summary: Cawdor Castle has been your home for the past six months, since your arranged marriage to the reclusive Lord Inverness. You believe the maids are watching you, and that the strange sounds you hear at night cannot simply be the groaning of old stones. Your only solaces are wandering the hills, and the shadow you befriend in them.
the creature x female reader: heavy religious elements, reader is losing it a little, injuries, sickness, light gothic horror/genre violence, eventual love scenes (eek). will get more specific as we go along
a/n: I am SO excited. This is pure self indulgence y’all. I want to frolic the fields with my undead beloved who’s twice my size but wouldn’t hurt a fly!! Inspired by (Lady) Macbeth, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Crimson Peak, Phantom of the Opera. I may actually be going nuts here but the things we do for our sweet Creature 😝
“Cursed, mad, the poor thing.”
Two of the servants are whispering in the hall outside your chambers again.
It is always the same pity they believe you cannot hear. Spoken from the seemingly endless supply of old crones that serve your husband’s estate.
You are certain at least one of them is a ghost. Each woman is older than the last, or at least that’s how they appear from your view beneath the sheer curtains of your canopy bed. Specters with gnarled hands and weary faces and wayward eyes.
A different one comes each evening to dress you and take you to the dining hall. As if you are a wretch that cannot be trusted in your own home.
Or maybe it is just one woman, and you truly are mad.
You have always been… sensitive, as your mother has found it in her heart to say gently. As a child, you were prone to what your family doctor diagnosed as fantasy, but you now know it to be sight.
Sight of the otherworldly. Hearing for the heavenly realms.
Your stories of figures in the hall, voices in the staircases, and, most notably, a recurring lady in a white dress at the foot of your bed exasperated your mother to no end.
You told your mother time and time again that the woman was trying to tell you something. Beware, the lady had said to you, those spirits that wish to claim your life.
She was the one who wrote your name in the fireplace ashes, and made a mess of your sewing. But your mother would not hear it.
That was until the night your father’s wolf hound began barking at something in the library that was not there. Your visitors were rarely malevolent, but on this such occasion the passing soul had been angry.
The air in the room grew cold, books fell from their shelves. But upon reciting your prayers, the candles guttered and the barking ceased.
The altercation ended with your father taking the dog out to the barn, never to be seen again. And your mother regarding you with a more watchful eye from that day on.
She never admitted to her belief, but you saw some flicker of understanding in her eyes every time you sensed something near. That, and she took up your habit of sleeping with a rosary.
You have never stopped seeing them.
All of the more savory parts of your sensitivity had no doubt been regaled to your new husband and his staff upon your engagement. And to your frustration, they have chosen to see it as a that same diagnosed, fitful disposition.
Girlish hysteria solved by solitude and quiet.
In the day, you are sequestered to your chambers or the library. In the evening, you are brought to and from dinner. The only day you are permitted to leave is Sunday, when you venture to the village for mass at the chapel.
You detest the routine and the whispers and all of what occurs beneath the crumbling roof of Cawdor House.
Or castle, rather. It has been your home since your spring wedding to the Lord Henry Inverness, a quiet and strange fellow. His ancestral seat is an ancient circle of weathered stone set in the velvet cushion of the Scottish moors.
Now the wheel of time has rounded to another dwindling autumn, and you find yourself perplexed.
Gone is the deluded optimism you initially attempted that you and Lord Inverness may find love. You had learned that to be impossible very quickly.
When his letter of proposal—the Lord strangely did not come to inquire for your hand in person—first arrived, you believed yourself to be sought for the birthing bed. The House of Inverness has been an institution of sons for centuries, and Henry was late to taking a wife.
You, being the mad daughter of a house clawing for relevancy it once had, seemed fitting for that role. Every social season since your debut in society had proven fruitless. No gentlemen wished to wed a morbid thing such as yourself.
So your father had no recourse in answering the letter, and taking your family down to Scotland.
A day’s carriage ride through the highlands to Cawdor ended with a candlelit wedding in the castle’s large but crumbling ballroom. A startling number of guests wore black, and you could not help but think of a funeral.
Shaking hands exchanged rings, and Henry’s kiss upon your lips felt frightfully cold.
Your wedding night was spent in separate bedrooms, and you had cried yourself to sleep.
When your family left at the end of the week, Henry was not at your side but locked away in his study. Your mother had pulled you aside beneath one of the towering portraits, her hand like iron on your arm as she whispered in your ear.
You are only a Lady, not Marie Antoinette, she’d said. Thankfully consummation does not mean securing your life.
Six months have passed since you were wed, and Lord Inverness has still yet to claim the right of man over his wife. You suppose it is a blessing. You do not have to risk your life to bear a stranger’s children.
Henry treats you with the polite disinterest one may offer an uninvited guest. He sequesters you to your chambers in the day, and denies your every request for more. He does not even leave the castle to accompany you to church.
But this is not all that perplexes you. It is the home itself.
You saw little of it before you were shut in to your tower. But it is drafty and winding, with staircases that lead deep into the earth and then nowhere. Locked rooms. Sinister portraits, ancestors of your new ladyship looking down their noses at you. Voices that call your name, only for you to turn around and find no one there.
You are used to spirits making themselves known, but the ones you sense here seem to be hiding.
Though you are more befuddled than fearful, you still pray yourself to sleep every night. Asking God first for forgiveness, and then comfort and protection.
A way out, a guardian angel, anything to ease your weary heart.
And to safeguard your life.
Dinner this evening had been the same as it always is. You and Henry in the dim hall with nothing but the clink of your cutlery and the brewing storm outside as conversation. You thank God on the way up your spiral staircase that he did not insist upon interaction.
And that your marriage bed remains separate, and yet unstained with your blood.
You cannot recall whether he had even looked in your direction at your shared meal. Perhaps this truly is a house full of ghosts, and you the lone steward of their souls.
Now you find yourself preparing for bed, pulling at the strings of your corset while the old women murmur outside your door.
Two of them had escorted you back this time. No doubt at your husband’s request upon seeing the new scratches on your hands when you had reached for the butter.
“Such a beautiful girl—what on earth does she do behind that door?”
Silly witches, you think to yourself.
You would never harm yourself. You did not even think about it when your mother and father first told you of your impending marriage. The thought of marrying a stranger made you glance out your window only once. But the space between your balcony and the cobblestone street below was too high for you to forget the value of your life.
Value which seems diminished now. The first weeks of your marriage proved the ultimate test for your resolve. You grew to believe that life, although still blank, was now without joy.
That is until you met the Scottish hills.
Air fresher than you have ever breathed. Green so vibrant it strikes you to the heart. Winding birch groves. Crystal streams and velvet-antlered deer.
You now believe you have a glimpse of heaven God sent down especially for you.
So no, you do not scratch yourself. Or bruise yourself, though it did appear so when one of the maids saw the blue and black mapped upon your back one morning. The previous night you had misjudged the distance between your foot and a jutting stone, and tumbled halfway to the ground.
It is only that the stones of the spire that hold your room are covered in climbing roses, and the thorns prick you each night when you climb down to wander.
Despite the brewing storm, you are determined to venture out tonight. You spent all day between your room and the library, and are fevered to stretch your legs and see your forest. The rain will only make it all the more beautiful.
Exchanging your corset for a cloak over your shift, you pour extra oil in your lantern. Though the hills can be treacherous in the dark, you have found that a steady foot and a light to guide your way provide.
You are fastening your buttons and pulling your wool hood over your head when you hear the voices in the hall cease. Footsteps retreat down ancient stone.
You dare traipse to the door and press your ear to it. There is silence, and the whoosh of wind through the tower too ancient to completely shield the elements. You wait a beat and then—
The key turns in the lock, iron clinking iron in your sentence of isolation. Chills prick your skin, for now, despite the sounds, there is no one on the other side of the door.
Your first night here, you saw being locked away as an outrage.
Now, you believe whatever is locking you in is protecting you from whatever is on the other side.
You pull away as if the wood burns as ice. You have better things to worry yourself with than ghosts. Enjoyments await that will carry you through your fears.
You fasten your lantern to your hip and start towards the window. The sun has not yet fully set, though the sky is darkening with the promise of rain. You hope it does not disturb your plans.
Last night, you found one of the estate’s lambs stuck in a fence. You’d managed to get him free, and in thanks he had rubbed his black velvet nose into your palm. Bandages and a jar of oats reside within your cloaks pockets for him this evening.
The creatures you find in your escapes have become your purpose. Now it is the lamb, and before that it was a fawn who had lost its way. Before that, a red fox too thin. A cat and her kittens in need of a warm place to stay.
Without the work, you believe you truly would go mad.
But you are lacking candor with yourself. Even with it, you are growing more weary by the day. The notion of enduring this routine for the rest of your life, starved for companionship, surrounded by ghosts… you do not know how yet to survive beyond these small pieces of nature.
You are solemn with this line of thought as you climb down the tower. The thorny roses grab at your hands and catch in the wool of your cloak, but you manage to make it to the bottom relatively unscathed.
Exhilaration, just as potent as the first night you escaped, traces up your spine. You look across the Cawdor estate. The sheep pens, the horses, the distant forest. The velvet of the hills is even more beautiful tonight than usual despite winter leaching away its once vibrant green.
You often wish that you could run into them and never return. A piece of you plans to each night when you maneuver out your window, but something always steals your ardor.
Fear that Lord Inverness would come looking for you—or rather, what he would do if he found you. Fear that the spirits of Cawdor would haunt you for the rest of your days.
It is metaphysical tether tied to your ankle, dragging you back each night. Though you claw to stay.
Upon these mediations, you begin your walk.
There is fog in the vale tonight, thick and swirling like milk in tea. You lift your lamp higher as you come upon the sheep.
Their shepherds have retired for the night, or retired entirely altogether. For you instantly notice that the lamb you have come to nurse wanders apart from the flock.
Concern strikes your heart as you realize his mother has rejected him. You do not know which fickle ewe has done so, but you instantly resolve to take care of him from now on.
You will have to hide him from the maids. Thankfully Lord Inverness does not visit your chambers, so he will not notice a lamb in your bed.
You almost laugh to yourself at the image as you climb over the fence, setting your lantern on a post. The lamb looks on at you curiously, pausing his limp.
“Are you alright?” you murmur, taking the jar of oats from your pocket and pouring some in the grass where you now kneel. “I was very sorry to leave you last night. I did not know your circumstances.”
He snuffles at the treat while you fix the bandage around the place where his wool has been stained red.
It is at this exact moment that the rain begins to patter. You gasp at the first drops that trickle on your face, for they are ice cold. You quickly secure your handiwork and gather the lamb in your arms. Neither of you need to catch your death tonight.
The evening has grown darker even though you swear you have only been out for minutes. You hope the oil in your lamp will last you as you gather it once more.
You spare a glance towards the sky as you trudge through the fields, away from the castle yet. The clouds are dark and roiling, rain poised to turn to snow. You will not make it back in time to avoid it.
So instead, you come upon one of your favorite spots, a birch hollow. You decide to wait beneath its cover, perched upon a rock until the storm passes.
Despite the trees around you, the winds have begun to whip and stir at your skirts. You shiver, and the poor lamb is shivering along with you. You bring him to your chest and tuck him beneath your chin. He seems to find it suitable enough to settle when buttoned into your cloak.
You are petting one of his lace ears when—
Something massive darts across your vision, crunching through the underbrush. You get a whiff of damp earth and dander, the pine and leaf litter of the impending winter.
A bear? No, they are extinct now in this part of the world. The wolves are as well. Although it is far too large to be a wolf… too deft for a horse…
Whatever it is, it is wild.
You swallow, tentatively leaning forward to peek out of the trees. It has left a crushed path of saplings and brambles in its wake.
For whatever reason, you are too intrigued to stay hidden.
You tentatively rise from your rock, sure to cradle your lamb snug to your breast. Your cloak is buttoned tight enough that he is secure to rest there so comfortably you almost envy the sweet thing.
The drizzle is now a deluge as you look out upon the dark hills. The sun has slipped beneath the horizon, its last rays of light choked by the clouds. You squint against the stinging wind, but there is nothing there.
Twigs snap behind you, crushed rapidly under the weight of something huge. You whip towards the sound, and the sight of the hollow suddenly appears eerie.
White branches curve as a skeleton’s hands, their falling leaves not quite obscuring something you now see standing upon two legs.
“Who goes there?” you breathe.
You are utterly frightened, and it shows in the shake of your voice.
The largest man—or bear, you remain unconvinced—you have ever seen stands not four fathoms from you.
Strangely, the lamb in your arm does not seem spooked in the slightest. You recall your father’s dog, barking in the library. Animals seeing what the human eye—your’s excluded—could not. In all your time seeing phantoms, you have come to trust an animal’s instinct more than your own.
That is the only reason you are not instantly running for the castle. That, and you are too disoriented to remember it’s direction. Though you begin to back away, feet finding the ridge of a hill. The rocks are slick in the downpour.
Your lantern sways, it’s flame flickering near extinguishing. The rain down your back suddenly feels colder at the thought of losing your light. You balance the lamb in the crook of your elbow and lift your free hand to shield the candle.
You make out the shadow in the gaps of light that escape between your fingers. It towers so tall you have to try hard to decipher it from the winding trees above.
Though is not hard to distinguish it at all once it begins walking toward you.
Your sixth sense prickles your skin, your scalp tingling in that tell tale way that tells you a spirit is near.
The sound of its footsteps are heavy and strangely measured above the distant crashes of thunder. The storm grows nearer still, soon to be upon you in all its fury.
You only hope this spirit is kinder.
“What do you need, spirit?” you ask as firmly as you can manage. You’ve once again stopped in your tracks.
Maybe it requires your help… This would not be the first time you have guided a wisp to the beyond.
But there is no answer. It only scrambles deeper into the wood so quickly you gasp.
The late November chill has finally gathered its gales and turned the rain to sleet now. Crystalline water drives into you so forcefully your lantern falls from your slick, trembling fingers. Glass shatters.
Leaving you in the complete blackness of the night.
Realization stills even your relentless shivering.
Without your light, there is no way you will find your way back to the castle in this pitch.
And you are alone in the dark with a spirit you do not know the intentions of.
You are very soon to find out.
The very sky seems to split in two as a bolt of lightning strikes to singe the earth. It is so close that you feel the ground shake, that your ears ring, that its white charge is nearly blinding as it illuminates the hulking shadow now two paces in front of you.
A gasp slips betwixt your lips, so visceral it is as if you are trying to breathe into your very soul.
There is no way he is a mere spirit.
No, he is the Angel of Death come to claim you.
Face as jagged as the lightning, one eye glowing amber. Hair dark and dripping over pale skin all the colors of beach glass.
You want to fall at his feet and beg for him to take you away.
But the next moment, the lighting retracts its spindly fingers and leaves you yet again in darkness. There is nothing but the steam rising from the moss, and the driving sleet.
“Angel?” you call into the abyss. It is far too desperate for any rational being. Yearning scratches your throat and mists in the opaque cloud of your breath in the cold.
There is no answer, and for a moment you feel once again like that morbid, wretched little girl covered in fireplace ashes.
Searching for answers from the lady in white, desperately wanting to heed her warnings.
Wanting more from God and the spirits in Sheol.
“Angel?!” you call again, louder this time. You cannot hear yourself over the violent crash of thunder that sounds. But you pray to God he hears you. You clutch your lamb in both arms now as he bleats in fear.
Again, there is no answer but the howling wind. It chills you to your marrow. As does the faint sound of footsteps nearing once again. You are frozen in awe and euphoria. Death has come to claim you, and soon you will have all the answers you have longed for.
“I wish to go with you!” you all but scream, turning in a frantic circle as you try to get a glimpse of him. You see nothing but dark air, and it only increases the fervency of your pleas. “Please, take me away! I do not wish to live like this anymore—“
“You cannot… possibly wish that.”
His voice shocks you to the bone.
You trip on the rocks, your knees hitting them so hard your teeth clash together. Their craggy edges bite into your hands as you try to grip for purchase that does not come.
Your lamb, frightened by the fall, slips free from your cloak and runs off into the night.
A pitiful sound of defeat escapes you as you balance on your forearms. You are nearly choking on the frozen rain in your fight for breath.
“But I do!” you cry brokenly as you stand on trembling legs. You whirl around, expecting him to be there, but there is nothing but blackness once more.
He is quiet again. You realize you have begun to cry for the first time since your wedding night. This is a different type of sorrow, though. A cataclysmic opening of flood gates brought on by your longing for death.
Your eyes flutter closed. You tip your head back to feel the icy kiss of rain upon your face, savoring the sensation. Savoring that you have not been alone in your sufferings, with the Angel of Death close at hand to watch your final days.
And now he has come to vindicate them.
“I do not wish to live at Cawdor any longer,” you choke out. “With a man who locks me away. I do not wish to be haunted by these infernal spirits. I cannot breathe, I cannot live upon the earth!”
You may be dreaming, but you swear you hear the Angel gasp. And then—
If you thought you were cold before, it is nothing compared to the arctic chill in that voice. You lift you face and blink in the darkness.
Go? you think. What could he possibly mean?
Does he not know you are wasting away? You resolve now that he must not be permitted to watch over you like you initially thought. He does not seem to know the agonies you speak of.
It makes sense, you suppose. If he had time to watch over you, to be a guardian angel and not a keeper of souls, he may change his mind in taking your life.
And after your wretched pleading, that seems to be his decision.
You do not wish to accept it.
“Go!” he repeats, this time so harsh there are fresh tears pricking your eyes in an instant.
You startle once more and turn on your heel to run. The moors are damp and soft beneath your feet, the rain so cold it is sharp enough to needle at your skin. A gust of wind wrenches your hood from your head, your drenched hair running free.
You can hardly breathe or think, but for some reason, the lady in white’s words come back to you.
Beware those spirits that wish to claim your life.
Her voice had been as clear as a bell as she’d said those words, standing at the foot of your bed. The next night your name had been written in the soot in the hearth in the elegant trace of a fingertip. A warning or a comfort, you never understood.
But now you know that for whatever reason, this spirit or Angel does not wish to claim your life.
And cannot bring yourself to fear him.
Just as you are filled with new resolve, slippery rocks betray your footing. Lightning flashes once more, cruel in its illumination of your whirl through the air.
You can do nothing but accept your fate of tumbling. You can only praise God that the Angel of Death is near at long last to take you to the saints.
The last thing you see before your head hits stone is the sleet’s pattern in the sky.
There is nothing left but a lack of air in your lungs and a warm leak down the back of your neck. Its heat is startling in comparison to the ice water now soaked through your cloak and shift.
The heat of your blood marking your death upon the moss.
“Angel…” you sigh in relief.
Because relief is all there is. Not horror at your brain being dashed, not contemplation on what Lord Inverness will do when his men find your body.
Only relief as Death picks you up and cradles you in steady arms.
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