Wintersong

Silver fog wraps up the house like a warm and nurturing blanket. A fire crackles merrily in the fireplace. You are [[alone]].

You weren't always alone, were you? That wasn't always the case. The dark-beamed ceiling overhead used to reverberate with the sound of [[laughter]] every evening, the lights of candles throwing [[shapes]] on the walls before they were dimmed. But [[something happened]].

Lovely laughter, like silver bells ringing.

Such shapes they were, too, a pantomime shadowplay of a couple in love, dancing and kissing, sometimes sitting comfortably together, building the feature a wisp at a time.

Do you remember that night? You've probably tried to forget it. The walls remember, though. They watch and remember as they've seen [[so many things]], though they cannot testify. Neither could the [[doctor]], not after what your [[lawyer]] did to him [[on the stand]]. But that was all [[a long time ago]].

Blood, so much blood that night, the flash of steel and the screams, but mainly it was the blood.

A learned and kindly man that had tended to your family for many years.

To call him a shark would insult marine killing machines, but he was worth every penny if it kept you from the gallows, or so you thought at the time.

He swore vengeance on you for subjecting him to it. Were dueling still in fashion, you surely would've met with pistols at dawn.

You remember the cold and grey, the blanket of fog that wrapped around you then. The rest seems to flee before your grasp, slipping through clenched fingers and disappearing into the aether. The moon was [[full]], you remember that, too.

White light diffused through the fog, setting it aglow, the house wrapped in shimmering silver threads. She'd been [[different]] as the moon changed.

How is hard to say, the sort of thing you'd only notice being around someone so much. A certain lethargy. A quickness of temper. An anger that wasn't there before, pulsing red beneath the surface. Nothing certain. You'd insisted on summoning the doctor, but he found nothing was amiss. The moon continued [[to grow in the sky]] and her moods waxed with it.

Can you forget the [[sickening cracks]] from that night? The [[screams]]? The way she looked at you as her eyes washed over with [[black]]? The pleas to [[help her]]?

Bones twisting and snapping and reforming, you could see them move beneath the skin.

Something feral about them, an animal's cry of pain. Nothing human issuing from that throat.

Specks at first, pools next, a whole sea of black at last, staring into the void where your love used to be.

You [[tried]]. In the end, there was only the [[axe]] that remained. And even that [[didn't help]].

You could be comforting. You even managed to sound convincing when you said it was surely just some illness. Your voice only quivered a little when delicate fingernails twisted into heavy claws.

A heavy thing you'd never got the knack of using before.

The first blows were [[clumsy]]. The rest [[less so]]. You didn't even have a pistol in the house. [[You do now, of course]].

A terrible thing, killing your love. Moreso when you're doing a shit job of it.

Astonishing what fear and a sweet girl turning into an enormous monster can do for one's axework.

A concession to the demons of your imagination, perhaps. Or, perhaps, a concession to the fact that they never [[found her]]. [[They found you, though]].

Covered in blood and raving, a bloodied axe still in your hand. You [[admitted]] outright to killing her. Well, you admitted outright to trying to kill her. You demanded they go and help her. [[There was nothing to help]]

A trail of blood into the woods, piles of overturned earth, then nothing beyond. Of course, the floor grooved with the marks of heavy axework did provide some suggestion of what might have occurred to the detectives.

Raved. Gibbered. Whatever your choice of words.

Oh they found the blood and axe marks and the blood-covered you. [[But not her]].

She was gone, vanished. There were [[parts of her]] but they were very small parts, the sort left over when an unskilled person takes an axe to a person. Still, there was [[only one conclusion]].

A bit of this, a bit of that, small shreds, really. No organs, bits of limbs. A finger. Lots of blood.

You had a good lawyer. You weren't judged mad. You returned to your home. [[She did, too]].

On nights when the moon is full, she comes. She sings, too, in [[a sweet, clear voice]] that carries over the hills and through the glass. It penetrates even the steel-walled fortress of your inner redoubt. You can pick up the melody now, [[on the wind]].

She loved singing. Had a voice like an angel. Face like it, too. Made it all the worse when you took the axe to her.

The melody comes first, as it always does. You always think it might be the wind howling through the chimney. It never is. And she always comes in at [[that verse]].

Oh Polly, Pretty Polly, your guess is about right Polly, Pretty Polly, your guess is about right I dug on your grave [[the biggest part of last night]]

You didn't really. It wasn't intentional. As unintentional as an axe murder can be, at any rate. Apparently she has [[different feelings about it]].

Well she went a little farther and what did she spy She went a little farther and what did she spy A new dug grave with [[a spade lying by]]

Her voice is as lovely as ever, a little shaky, as tends to happen when someone puts an axe through your throat. The sound grows louder. She's circling the house now. She'll come in eventually. [[Walls can only keep her out so long]].

Oh she knelt down before him a pleading for her life She knelt down before him a pleading for her life Let me be a single girl if [[I can't be your wife]]

You take issue with that sentiment. You wanted nothing more than for her to be your wife. Until she turned into that...thing, whatever it was. Pleaded for the release of the axe. You didn't believe it when you saw her the first time. [[You're still not sure that you do]]

Oh Polly, Pretty Polly that never can be Polly, Pretty Polly that never can be Your past reputation's [[been trouble to me]]

She had no reputation to sully, but she always loved the ballad. Had a weakness for the tragic maiden. Didn't know she'd become one. If she wasn't standing right outside the vault door, walking around in slow and steady circles, you might [[find that ironic]].

Oh went down to the jailhouse and what did he say He went down to the jailhouse and [[what did he say]]

"What did he say?" She asks no one in particular. You can hear her just outside now, soft footfalls, the melody of her voice falling to a harsh rasp, air forced over severed tissue. "He said," Her voice drops down to a whisper, a sepulchral creak. [["You don't have a body"]]

She's not wrong, but without a body and with the impugning of the good doctor's reputation, you walked free. She begins to pace again, walking in slow circles around the room. Those claws dig into the plaster, making a dull scraping sound as she paces, humming the melody to herself. You can hear the dull thump as chunks of plaster hit the carpet. [[Only a few hours until morning]].

She torments you with hours of silence save for the scraping of long, black claws against plaster. It's when they hit steel that she speaks again. "You should see me now," she says, rapping nails against the door. Tink. Tink. Tink. Tink. Tink. Tink. [[Tink.]]

"But you will see me again..." Scraaaaaaaaaaaaaatch. You can hear the agonized groan of metal peeling away as she carves a divot in your steel plate. "One night, my love, [[we will be together again]]."

The evening enters its second phase. She's trying to get in. You remember those black, twisted claws that sprouted from her fingers. You don't remember them being harder than steel. Though they did spark when [[the axe struck them]].

Scraaaaaaaaaatch. Scraaaaaatch. Having created a weak point, she now chips away at it with relentless focus. All you can do is watch the clock, calculate how far along she is by the sound, and figure out if you can make it until dawn. [[A simple matter of mathematics]].

Which is small comfort to you, with that ungodly thing outside and her nails digging into the walls around you. The endless scraping of nails on metal, the way the sound echoes through the steel around you. Only a matter of time, though, until the sun comes up over the horizon. "Oh, my sweet love," she says, just loud enough to be heard. "It would be so much simpler if you'd just [[come out]]." That would be madness, of course, actual madness, not the kind to keep you from the noose. [[The scrape of nails on metal begins again]].

You realize she is right. And this won't end until you do. You slowly spin the wheel that opens the bolts and swing the heavy vault door open. [[She is there. Waiting.]]

The hours drag on, with only the relentless scraping of nails on metal, the faint hum of the melody as she goes about her work. She always was diligent and you know one evening she will get through. But will you [[come out]]? Or will you [[wait for daybreak]] and hope you make it?

Black holes watch you where her eyes used to be and her smile is all shark's teeth. Lengthy black claws on skeletal hands reach for you and she draws you close. The pain is a redhot burn engulfing you and the lullaby of your own screams lulls you to sleep. But you're together in the end.

Only a few more hours, alone in this sealed room, the air turning stale and the candles starting to die, the clock ticking on relentlessly. The tick of its mechanisms and the scrape of her nails now seem synchronized, each one counting the seconds until salvation or doom. You could [[come out]] and end it. But [[dawn is close]].

Sun and salvation are the hope you cling to, even when a small pinprick of light appears in the walls around you. [[Silver fog]] begins to roll in.

It is mere minutes until dawn when the fog fills the room. You can feel her all around you. You can hear the click of talons on wood as she advances towards you. Did you retreat to the wall or were you [[hiding here all along]]? Irrelevant now.

A lean, pale form takes shape in front of you, the body still marked with the bloodied and blackened lines you left, the dress torn and stained. There are black holes where her eyes used to be. And shark's teeth in her smile. She is here. But you are together in the end, as you'd always wanted. [[Even the faint light of dawn doesn't help as she advances]].

Or perhaps it does as you snap awake and sit up in your bed. Just one of the nightmares, perhaps. Guilty conscience? You laugh to yourself and turn to share the story with her, lying right there beside you. Her pale face watches you with empty eyes and a smile showing sharp teeth.