From mrspencil: a blizzard on Dartmoor
...
I stand alone near the mire, haunted by thoughts of wickedness and corruption; not running through my blood, but I still remember the touches of evil on my body, and I feel my skin prickle at the memory. Holding a bunch of violets in my left hand, I say:
"Hello, Rodger, it's me again. It's Harriet."
At once, a cold breeze picks up and I suddenly feel snowflakes settling on my arms, and it is there, upon the mire, I see my late first husband standing there, giving me a look of resentment. His brow deepens, and the snowflakes whirl faster and faster round me.
"Rodger, please! I know you are angry at me for going against what we planned- but I only agreed to scare Sir Henry away, not kill him! Even then, you forced me into agreeing, Rodger." I say, allowing my tone to go much colder than the blizzard round me- and that is a lot to beat.
"Even if you did force me to do things I did not desire to, Rodger, I did not wish you to die- especially the way you had done, and I may not be responsible for what happened...but, I'm sorry things turned out this way." I refuse to cower away from the man who had once brought me fear and misery, and stand as defiantly as I will allow.
The cold, slithery man I had once shared my nuptial life with continues to scowl back at me- with his cold, beady eyes. I feel shivers sneak up my spine and fear squirm into my stomach. He hates me- he loathes me.
But I cannot reciprocate those feelings towards him.
He may be a cruel, horrible man, but that cruelty was brought on by desperation and megalomania. There are worse people in this world than he.
That is why I am here.
I drop the flowers beside my husband's final resting place, and tell him: "I just want to say, Rodger, before one of us goes"-
The blizzard pace increases rapidly, the cold biting into my arms like tiny snakes, and cutting me off from my sentiments. His eyes are now glowing a red-white hot from Hellish fury.
"-a Merry Christmas, my dear!" I shout above the howling winds and the snowflakes shooting my tongue.
At once, the blizzard slows right down before slowly stopping. I cover my face with my arm as this transition unfolds, and once the snow clears, I see my late spouse on the mire, still standing on the exact spot he drowned- or so I heard.
He is no longer glaring at me, but I see a much softer look in his eyes. He looks somewhat remorseful for his past actions, and he looks at me.
I remember that look. We shared when we first met.
And it is our last shared gaze too.
...
As my first husband slowly disappears from view, footsteps behind me indicate that my second husband has found me.
He doesn't say a word to me, but he instead wraps his arms round me, mindful as ever, of my bump. I bury my head into his shoulder, and reflect on my late husband.
After this, I saw no further incidents of unusual blizzards arriving, and my husband no longer haunts the mire.
Just my memories of him.
...
A/N: In this story, Mrs Stapleton is Harriet Stapleton, and she married Henry Baskerville shortly after Holmes and Watson solved the case of the Hound of the Baskervilles. I wanted to take a supernatural approach to the prompt, concerning the case it's linked with, and it was the only cool idea I had, so...anyway, I only own the unborn Baskerville- everyone else belongs to Conan Doyle.
Hope you enjoyed reading! Thank you, and Merry Christmas to all!