Warning: This work has been rated 16+ for violence and mature content.
*This is the origin of a character from my “Ghost House” stories. You can read other stories connecting to this underneath my folder “Ghost House”. Gacha Club character designs are on my wall. Enjoy!*
Some time in the 1800s, there was a lovestruck woman running throughout her neighborhood, in the cold, dead rain. It was a stormy night and she was wearing a long, satin dress, tripping on it and getting mud all over herself. She didn't care, though. What mattered was him and only him.
Her name was Elaine Lawrence. Elaine was clutching a soggy, important letter in her gloved hands.
A letter from a lover. A young man she thought was dead, but turned out to be alive.
After much walking, she finally reached her destination. A deserted, lost cabin in the woods, the place they always met in secret.
She walked in and waited.
Nothing. She thought that he would be there before her. He was always early, after all.
Why wasn't he there?
"Miss me?" A sweet, kind voice asked.
Elaine sighed in relief. So he did get there on time. They could talk, they could kiss, they could share stories not another soul would feel, because they were together. In the cabin, only they existed.
Suddenly, she felt a sharp, stabbing pain on her hip, like the biggest needle was plunged into her flesh.
The pain rose to her chest and finally, to her neck.
A flash of lighting struck and Elaine got a glimpse of her bloody body. Rouge, hot liquid covering her dirt-stained dress, leaving her as a rotten, filthy mess of a creature.
"What?" She asked, confused. Didn’t he love her? Didn’t he care for her? Didn’t he want her? For days, she worried that he had suffered, that someone had snuffed out his young life. She wondered if he crossed to the afterlife, wondered if he was still lingering in Earth. He was her heart, her soul. She believed in him, she cared for him.
Why did he hurt her?
"Goodbye, Elaine." He whispered in her ear.
Elaine fell to the floor, her whole body as heavy as a rock. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t scream. Only ask herself, in the corners of her mind:
Nelson, my dear. Why?