a screech owl accented the song, lending an eerie overtone.
Determined, she pushed through a blackness that muffled like a thick blanket. They had warned her it might be difficult to break through, but she persevered. Finally, the blackness parted and she passed through with a silent sigh of relief.
Pale, cold moonlight bathed the field, glittering off an early frost. Here and there, she saw wisps of steam rising from still-warm soil into the air. Inhaling deeply, she was disappointed she could not smell the sharp bite of the night air, just as she could not feel the night’s coldness. Oh well, they had told her it would be so. Still, it was a disappointment.
Tilting her head, she looked up. Stars glistened like diamonds on a black velvet sky, surrounding a perfect silver full moon. The moon’s position told her it was just midnight, the witching hour, when spirits issued forth in the land of the living. So went the stories the grannies told the young ones, stories that frightened the littlest ones into obedience and amused the older children. If they only knew, she thought wryly.
She suppressed the urge to run through the forest, the trees beckoning her as old friends. Her time was short; only one hour was allotted. They had been quite firm on that point. She had petitioned long and hard for this chance and had no intention of wasting it. The privilege would only be given once. Gathering her resolve, she sped toward the town, leaving a heavier carpet of frost behind her.
More silent than an owl, she glided through the streets, everywhere leaving the trail of frost. Most townspeople slept, but those who still watched felt a chill as she passed and the more superstitious made signs to ward against spirits.
The windows to the great house were dark and the door was barred, but it meant little to her. The only light was that of the moon and her eyes needed no other. All the details of the house matched her memories, except that her portrait was gone from above the fireplace. The portrait of a man, handsome and arrogant, in a gaudy gold frame hung on the wall that had once been graced by an elegant painting of a young, blushing bride in a distinguished black walnut frame. She curled her lip in disdain and carefully mounted the grand staircase. Behind her, the frosty path glittered with an unholy light.
Her children, her beloved boys, slumbered peacefully. The younger cried softly once, and then snuggled deeper into his blanket as if warding off a chill. Tenderly, she stretched out a hand to comfort him, but snatched it back in time. What once would have been a mother’s soothing touch would now only bring death. Her heart ached to weep, but her eyes remained dry. Tears were beyond her now.
The large feather bed was rumpled, but held only one occupant. Shining gold curls fanned across the pillow; a few tendrils lay across the girl’s rosy young cheek. She recognized the sweet features of the upstairs maid. Peaceful breathing came through perfect rosebud lips. A cold fury welled up inside her. How dare she! she thought, slowly extending her killing touch. Yet again she stopped. It would do no good to punish this foolish young thing who was only a momentary amusement. No, her anger and vengeance was reserved for one and one only.
She found him where she expected to, lounging in his study before a dying fire, the heavy velvet drapes drawn tight. His silk robe was open to the waist; a glass of wine was in his hand. He looked like a tiger, satiated after his last meal.
A sudden, violent, icy wind whipped through the room, causing him to start with alarm. The fire gained new life, roaring behind the screen despite the lack of wood. His features froze in terrified surprise as her misty form, clad in a commoner’s white burial shift, slowly materialized before him. She held him in his chair with the sheer force of her will, reveling in his helplessness as a small boy revels in the pain of the insect he is tormenting. He had looked at her that way once in what seemed a far-off dream.
A slow, wicked smile curved her lips. “Hello dear,” she said in a voice colder than the grave. “We have so much to talk about.”
The old servant walked unsteadily down the hall. The master had not been in his bed when the old man had gone to wake him at dawn, as was his custom. He must have dozed off before the fire again. The master had spent many a solitary evening in his study since his wife’s tragic death and the faithful servant worried for his master’s health.
The fire was only ash as the servant opened the door. He could see the master’s hand resting on the arm of his chair. Shaking his white head, the servant move to wake the master and recoiled in horror.
The handsome features were frozen in a hideous mask of terror; the wineglass remained firmly clasped in his hand. He had the look of one who has gazed beyond death. A pious, superstitious man, the servant quickly made the sign to ward off the spirits whose work this had surely been. Thankfully, he had only a moment to gaze on the horrifying sight before the first gentle rays of dawn touched the frozen figure, shattering master and glass into fine shards that settled on the floor, glinting like frost.
1 comment:
cool story mom!
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