The chime of a castles cathedral church bell rings against the wind of a bitter winters afternoon. Feeling like a howl that scrapes it's teeth against the flesh of its prey. A village, looking barren through its fields. Corpses of dead animals and collapsed carriages litter the dirt roads, spewed with blood and decaying flesh. It looks to be desolate, for no one is coming out of their houses or tending to the withered crops that may or may not sprout despite the biting cold.
Atop a hill, shrouded by mountainsides rests a large ornate yet obsidian castle. It sits with pointed arches and large stained glass windows, ribbed vaults and an overwhelming looming sense of dread. "That castle is filled with nothing but blood and death." The locals were right; but it is not the castle itself that towers over the village below, but it's the Matriarch that resides with three devils children that keeps the lore of such monsters existing in the world.
Nothing was ever proven, nothing was ever confirmed and would not be confirmed far until years in the future. That is not where this story begins, nor is it where it ends, but rather the middle is where this story takes place.
A woman, of noble status has taken to the Castle seventy years ago. Ruling in power with three other Lords, But this one, this one is special. The woman in white, resting with raven black nineteen-fifties curls just at her jawline. Ivory skin kissed by the moon, graces her tall nine-foot six stature. A white pleated dress that falls to the floor, hugging her in just the right places. Specially tailored for such a looming height. Three black roses sit on her left side as a broach would sit on a Queen. A set a of pearls rest around her neck with a flower that looks to be of specific importance hangs just on her chest. This woman is the embodiment of seduction, grace and power. This is a story of Countess Alcina Dimitrescu, the Devils Wife.
- - - -
The Castle had been quiet all morning, no sounds of plagued screaming had yet to come by the hands of the Mistress. Maidens scuttle, looking to ensure the proper upkeep and maintenance was completed before the Mistress finished with her morning tea. As was her ritual every morning before she attended to business. Ruth was the Head Maid that oversaw the rest of the all-woman staff to care for the all-woman leaders of the castle. How peculiar to some, normal to them. For the smallest infraction, could cost someone more than just a Glasgow smile. Everything was perfect, or so it was thought.
Lady Dimitrescu roams the gothic castle halls, ensuring each and every piece of the castles antiques are resting where they are designed to be. Dressed in white, heels click, making the ground shake beneath her heavenly weight of pure seduction. Raven hair resting in 1950's curls just above her well stature shoulders. Gracing her head with a large black sunhat sat at an angle to accentuate her facial features. Leather gloves lacing each individual digit for the sins she is about to commit. Glowing gold eyes pierce the very direction she stares. A glimpse and it could be anyone's last.
"Where is it?" The Matriarch growls under her breath hidden between tight teeth, noting a missing heirloom with a dust indentation resting where it should be. Fingertips beginning to trace the pattern of the family insignia amulet that should be resting within a green velvet and glass case. The maids, having been put in single file line along the Main Foyer hall, shudder, silenced in the death of fear. Every set of eyes are begging, pleading for this day not to be their final resting place.
"Mistress, we assure you nothing was missing when we dusted." Ruth says, nearly shaking in her uniform and clearing her throat as she attempts to speak up. Trying to seem calm and undisturbed by her Masters clear distain that shows in such expressions.
"And yet here I am, looking at an empty space." The Countess bites back, turning her head and glaring downwards at the little woman. Eyes glowing bright gold as the fury begins to rise in the pit of her stomach.
"Do not lie to me. For I will not give grace to those who lie." The Mistress growls, eyes widening for a moment before she eases to calm the threatened volcano within her. Folding one gloved hand on top of another, resting right in front of her bosom, pulling the leather taut against itself within her mingled digits.
Mistress Dimitrescu gives a daunting yet sweet smile before she speaks again, "Don't waste my time." Her eyes dig like daggers into each and every maiden standing in the row. They're nothing more than blood bags, in her eyes. Some carry a greater purpose, for a finer selection of vintage while others are rejects and not worth keeping alive in this frail form of mortal flesh.
The woman in white towers over the group of women, picking them off one by one like lambs brought to the slaughter house.
Silence.
One feeble girl in particular, is attempting to hide in the shadows of the others by back stepping a single step; Causing her to stand out from the rest. Though their heads are down, heels click as the Countess begins to move down the line, she orchestrated earlier. Listening for labored breathing, a hint of weakness, even in a single breath. The girl has been there for maybe a few weeks; Young and barely out of her teens. Nobody could have warned her for the strict control of this house.
Each staff member stands with their feet together and head down. Dimitrescu's daughters merely giggle like the devils demons, watching with hungry eyes before Mother dear decides who's for dinner.
Silence.
Aching and agonizing silence for those maidens.
Just how the Woman in White prefers it to be.
The Countess tilts her head, latching like eyes of a hawk towards the young maiden that's just slightly off kilter. "You." She says, not even lifting a finger. Vocals dropping an octave as the rasp within her speech, inflicts the amount of danger the little girl is about to be in.
Bela being the eldest of the three witches in Dimitrescu's court, gives a maniacal laugh, lurching forward to grasp ahold of the girl by the roots of her scalp. The sound of buzzing echoes into the ears of the victim lying in wait for the taking.
"No! Please!" The feeble maiden cries, immediately turning into a pool of her own demise. Attempting to fight it and struggling against the grip of the witch. But this little devils child is stronger then she looks. For the grip is of an iron fist, nothing could or would detach the black gloves from blonde breaking hair.
"Dismissed!" The Master commands, letting her voice boom, overtaking the wailing of the dirty blonde crying for help. "I think it's time someone learns a lesson."
Each other maiden looks with fear and sorrow. None of them are willing to risk their own hide in order to save the new recruit Martha. The Cellar was the talk of gossip around the maidens once they were safely hidden in their own cramped quarters. They say once you are sent there is no coming back, but none of these Maidens had been here long enough to confirm nor deny it. Ruth was the only one who knew and she never shared on the topic.
"Ladies, the discussion of what happens in this Castle, is not for you to talk about." Ruth quips, attempting to gain control of the other gossiping women. "Quiet, before the Mistress' hear you!" She says, hushing the women with a threatening finger to her mouth.
Ruth was an older woman, the oldest besides the Matron herself. Resting with copper red hair, that was always kept up in a tight yet restless bun. She has smile lines and wrinkles from the hard unforgiving work she'd done for this family. The only servant left from the prior residence within this foreboding castle. Keeping to herself, and teaching the new-hires the rules of this house. All while never giving too much away.
Ruth rests standing on the balcony's edge of the second floor foyer, looking down into the main hall. A sigh gripping at her lips as she can do nothing but watch Martha be dragged by the scalp of her hell.. Hoping for a saving grace.
"Death is the dropping of the flower that the fruit may swell." – Henry Ward Beecher.