Dark in my imagination. - prologue.
My breast is cold as the clay, my breath is earthly strong.
Cold rain is pouring down, as she stands here, drenched and frozen under unknown doors. The overwhelming sorrow and soreness tightly veiled this place. The wind carry ghostly whispers, voices of lifeless fills her ears, and she listens.
Empty hazel eyes drift away into brumous land of dead, she is torn apart. Tormented souls pulls her toward somber limbo, when rain’s melody brings her back to reality.
She clenches her teeth, not letting the wailing cry leave livid lips, a sign that the time is over. Coldness devoures her flesh, freezing lungs and tightening the suffocating loop around her throat. She feels the bitter taste of death on the tip of the tongue, urge to wail grews with every fleeting minute, when the tears began to shimmer in brown eyes.
The grieving one, as old welsh folk tales named her. She doesn’t scream like banshee when death is inevitable. When the gelid wind carry plaintive lament of the cyhyraeth, eerie keening fills the air it’s a sign that ominous fate is close.
Misty phantoms stood by her side, like a shadow that never goes away. Ghastly limbs reach to her, glacial touch sliding after living flesh, piercing deep into the bones. One day they are silent, the other day - ominously whispering, but sometimes they scream, excruciatingly. Especially one voice breaks through the cacophony of voices from the beyond. A ghost, stray soul behind her, repeating one name. Returning to her like an echo, amongst the falling raindrops.
The door opens with a quiet creak, steel-blue eyes and the barrel of a gun welcomes her. Nightly moisture wraps shivering frame, glistening on pallid skin bathed in hazy moonlight glow. Auburn curls hides torpid face, breaths changing into a steam between two strangers.
Death brought her to this house, and now it will swallow her whole. Tearing a whispery sob from her throat and stealing tears, gun in a steady grip shakes slightly. Dark hair dusted with silver like his surname, sharp gaze watches her, a messenger of death and sorrow under his door. Ground under their feet begins to vibrate, when a wail blooms inside and fills the air. Breeze carries her mournful tone, crippling the peaceful silence between the harbinger and hunter.
Etherial spirit takes control over Constance’s bones and muscles, stealing soft voice to weep out imminent loss. Red-haired spectre nested between two lungs, uniting into one ephemeral existence with a young woman. Their lips moves, sobbing and weeping over the fading life. They whisper, together, whispering one name - seven letters which will shatter peace, sanity and bringst nothing but pain and despair.
“ Allison…Is going to die.”
And if you kiss my cold, clay lips, you're days will not be long.
