Cold (is the Uncovered Grave)

Cold (is the Uncovered Grave)

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WpMetadataNoticeLast published Mon, Apr 1, 2019
Arabella knew by the pounding of her heart what would approach her. Every day for three nights, at three in the morning, three chimes from the clock would hail the freezing sigh. A quiet breath, followed by the crackle of frost like so many insects chattering from beneath her door. The pale fog seeped in, not from the window, but from the hallway just outside. She knew it was the phantom come again. But this night, she was braver. This night, she dared sit by her door, and dared to question. As the frost moved in like a living being, lacing over her bare feet and making her jolt from the cold, she listened for him. The door rattled as she moved. Outside, the quiet phantom stood still. "Spirit... will you continue to haunt these walls in such an aberrant manner?" She whispered, deeply curious. From outside, the being hesitated. Cold waves of fog rolled in, heavy and thick as summer clouds- clouds just before a storm. "Dear, aberrant child... do you want me to?"
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#476
gothic
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The boy stood in front of the bathroom mirror, a little too close, his tiny hands pressed against the cold surface. He smiled at his reflection, though it didn't smile back right away. He was used to this. It was always like that-he would smile, and then the reflection would follow, eventually. "Hi, there," the boy whispered, his voice a soft murmur in the quiet house. From the kitchen, the sound of pots clanging echoed, and his mother's humming filled the space. He could hear the rhythm of the spatula stirring in the pan, the sizzling of whatever she was cooking. His father, still seated at the dining table, rustled the newspaper, absorbed in the evening's headlines. "Mom, look, it's me," the boy called out, his eyes never leaving the mirror. He waited for her usual response-a glance over her shoulder, a quick nod of acknowledgment. But she didn't answer. She just hummed. The boy tilted his head, eyes narrowing. There was something about his reflection now that felt different, too still, too patient. "Hello?" His voice trembled slightly. "Why don't you say something?" In the reflection, his own lips parted in silent mockery. But this time, he swore it wasn't him. The boy swallowed hard, his pulse quickening. His reflection didn't mirror his every movement anymore. It was slightly delayed, like it was watching him instead. A whisper seemed to curl in the air around him, soft but distinct. "You're not alone here." His heart thudded. The voice, distant but clear, came from the mirror. "Who's there?" the boy asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His father grunted from the other room, and the boy glanced toward the dining table. His father was engrossed in his newspaper. The boy turned back to the mirror. The reflection was still staring, but now, something more than just the image of himself looked back. "Don't you want to play?" the reflection asked, its smile curling wider, unnaturally wide.

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