Day of the Dead

blood hand

He crept up to the window. Despite the fog clouding his vision, he could see the marsh ahead clearly. She was coming.

A gush of water devoured the road that lead to town. He had no escape.

Tick. Tock. His time was nearly up. Tick. Tock. He could hear her footsteps striking the cold stone floor. Tick. Tock. A chill spread down his spine, signalling her presence. She was here. And then, the silence came…


It was one of those days, one of those days when everyone stayed at home, boarded their windows and nailed their doors. They had brought their days’ worth of food and drink, they’d cancelled any meeting or outing and squeezed all the animals into the village barn. Of course they would. The village would do anything to keep their children safe.

Peeking through a thin crack in the wooden boards, which were covering the filth ridden windows, Emma sighed. It was hardly likely that some long dead grieving ghost would rise from the dead and take children as her pets. Surely it was just a myth?

As night rose and Emma started to hear the secret whisperings from the shadows and the wind attacking the nailed down door, she grew more and more curious. Who was it that took the children?

“Emma! Get in your room now… before she c-comes,” spoke her mum with a shudder, before rushing round to triple check the house again.

But Emma didn’t return to her room.


She was in a trance.


She was stuck.


She was here.


She had been taken.


She was screaming and she didn’t stop…


The next day Emma’s body was found lying at the front of the church by the entrance to the graveyard. Her clothes, that had once been sky blue, were now stained blood red, her body was swollen to the size of a horse and her skin looked as if there had been an explosion of ink. If you looked carefully you could just about see her. The person that had taken the time to at least return the body. If you looked carefully, just beyond the heavy oak trees, you could see a woman… the woman they spoke of… a woman wearing black.

Hurriedly, the woman in black scurried back to her den. It was made up of freshly plucked emerald leaves, woven beautifully through two willow trees. Glancing over her left shoulder she let out a relieving breath: no one had seen her leave.

Gracefully, she stepped into her masterpiece and began to climb up as quickly as a dart. As she climbed, she passed a few little rooms containing blood stained objects, fashioned into furniture. Armchairs, ovens, coat hangers and everything a regular home has. Finally, she got to the top. At the top there was a small perch with a neck rest, in the corner was a bowl. In this bowl was a sticky red substance along with a needle like syringe. Gazing sorrowfully at the bowl, she gave a sad smile.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, a tear slithering down her deathly pale face. And without a second glance she stabbed the needle in her thigh and screamed. The sand had filled the hour glass. And then the silence came…

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