And throughout the house there was wailing and weeping: for the mistress had died at nightfall. The serving-women were rending their garments and tearing out their hair. One lamp was to be seen, like a point of red, at the far end of the room. When the master had left, I lit a great torch of pinewood, close to the window; the flame crackled and fumed as the wind swirled the grey wreaths of smoke about the room; with the wind, the light rose and fell; the drops of resin oozed down the torch and crackled on the ground. The dead woman was laid out on the bed; her face was green, and there was a multitude of little wrinkles at her mouth and at her temples. We had bound her cheeks with a linen bandage to prevent her jaws from dropping open. The night-moths fluttered jerkily about, closely circling the torch; their wings were yellow; the flies roved about on the bed; and each gust of wind blew in dead leaves that tumbled. For my part, I watched at the bed's foot and thought of all the stories that are told, of the straw mannikins that are found in the morning in place of the dead, and of the round holes the witches come and make in their faces to suck the blood. All at once a strident note, sharp and sweet, arose among the howling of the wind; it was like a little girl singing in supplication. The notes hung on the air and were borne in more strongly on the gusts that stirred the dead woman's hair: and I, meanwhile, was stricken with stupor and did not stir. The moon commenced to shine with a paler light; the shadows of the furniture and the amphorae blended into the blackness of the ground. My wandering eyes took in the countryside and I saw the sky and the earth shining with a soft gleam in which the distant thickets merged and the poplar trees were no more than long grey lines. It seemed to me that the wind was dying down and the leaves were no longer moving; I saw shadows moving about behind the garden hedge. Then my eyelids felt heavy as lead, and they closed; I was conscious of tiny rustlings. Suddenly the crowing of the cocks startled me into wakefulness and an icy breath of morning wind agitated the tops of the poplars. I was leaning against the wall; through the window I saw that the grey of the sky was lighter, and in the east there was a streak of white and rose. I rubbed my eyes and, when I looked at my mistress – come to my aid, oh gods! – I saw that her body was covered with black bruises; dusky-blue blotches the size of an as – yes, the size of an as! – spangled her whole skin. I ran to the bed: the face was a waxen mask beneath which the flesh could be seen, hideously gnawed: no more nose, no more lips, nor any cheeks, no more eyes; with their keen beaks the night-birds had pecked them away like plums. And each blue blotch was a funnel-shaped hole at the bottom of which glistened a driblet of congealed blood; and there were no longer either heart, or lungs, or any viscera, for the chest and belly were stuffed with straw bungs. The singing strigae had carried everything away while I slept. Man cannot withstand the power of sorceresses. We are the playthings of destiny.
Marcel Schwob, "Les Striges", from Cœur double
