Рита Демченко
Рита Демченко

2 года 6 месяцев назад

Every night at 2 am. Loss is the one shared quality prevailing in all of those who are taken before their time. But with that loss comes the caveat of something that was had, something worth celebrating. The dead are remembered and their descendants prevail in their stead keeping all the lessons taught while assured of the finality of death and mournful of it. But not all who are laid to rest remain so. Some return. Few, in their life long fit of stagnation, develop an inner rage. A hatred of themselves and of others so white hot that it prevails beyond entombment. The seething envy of what was long desired but never had fuels their soul to rise as a ghastly husk with newfound power over the living. In death they seek to claim what artifacts and persons they could never have otherwise. But they are bound by otherworldly rules such that even with an ability to claim what they will they can never have enough to satiate the unbearable need. They become more bold, more dangerous and with growing numbers they claw and tear like starved dogs all for but a moment of respite. They set sights upon this house one week ago and each night since under the cover of snowfall they have invaded. Without sound, not a scratch or gust of air they drift through the walls in search of her son. This activity will continue indefinitely until both mother and child are sucked dry of all life and will to care. She knows this because it has happened before. This town is intertwined in the goings on of unnatural creatures, things that exist outside our realm yet have a vested interest in its functions. Most of the people hear are unknowing pawns drawn in with the promise of long life and ample food and drink entirely ignorant that what is given is not a gift. There are a select few who in their own potentially miss-guided efforts are here to pursue interests of their own. “Do not take my child!” someone must have cried in the face of losing their kin to the nightly raids, to pass the burden along. Admittedly those of a lesser fortitude should be driven mad by the spirits’ horrid consistency and in such case is it not reasonable to do any and all one can to protect those they love? Regardless, she had endured so much to keep him hidden as all who live in this place must do to guard what they value most. She is no saint, she would not sacrifice herself to better her moral stance, taking onus to satiate these spirits with her own blood. Passing on a curse only secures ones position for it to return some day with considerably more terrifying force. She had always thought highly of her ability to suffer at great cost in favour of even greater benefits and this is one such situation. The dead offer a glimpse into a world of knowledge outside the reach of ordinary experience. “One and all, ghosts evoke a less dignified existence than those of maggots, so do not pity them. They are all but waste fit only for the harvest of their gullible, putrid hearts.”themichaelmacrae.deviantart.co…themichaelmacrae.deviantart.co…themichaelmacrae.deviantart.co…themichaelmacrae.deviantart.co…themichaelmacrae.deviantart.co… Hooey I have patreon woo *patreon.com/themichaelmacr…;And tumblr too themichaelmacrae.tumblr.comphewww society6 society6.com/themichaelmacrae

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