5pm. Christmas dissolved around her. Old, faded tinsel shuddered on the wrought iron of the chapel's fence, and the single light post that stood outside. It had already been flickering for half an hour with the winter gloom that unspooled with shaking leaves and mournful winds. September sat in all black, nothing unusual there, except the large sack that sat beside her. One hand sat upon the rope that secured it, twitching, the other upon her stick thin knee. Above, a crow perched on a branch and began to sing its horrible song. She hated them. It was a crow of a man that had opened the gate to the hell she had entered. Sometimes, September could not decide whether it was Isidore or Gaul she hated the more. After all, they each had played their part. The crow looked down at her, September, vacantly stared back.
BONG.
Perpetual Misery sang the hour. It was running late. The crow departed. Merth paraded darkly for the chapel, in through the whining gate, the sack dragging along at her heels. Her hair was its own lunacy. Her eyes wild and frantic and hollow. The door was shoved inwards and there September announced herself. Leaves rushed in on her entrance. Shocked parishioners turned mouths wide, some holding hands above their eyes at the sight of this woman. Some knew who she was. Some turned. Some went to stand. It was just the Mad Woman of a fallen house. The one of the house up in the hills. The house was crumbling and so was she.
The sack poured open, with but a slight nudge of her hand. She was too pale, so pale she was bright, and not in a wholesome, dewy way. She was gaunt, half-here, looking like a creature fit for turning to mist. The rope snarled back into itself. Tens of spiders ran from the bag. Was this some Halloween trick played late? The priest gave himself a sign of the cross. "Begone, Ms Merth, you are not welcome here!", he all but quavered, as she took a lurching step inside. Her black coat billowed around her.
"Ms Merth, please!"
Screams sounded as the spiders ran every which way, eight legs up a pew, eight over a ladies shoe.
"MS MERTH!"
The rest of the bag rolled open.
"Merry Christmas...", she muttered. Her mouth opened wide. Horror. Horror.
What happened next would make the papers the very next day.
BONG.
Perpetual Misery sang the hour. It was running late. The crow departed. Merth paraded darkly for the chapel, in through the whining gate, the sack dragging along at her heels. Her hair was its own lunacy. Her eyes wild and frantic and hollow. The door was shoved inwards and there September announced herself. Leaves rushed in on her entrance. Shocked parishioners turned mouths wide, some holding hands above their eyes at the sight of this woman. Some knew who she was. Some turned. Some went to stand. It was just the Mad Woman of a fallen house. The one of the house up in the hills. The house was crumbling and so was she.
The sack poured open, with but a slight nudge of her hand. She was too pale, so pale she was bright, and not in a wholesome, dewy way. She was gaunt, half-here, looking like a creature fit for turning to mist. The rope snarled back into itself. Tens of spiders ran from the bag. Was this some Halloween trick played late? The priest gave himself a sign of the cross. "Begone, Ms Merth, you are not welcome here!", he all but quavered, as she took a lurching step inside. Her black coat billowed around her.
"Ms Merth, please!"
Screams sounded as the spiders ran every which way, eight legs up a pew, eight over a ladies shoe.
"MS MERTH!"
The rest of the bag rolled open.
"Merry Christmas...", she muttered. Her mouth opened wide. Horror. Horror.
What happened next would make the papers the very next day.