Manifestation
Her arms were wrapped around herself, a desperate attempt to hold herself together. Her red hair, a tangled, wild cascade, fell across her face, a curtain for her private torment. But it couldn't hide everything. You saw the horns then, curled and red, rising from the chaotic mass of her hair. They weren't demonic, not in the way you'd pictured. They were more like coral, intricate and almost beautiful in their tragic asymmetry.
Her dress, a deep crimson, pooled around her. It looked like something from a classical painting, the fabric bunched and flowing in artistic, dramatic folds. But as your eyes adjusted to the gloom, you saw it. The fabric wasn't just fabric. It moved. It rippled and pulsed with a slow, sickening rhythm, like a vast, sleeping organism. And then you saw the hands. Two of her own, pale and trembling, were clutching her upper arms, her nails digging into her own skin. But propping her up from the ground, sunk into the dark soil like gnarled roots, were other hands. Dozens of them. They were long, spindly, and a shade of black so absolute it seemed to drink the light.
Her head lifted, the slow and methodical way a wounded deer might move. She looked at you.
Her face, streaked with mascara that ran down her cheeks like black tears, was a mask of pure anguish. Her lipstick was smeared, like a red gash across her mouth. But it was her eyes that held you captive. They were wide, the whites a feverish red, and the irises were so dark they seemed like holes in her face. And then you saw it wasn't just two eyes. More were floating up from her head, detaching from her skin to hang in the air around her, each one blinking independently, a cloud of weeping, unblinking stars.
A glint of silver caught your attention. A small, simple red cross hung from a chain around her neck, swaying with each of her shuddering sobs. But it was the pearls that drew your gaze. A broken string of them, hastily restrung, was tangled around her throat and wrists. They weren't pristine. Many of them were stained with spatters of the same crimson that covered her dress and her hands. The black hands holding her wrapped around the ends of some, hundreds of tiny black sprouts that seemed to tangle around her and choke out anything and everything they wanted.
You knew what came next. The knowledge was cold and hard in your gut. There were two paths. Stare, or approach.
Her dress, a deep crimson, pooled around her. It looked like something from a classical painting, the fabric bunched and flowing in artistic, dramatic folds. But as your eyes adjusted to the gloom, you saw it. The fabric wasn't just fabric. It moved. It rippled and pulsed with a slow, sickening rhythm, like a vast, sleeping organism. And then you saw the hands. Two of her own, pale and trembling, were clutching her upper arms, her nails digging into her own skin. But propping her up from the ground, sunk into the dark soil like gnarled roots, were other hands. Dozens of them. They were long, spindly, and a shade of black so absolute it seemed to drink the light.
Her head lifted, the slow and methodical way a wounded deer might move. She looked at you.
Her face, streaked with mascara that ran down her cheeks like black tears, was a mask of pure anguish. Her lipstick was smeared, like a red gash across her mouth. But it was her eyes that held you captive. They were wide, the whites a feverish red, and the irises were so dark they seemed like holes in her face. And then you saw it wasn't just two eyes. More were floating up from her head, detaching from her skin to hang in the air around her, each one blinking independently, a cloud of weeping, unblinking stars.
A glint of silver caught your attention. A small, simple red cross hung from a chain around her neck, swaying with each of her shuddering sobs. But it was the pearls that drew your gaze. A broken string of them, hastily restrung, was tangled around her throat and wrists. They weren't pristine. Many of them were stained with spatters of the same crimson that covered her dress and her hands. The black hands holding her wrapped around the ends of some, hundreds of tiny black sprouts that seemed to tangle around her and choke out anything and everything they wanted.
You knew what came next. The knowledge was cold and hard in your gut. There were two paths. Stare, or approach.