A/N: So my brain decided that it would be a good idea to write a horror story. We'll see how it turns out…(Don't worry though, there's still going to be a lot of Hollstein fluff!)
20 years ago
The crows murmured softly to each other as they overlooked the graveyard. They chuckled darkly from treetops and flapped their wings, making the trees whisper a warning to them in response- danger, danger, danger….
The mist and the rain of the moors obscured the crows from view and their disembodied laughter could be heard wherever one walked in the graveyard.
(A murder of crows indeed)
The eight men in the graveyard tried to ignore the message nature screamed at them, for it was vital that each performed their duty.
(Danger, danger, danger chuckled the crows.)
The Five Zetas were hiding beneath great, black umbrellas and were solemnly watching a coffin being lowered into the ground by two sweating men. One of their number, Peter Kirsch, remembered suddenly a story from his childhood, and he fought the sudden impulse to run, screaming from the graveyard.
She'll meet you and greet you and beware- she may eat you!
So lock your windows, lock your doors, and stay far, far away from the graveyard on the moors.
None of the men wanted to be there, but Elsie had to be put to rest in consecrated ground. The village was in agreement that it was the least the poor girl deserved.
A crow emerged from the mist as the men shivered under their umbrellas and it flapped past the priest, who was doggedly performing a sermon despite the rain. The abrupt appearance of the crow made the men jump and they looked around with growing unease.
Superstition was alive and well in Silas and for good reason
Peter remembered again the childhood rhyme and it echoed over and over in his head as the coffin reached bottom of the grave with a dull thud. (She'll eat you, she'll EAT YOU.) It had all seemed a lot funnier as a child, playing skipping games in the playground, and laughing at the silly legends surrounding the graveyard.
The five men didn't look at each other as they each took a handful of dirt from their pocket and sprinkled it over the coffin. The tinny sound of soil hitting wood resonated eerily, bouncing off headstones.
Peter felt a wave of guilt at what he and the other four had done. Of what the whole village had done, and would continue to do every twenty years.
He thought then, of his newborn son, Brody, and tried to comfort himself. His actions, the actions of the Zetas and the village, preserved their way of life.
Maybe one day, Brody would understand. And then Peter had an uncomfortable thought.
Maybe one day, Brody would be where he was right now…
The priest began to finish his sermon and Peter shook himself, trying to shake off something that could not be removed.
(Out damned spot!)
It would never leave him, the guilt- although Peter did not know this yet.
He would forever be stuck with the image of the murdered innocent, he would forever have blood on his hands, he would never be able to erase the image of Elsie, lying there as if asleep, but oh God she wasn't because-
"Amen."
The priest finished had finished his prayer for Elsie's soul, may she rest in peace.
The men did not exchange a word once the ceremony was completed for it was done, and could not be undone. And so they drew their long, long, black coats around themselves trying to preserve some sense of warmth (any glimmer of warmth was hard to come by on a misty, rainy day on the moors.)
Five umbrellas began to leave the graveyard, huddled together much like the crows watching from the trees were. The priest trailed behind them, clutching his Bible fearfully.
The two men who had lowered the coffin, remained behind to fill in the grave. They worked fast, glancing nervously around the steadily darkening graveyard.
It was a horrible business, everyone agreed.
(But a necessary one.)
The two men eventually completed their task, and almost ran from the graveyard, stumbling blindly through the mist.
No one noticed the girl who leaned against a gravestone and watched the proceedings with a smirk on her face.
(Perhaps however, they sensed it. The two men had goose bumps as they hunted through the fog anxiously, and they were sure that something or someone was watching them and laughing.)
The crows laughed and laughed and the girl lay down across the grave and laughed with them, a harsh cynical bark of laughter, that echoed of pain and terror, of an eternity of hurt.
The girl looked at the stars and listened to the trees, before she closed her eyes. It was so much easier this way, with only the darkness to keep her company and the soft, hard earth beneath her.
(Lock the doors, stay away from the graveyard on the moors.)
She looked like one already dead, lying as she did then across a grave with her arms folded across her chest. So still was she, that one could not even see the slow rise and fall of her chest, one could not even see the wind disturbing her black, curly hair.
She was beautiful, this pale corpse, but if she were to open her eyes again, surely this illusion would be shattered.
For she was the one that children had nightmares about. The one that was whispered about behind closed doors, the one that you prayed would never notice you, the one that you hoped never looked your way.
The one that was blamed for the village of Silas' mysterious tragedies.
The graveyard seemed to gasp as one as the girl stirred slightly and shifted on the grave. The crows fell silent, and then as one the entire murder lifted from the trees and graves where they were perched. They cawed high screams of desperation as they flew through the mist, away from the graveyard on the moors.
The girl slowly opened her eyes and watched their departure. A roll of mist drifted over her lazily, obscuring her from sight.
Was she ever really there? One might wonder. Was she but a dream? Perhaps she was a remnant of a long forgotten past or perhaps she was a spectre of a girl long, long dead…
A crow flapped dangerously close to the hidden girl, its wings clipping the gravestone. So close is the bird, that it could have read the finely engraved inscription on the headstone, worn down from centuries of wind and rain and barely legible.
(Mircalla Karnstein 1680-1698)
The lone crow did not emerge from the mist to re-join its companions.
Danger, danger, danger. Whispered the graveyard. Danger, danger, danger…