The Lady sat by the window brushing her hair in the moonlight, just as she had every night, for centuries. The mother-of-pearl handle of her great-grandmother's brush glistened with an eerie glow which was almost as eerie as the ephemeral glow emitted from her translucent body. The fingers of her left hand wandered to the tear in the lace of her delicate chemise, and she frowned as she tried to remember to have her maid mend it on the morrow--just as she had reminded herself every night, for centuries. A chill blew through the curtains, and she sighed, wondering what was taking her husband so long to come home.
She did not know that she was brushing hair matted with blood, and she did not know that her husband had in fact come home centuries ago with a glinting axe clutched tightly with resolve in his right hand. She did not understand that her body had been buried in the yard, haphazardly, before her husband raised the alarm for her disappearance. Playing the desperately distraught husband so well, he moved on with his life and healed from his wounds, starting a new life, in a new city, in a new state, with a new family.
No, she did not know any of this. And so, the Lady sat by the window, brushing her hair in the moonlight, just as she had every night, for centuries.
YOU ARE READING
A Haunted House
HorrorA collection of very short stories about the ghosts dwelling within a haunted house.
