The ebony shadows coiled over and around her oh so pale skin, working themselves into her very soul. Madness raged in those wide and tortured eyes. The body was contorting into impossible positions as the shadows sank ever deeper, consuming her. Finally after hours of pain, her body fell limp and lifeless, the paleness of death washing over the already white skin. Only those eyes, those crazed eyes, continued to twitch but even they ceased to move… eventually.
For weeks that body lay there, dead and unmoving, but it did not rot. The shadows, that living darkness, saw to that. Under their closed lids the eyes began to twitch once more. But when they opened they were blank and lifeless. The body stood, an imitation of life in death, with its’ long black hair hanging in stark contrast to such pale skin. The shell of a once beautiful woman appeared to float away into the coming fog, its’ long, tattered dress and cloak billowing delicately behind her in an invisible wind. The thick fog swallowed the newly born Banshee.
(My English Teacher liked this one ^)
The forest echoed with silence. Nothing moved. It was as if the life had been taken out of this place. A fog, so unnatural and spectral like, seeped between the tress consuming everything into obscurity and drinking in any sound. The thick canopy overhead blocked out any light cast by the full and silver moon. Heavy foot-fall filled the empty silence, pounding like the forests own heartbeat. Within the fog all that could be seen were the brief implications of cramped and clustered trees. Darker shadows darted in and out of sight, vanishing deeper into the thick and rolling fog before anything could be truly made out.
Under the sound of the forests heart was another constant sound resembling that of breathing, but not human… Pressed deeply into the ground were smeared prints of hunter and prey. One set human, the second that of an animal. But think: where one set ended the second began.
Music played overhead, vaguely recognised as Guns ‘n’ Roses’ album: ‘Appetite for Destruction’. This was the place where no one went: the isolated bar no one knows about, home to something dark. The bar called ‘Morrigan’. The only man there was its’ keeper; a bland man, most definitely aging, robbed of his rock n’ roll youth. Tonight was especially dull, until that wailing cry was heard. The Banshee Morrigan’s cry calling to death anyone who she chose to hear it. But the keeper just ignored it, he didn’t care. The door opened and a figure strode in with unnatural grace and seated itself on a bar stool. It didn’t order anything, it just sat there, and still the keeper didn’t care. This things eyes were matt and lifeless, it’s hair wild and untamed, it’s hands too much like claws. The thing sat there for so long that the CD had played through several loops, and still the keeper didn’t care.
For poured from the gaps around the door slowly filling the place. Only when his vision was about to be completely taken did the bar keeper notice the thirst and madness in the other man’s matt eyes, only then did he care. Only then did he feel fear. Everything in that room was swallowed into the billowing white cloud. The door to the bar groaned as it was opened and the fog drained out leaving the bar empty with its’ vaguely recognised music playing overhead.
