LunaLore lay upon her bed, still as the hush of midnight, her form wrapped in the dim glow of the flickering screen before her. Though the chamber was warm, though no wind did stir, a shadow crept upon her breast, unseen yet known.
The light did dance upon her face, pale in the stillness, her eyes wide, unblinking, set upon the vision that did unfold before her. And yet, though it was but a moving picture, though no true specter stood within the room, the watcher did not stir, nor did she turn away. The flickering of the candle upon the bedside was but a whisper, yet still, it faltered, as though some unseen breath had passed over it.
LunaLore did not pray, nor did she call upon the Lord’s mercy, though the weight of the darkness did press upon her, though the specter’s gaze seemed to stretch forth beyond the veil of artifice, beyond the glass and the light, to where she lay—to see the VVitch kill again.
cow hugger | plant daddy | definition of a hot mess
