The wind roared around the old house, making it screech with the force of the storm. The thunder could be felt in through the floorboards after every lightning flash. Through the hallways and into the back bedroom, the old woman trod in slow, solemn steps. The door protested as she pressed it open, screaming from its hinges.
The room was black as night, as pitch. As hell. The lightning flashed again, prolonged and lit the room. There was a bed. The only bit of furniture to be seen. Surrounding the bed were symbols and Words in a language long dead, written in chalk. On the bed, lay a patchwork of a human. A beautiful face, sewn to a scalp of long black hair. The neck was attached to a generous busted torso. The arms, long and graceful ended in fingers of a pianist.
The lower body was just as graceful; slender and elegant. Though beautiful, it was obvious, the figure was made up of different people. The old woman carefully lifted a flap of flesh carved into the chest and placed a heart she'd been carrying into the void within. She took a step back and began to speak Her words rore at the fabric of the world, ripping and rending like a wild beast lay in her mouth. Her eyes glowed with manic delight and insanity. The chalk began glowing. The storm grew even louder, wilder, outside, shaking the house as if it tried to stop what was occurring Then everything.
StOpPëD
The patchwork being glowed as sutures melted away. It became whole.
The chest rose and fell. Once. Twice. Three times.
The eyes opened.
The world
S C R E A M E D