Bronwyn stood over her husband’s bed, her face etched with concern. His face was a sickly grey colour, distorted with pain – his mouth emitting raspy wheezing sounds, his breathing rapid; laboured. Beads of sweat were building on his brow, trickling down his face. Bronwyn wanted desperately to hold him, console him, wipe away his pain as though wiping condensation from a window. Alas, nothing is ever that easy, she thought to herself, tears forming in her deep blue eyes as she watched her husband toss and turn in excruciating pain.
Bronwyn perched lightly on the end of his bed, and wept silently as he began to shake and convulse before her very eyes. She had lost hope in the priest’s words, no amount of bathing her Thomas in Holy water, or mounting a crucifix above his headboard had eased his sickness, his health was in a rapid decline, and it was only a matter of time, Bronwyn reasoned, that she’d have before she became widowed. Thomas was now laying quite still, his thick brown hair soaked with sweat, his fists unclenched. Bronwyn forced herself to her feet, and paced across the room to the window overlooking the cobbled street and cottages of the hamlet in which she lived. She began to rinse her husband’s flannel in the wash bowl, wringing it and soaking it repeatedly absentmindedly as she watched the peaceful scene. Everything seemed so normal, so mundane, and so perfect. The village well stood modestly in the middle of a small green, the flowers were dancing in tune to the breeze, and the small cottage houses were tucked cosily beside each other, dull glimmers of candlelight shining through their windows, as the dusk turned to night. All was still. Bronwyn peeled her eyes away from the peaceful view, wringed out the flannel once more and then, as she went to turn to her husband, caught sight of something, someone mirrored in the reflection of the window. She could see the bedroom, Thomas’ bed, the chest of drawers, the chamber pot, everything that made her room what it was; a sanctuary, a safe place, yet a presence had entered. A malicious, insidious presence.
The figure of an old woman, doubled over, almost mimicking Thomas’ posture as he struggled to walk, had glided silently through the closed door, and was now standing at Thomas’ bed, her face slowly getting closer to his. Bronwyn held her breath as she watched the scene playing out in the reflection; her hairs were standing on end, her stomach in knots. Suddenly, Thomas began to shake violently, his wheezing became louder, and short rasp coughs were rattling his body. The woman seemed to be taking pleasure from his pain, as Thomas writhed in agony, the woman hissed and chuckled to herself, seemingly oblivious to Bronwyn’s presence. Thomas was fading, his wheezing was becoming quieter, his convulsions were beginning to slow, just before the last drop of life was consumed, Bronwyn span around impulsively, and faced the presence that was drinking her husband’s spirit.
This woman, this hag, shot up from her feast, and her coal black eyes locked onto Bronwyn’s, and with her eyes still fixed, she began to walk toward Bronwyn, Bronwyn becoming colder with every step the woman took. Her face, its face, was sunken, hollowed out, its skin was grey, and as grey as Thomas’ thin as paper, its eyes; black holes, emotionless, empty. When the woman’s face was an inch away from Bronwyn’s, her mouth widened to a smile, showing rows after rows of jagged teeth, chipped and as worn as tombstones in a graveyard. Suddenly, the woman disappeared straight through Bronwyn, Leaving behind the stench of death.
Bronwyn stood in a daze, not breathing, before snapping into life and rushing to Thomas’ side, falling to her knees and dabbing his forehead with the cold flannel, hoping to revive him. In time, his chest slowly began to rise and fall, yet nothing Bronwyn tried would awake him. She laid her head on his chest and sobbed pitifully, when suddenly a noise caught her attention. A band, music, singing, drums, all in the distance, it was upbeat, light-hearted, with a fast pace, Bronwyn got to her feet and strode to the window, where the lights from the small gypsy camp on the other side of the village drew her in. The music was enchanting, she could see the figures of the gypsies dancing by the light of the fire, their long skirts flowing as they twirled and leapt through the air to the beautiful sounds.
