Spirit Mary

Chapter 13, Dawn

And all this time, I fear the stalking tyrant

He who owns the highest of Hell's thrones

Yet as I turn to confront this immortal fiend

I see not his face--but my own

* * *

Someone peeked out from her door.

"Winter, dear." It was her mom. "Come down. It's time for breakfast."

Winter had been staring out of her window since she had awakened. Snowflakes drifted down from the sky, clouds inched forward, and from time to time, the sun would peek through, scattering its rays over the land. From her place, she could see the roofs of the houses on the other lane, white and heavy with all the bits of snow on them.

Heaving a sigh, she ran her fingers over her neck-length dark brown hair, untangling the curls that had accumulated over night. She grabbed the calendar off the table, encircled January 3, then slid it back, stretching her arms up wide before getting out of bed. Her feet dragged as she made her way out of the room.

The first thing she faced out in the corridor was the door dead ahead. Unlike hers, it didn't have a name tag on it--just a simple build of wood and some hinges. It had already been more than two months since she stopped going into the room--mostly because there was no one to visit anymore. No more sibling to tackle or joke with.

Turning to her right, she made her way to the stairs' landing and walked down, her every step a pound to her still-sleeping head. Downstairs, the dining table was already prepared. A single candle was propped at the center, positioned in between two bowls of soup. Her mother seated herself on the side nearest to the stove, blowing on a spoonful before swallowing.

Winter took the seat opposite to her and stared at her share. It was colorless and murky--just like every food her mother had prepared in the past months. She usually went by it regardless, but she felt particularly lethargic that morning.

Her mother picked this up quite easily. "What is it, Win?"

Win. It still bothered her. She and her sister used to playfully fight over who their mother called. It had evolved into a joke only they could understand. Now, however, the call was flat and straightforward. It was her--and not anyone else.

"Nothing," Winter said. Her eyes landed on the empty seat beside them.

Her mother got this easily, too. She dropped her spoon on the bowl and rested her palms on her knees. She took a deep breath.

"Honey, I--"

"Mom, are they still here?" Winter asked.

"The investigators? Yes." Her mother nodded. Her mouth twitched. "Listen, I--"

"N-No, mom. It's okay." Winter shook her head. "I just don't feel hungry yet. I ate some midnight snacks last night."

Her mother's uneasiness proved she didn't believe her. She went back to eating her soup. Soon, so was Winter.

A couple of moments later, her mother stopped eating. The spoon slid off her fingers as she hunched over, her palms covering her eyes. An almost silent wail escaped her. Tears streaked down the sides of her face. Winter shifted in her seat uncomfortably. She didn't want to be bothered by this sight. Not anymore.

Leaving her soup half finished, she got out of her seat and went for the door, grabbing a coat and a scarf from the hatstand. Her hand was already on the knob when her mother next spoke: