I watch from my spot in bed as Mother readies my tincture, squeezing up and into the dropper. I wish I didn't need it, but after my actions at dinner, it's very clear that I do.
"Do you think I've gone mad, Mother?" My question is barely a whisper. I burrow myself deeper into the sheets, searching for warmth.
Her mouth forms a tight line and her brows furrow. "I think everyone's haunted by something," She finally says, not quite answering me.
I doubt her specter comes in the form of her deceased Aunt trying to drown her or as eerie little moths leaving a trail of powdery white carcasses behind her.
The closer Mother gets, the more mournful her expression becomes. She gazes at me like I'm already six feet under, rotting with my grandmother on the Isle of the Dead.
"I don't want it." I press my lips together in defiance. I know I promised Etta, I know I did, but my blood runs cold at the thought of seeing Aunt Ligeia again.
Regardless, Mother shoves it into my mouth, holding it there until I swallow. She snaps her jaw closed and exhales deeply, averting her eyes from me. "It's the only thing that will fix you." Her voice is void of any kindness.
I involuntarily grimace at the bitter taste the tincture leaves on my tongue; I have to stifle a gag. It's as sour as this conversation. "You think I'm truly broken?" I let the tincture's warmth spread through me and brace myself for my cold reality to inevitably seep back in.
Maybe my mind is like a closet in springtime cleaning; Maybe I need to get worse before I get better.
"Would you like to hear pretty things, my dear? Or would you like the truth?" Her words are barbed, ripping through my heart like it's nothing more than gossamer threads.
"I'm sorry, that was out of turn. Never mind what I said," she amends, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Get some good rest tonight. Clearly we all need it." She's gone with the soft latch of my door.
Thick velvet drapes shroud the room in soft darkness, muffling the harsh noises and lights that come with the day. Nestled into the plush bedding, sleep finds me quickly.
Hours later, something tightens around my ankle, pulling me from the cloying bliss of unconsciousness. Panic seizes my body as I roll onto my stomach, clutching the thick sheets around me even tighter.
A startled breath tears from my lips when a ring of pain burns into my ankle. I move to pull my leg into me only to find it's not the sheets holding me captive at all. Dread crawls up as I feel the icy grip of a bony hand grips my leg. Jagged nails dig deeper into my skin, drawing blood and eliciting a strangled cry from me.
"Who's there?" I gasp, terror clinging to my words. I peer into the darkness, searching for a figure.
Heavy shadows engulf the room and offer no reply, swallowing my words and leaving me alone to face my fears.
With each passing moment, the air around me grows colder until I can see my breath plume. A shiver racks my body as the temperature of the room matches the cold sense of terror within me.
My heart races, pounding relentlessly in my ears, as I clutch the corner of my blanket to my chest. "Who's there?" I call out again, my voice impossibly tight. My words fall silent in the oppressive darkness of the room.
It feels like my lungs are collapsing under the sheer weight of my terror. Each sharp breath I take of the frigid air isn't enough.
As if answering my plea, moonlight breaks through the clouds and illuminates the figure. Standing at the end of my bed, with her spindly hand gripping my ankle, is my long-dead grandmother.
YOU ARE READING
Haunted
Mystery / Thriller"It was peaceful for a short while, as the sky turned liquid and my lips turned blue. Even the burning in my lungs was better than the ache in my heart." Bound by a lie, held by a promise. During the Reconstruction Era in New York (1877), Catherine...
