Intertwined

Prologue

Darla's footsteps echoed in the vast hallway, her heels clicking against the mahogany floor. During the day the walls were a pale blue colour, but now - for a small second - she could've sworn the paint was filthy and peeling away from the plaster in ragged strips. Long streaks of black were smudged across the wall. She looked closer and saw a dirty handprint. No, not dirt. It was blood. A scarlet handprint with only four fingertips. One was missing. Her heart thrummed. She blinked, and the wall was blue again.

It's an old building. It's night time. My imagination is playing tricks on me. She backed away from the wall hurriedly, focusing on the door at the other end of the hallway. The oak panelled door lead onto the parlour room, where he would be waiting. Darla shuddered at the thought, a dreamy smile spreading across her lips. He was her secret, and what a marvellous secret he was! Banishing all thoughts of the vision she just saw, she began to walk towards the doorway. Gathering her heavy skirts in her hands, she danced a little skip of excitement.

But she couldn't quite shake the sense of unease that haunted her. He'd never asked to meet her here before, and what an... unromantic place to meet. Sure, the exterior of the house was lovely, if you ignored the fact that it was in the middle of nowhere. She had to be quite clever in order to sneak away from her family this time. Darla hoped that he wouldn't invite her here again. But at least here they can finally be alone, without the company of the maids her parents send with her or the watchful eyes of the rest of the high class society.

Darla could remember their last meeting. How they had gotten one moment alone, and how he had finally taken her in his arms and kissed her, like she'd spent so long wishing he would. She remembered his lips against hers, his fingers curling on her shoulder blades and pressing him tighter to her chest. She smiled at the thought, but that smile died half-formed on her lips as the oil lamps lining the walls began to flicker and dim.

She stopped in her tracks, white blonde hair swishing around her shoulders as she glanced around nervously.

Don't be silly, she chided herself, eyes flitting from the light to the shadows of the hall behind her. It's just the wind, nothing more. But she can't stop her pace from quickening.

Darla does not believe in ghosts, but she can swear that there are more than one pair of footsteps.

The doorway is only twelve steps away. Ten. Eight. The lamps flickered faster now: on, off, on, off. With each sputter, the place became closer to the nightmarish vision see saw earlier.

It was silent a minute ago, wasn't it? A whistle pierced the silence, an off beat tune.

Darla's heart thrashes wildly, her legs jellied. She turned and watched in horror as the last of the illusion crumbled. And then it was a place of nightmares.

The smell hit her like a punch, making her gag. She could hear the scurrying of rats; she let out a small cry as one ran by her legs.

She ran to the door, fingers scrambling across the rotten wood. Her eyes stung, making them water and causing her vision to blur. Panic emptied her mind of logic, she began scratching away at what used to be the door until her nails were bloodied and her fingers were cramped.

"Help me! Please, help!" She screamed. What was happening? Where was he? Somehow, she knew he wasn't behind that door, or anywhere near this house. But why would he ask her here?

Perhaps it was all a joke. He liked to play jokes on her; he said she was such an easy target. But he had always smiled as he said it, that playful little grin that made her heart pound and her mind dizzy. Surely this was just an elaborate joke, designed to scare her? Any minute now he would appear, laughing at how hysterical she had been.

"This isn't funny!" Darla sobbed, her voice weak and feeble in the empty corridor. "Please, stop!"

Behind her the shadows began to grow. They hissed and writhed, slithering around her ankles. She began to hear the whistling, a jaunty tune out of place. It became clearer as the hissing faded.

"Would you please stop whistling? This isn't funny!" Darla shrieked, as she backed away from the approaching shadows. A trick of the light perhaps? Her skirts inhibited her movements, made them slow and clumsy. "I want you to come out here, and take me home right away!"

She tried to sound brave. But she knew in her heart that this was no joke.

The shadows were tangible things. They bound her legs together, her knees shaking. The saliva caught in the back of Darla's throat, she was too afraid to swallow.

Darla was right. There was more than one pair of footsteps. They approached her, drumming dully on the dank floor. The whistling echoed around her again.

"P-please. Please. Let me go home," Darla's voice broke. "I won't tell anybody,"

The whistling stopped abruptly. There was silence, and then a sound built from the quiet. It was deep and guttural, tight and echoing and horrible all at the same time.

"But you will," The voice taunts. The shadows were collecting into a form. It towered over Darla, and she backed away from it on her hands and feet, choking out desperate cries. A hand extended from the distinctly human shape, its bone-pale fingers reached out for her. Darla ended up against the wall, her head cringing back. She closed her eyes.

She feels pressure against her temple, a sharp pinprick of pain. The fingers rake down her cheek, trailing along her neck. Her hair stretches tight from her scalp as it winds around his fingers. She could almost imagine it: the ice of her hair only a few shades brighter than his skeletal skin.

"Such beautiful hair," Darla opened her eyes, and recoiled immediately from the stained smile and crazed eyes. In the eyes Darla saw a relentless rage, and endless swirling black, and her bladder let go as she choked out a sob.

"He did well bringing you here." The stranger smiles, and Darla began to cry. She couldn't think of her mother, or her father, or any of her friends, or even of him. She was all alone. Her life consisted only of pain, and fear, and the stranger inches from her defenceless form. "The ritual begins," His voice was rough, and all Darla could do was scream.