Ethereal | Twilight |

021

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Bella Swan was a wandering, yearning girl. Her boots crunched through the solemn hush of the woods Edward had once led her into—before he abandoned her, before he decided he didn't want her anymore. Perhaps because he was done pretending. Done fooling around with a pathetic, breakable human girl like her—soft and so stupidly mortal, her body made of blood and bone and nothing worthy of eternity.

And as she fell—collapsed—down to her knees, her palms sinking into the damp velvet of moss-thickened grass, fingers trembling like the wings of a dying bird, her eyes brimmed with the kind of grief that rots in the chest. Longing carved across her face, a silent howl in her bones—for what Edward had done to her fragile, aching heart, left hollow and fluttering like a gutted thing. She could never have fathomed what would come for her next.

It came like consequence—silent, vile, inevitable, as if her breath had summoned it.

A ginormous being, draped in black veins that pulsed like worms beneath corpse-pale skin. Its flesh was a theater of rot—ashen, sunken, reeking of wet death and ruin. A grotesque, feral anatomy: mouth unhinged, slack-jawed as if screaming without sound, its eyes two bottomless pits of putrefaction—soulless, lidless, unblinking. Starvation carved into every inch of its monstrous face.

Its body convulsed as it moved—tendons flexing like ropes soaked in meat brine, sinew splitting with each ripple, leaking oil-slick decay. The stench preceded it like a plague wind—iron and bile, metallic and thick, sharpened by sulfur, sweetened by rot. Mold festered along its throat in pustulant blossoms, fungal blooms of greenish-grey that pulsed with heat and oozed at the edges like infected wounds. Limbs jolted in spasms, the motion sharp and insectile, elbows bending the wrong way as if broken and never healed, the snap-snap-snap of bone echoing like snapping twigs in a dead forest.

And its face—gods, its face—was a cruel mockery of human form. It hooked inward with a grotesque elegance, as if molded by nightmare. Long, uncanny valley features stretched and sagged, exaggerated into a parodic sculpture of life. Its jaw hung lower than nature should allow, dangling like a trap, wide enough to devour her legs whole. The maw was a pit—black, cavernous, wet with strings of rotting saliva. Gums split and raw, peeled back from jagged, yellowed fangs that clicked together with obscene anticipation, each motion a declaration of appetite. A strand of drool swung pendulous from its canines, viscous as egg yolk turned sour, dragging in the open air like mucus-glazed syrup.

Its skin was translucent and glistening, stretched too thin over its bones like candle wax pulled across wire. Beneath it, something twitched—maggot-like, alive. The creature breathed in ragged, tremulous gulps, every inhale a shudder that rippled across its neck and shoulders like wind over carrion.

Terror claimed her. It bloomed hot and acid-sweet in her chest, slid down her spine like melting metal. Her expression shattered, features contorted in dread ancient and cellular, a fear so old it did not speak—it screamed, wordless, primal. Her body did not move. Could not. Froze where it knelt. Even her breath forgot itself. Her bladder loosened in wretched surrender. Her vision blurred and frayed at the corners, blackened like burning film, and her heart—her stupid, human heart—pounded against her ribs with the desperation of something caged and doomed, frantic, winged, utterly useless.

She would die.

And the thing would make it slow.

It would savor her.

It would crack her bones one by one with molars like mortar stones. Would suck the marrow out like sap from a root. Would drown her screams beneath its own breathing. Would peel her skin in ribbons and string it like garlands. Would chew through her tendons and veins as if they were strings of overcooked pasta—soggy, limp, exquisite in their destruction. And in the wet dark of its belly, her name—Bella—would dissolve.