1849

Canada sighed. His breath frosted in the early morning air in a puff of white, quickly snatched up by a chilling breeze. He tightened his coat closer to him and shivered.

Why, America? Canada asked himself. It was just a silly cage thing, anyway. Why would he want something to do with it? Especially since it was a British a device. No one used it (he shivered again, more from the memories of that evil torture then from the cold this time). No one wanted to go near ot. And for good reason. So why take it?

And why did he have to go find it? Oh, because he never stood up for himself, that was it. He should really remember to ask his brother about that – no, wait. He was mad at America; he didn't want to have a family chat. A stern one.

Or, just a small warning…yeah, a warning to give it back.

The cover of dying leaves masked the water accumulating in the pits and hidden holes in the earth, the crisp sound of them snapping and breaking covering the sloshing of water, so when Canada next placed his foot, he had no idea that his leg was about to be swallowed up in a fast moving stream.

With a yelp, he yanked his leg from the frigid waters. He shook his pants out to best of his ability, staring sadly at his soaked clothes. What a bother…first his possessions were ripped from him, and then frostbite. What could the talk with his brother possibly bring? His stomach twisted with dread. Hopefully America wasn't chopping wood like last time…

There was a snapping of a twig and Canada whirled around. A swirl of leaves from a sudden gust of wind was the only sign of movement. A chill went down his spine as he took in his surroundings. Where exactly was he? He had to be somewhere near the border between the two countries, right?

A howl of wind – it didn't really sound like wind, did it? – made his heart pound. He bit his lower lip. How could he get lost? It was practically his backyard. But something felt off. Something…dark?

"Mathieu."

Canada jumped. "E-eh?" There was nothing. Not even a bird. A slight movement of a tangle of dark grass caught his eye. He let out a breath. He was just paranoid. Nothing else.

Just as he was about to turn around, something hard and cold latched onto his shoulders. With a shriek, his hands flew to the thing, scrabbling at whatever had taken a hold of him. It felt wet and its coldness was seeping through his layers.

"Mathieu."

Another blood-curdling cry escaped his mouth as a milky-white face materialized in front of him. Her hair, the same color of the dark grass near the water's edge swirled about her face in a ghostly breeze.

"Take me across the river, Mathieu. I cannot cross the St. Lawrence river. Take across, Mathieu." Canada tried to voice his protests, but bony fingers were crawling from his shoulders to his neck. They closed about the trembling skin as he struggled to keep breathing and began to tighten, began to squeeze. Began to kill.

Canada twisted, desperately trying to get the pressure off him. He ripped at the fingers, digging into the skin so hard he could feel them against his windpipe, so close – so close to killing him. His own fingers met the woman's and he tore at them. They ripped from their joints like corn from their stalks and he gave a muffled sob at each crack of the bone. The ghost hissed.

The last fingers off – still there, still not breathing – he ripped at the arms, the wrists, the clammy skin. All at once, the pressure was gone and Canada was on his knees, clothes soaking up the water of the river, gasping for air. In a flash, he was back on his feet, crashing through the woods, anywhere. Just away.

"Hey, hey, where are you going so fast?"

Canada stumbled to a halt, chest heaving and sweat rolling down his face. Wild, lavender eyes met big blue orbs. "A-America?"

The blond waved. "You were late. I thought I would find you, but…what's wrong?"

Canada glanced over his shoulder, a hand rubbing at his bruised throat. "Y-you can keep that thing," he whispered hoarsely. "I don't want it back."

American blinked as his brother headed back into the woods. It wasn't until his shadow had been swallowed up by the darker silhouettes of the trees that he took a step forward. "Keep what?"

A/N: Background-
Marie-Josephte Corriveau, at the age of 16, married a man by the name of Charles Bouchard in 1749. She was very happy with her husband and three children, until she found someone else: Louis Dodier. So, what did she do? She killed her husband. Or, so, that's what the rumors were. After a trail (by the British, mind you), they condemned Marie-Josepthe's father, Joseph Corriveau to hang, and Marie as an accomplice. He claimed that it was daughter that killed Charles, and, after a second trial, Marie-Josephte was sentenced to a public hanging for the murder of her husband (she killed him with two blows of a hatchet while he was sleeping).

The British stuck her in an iron gibbet at the cross-roads of (now) Rue St-Joseph and the Boulevard de l'Entente for over a month, where she was then buried at the church of St-Joseph-de-la-Pointe-Lévy. In 1849, the gibbet was stolen from the church and put on display at the Boston Museum where the card reads "From Quebec".

The Legend-

After her death, Corriveau was said to wake up, her hands reaching out and calling to any passerby's. Scared, the people buried her. But it only got worse. She would climb out from her grave and walk along the St. Lawrence river. One day, a man named Dube was walking home. He passed under the spot where Marie had hanged and saw a bunch of demonic figures dance around a blue light across the river. And then a pair of hand tightened around his throat from behind and she whispered to him, "Take me across the river, Dube."

Of course, he wasn't stupid, so he ripped the arms from the ghost and fainted. When he woke up, he was by the roadside, his wife sobbing over him.

Canada! Really? And I thought we had scary stuff...Anyone want to see Russia next?