Tommy felt the breathing.

Hearing it, and feeling it, are two very different things— leagues from one another. Yet, like every other time, he let it be. He ignored the ice coursing through his veins and the hair on the back of his neck standing at attention. At first, he thought it was the shovels. That somehow his mind conjured another way to terrorise him. The heaving as the mud filled their mouths, leaking into their lungs, sludging over their skin, seeping into their clenched eyes as they dug themselves to where they hoped was out. But this breathing was softer. Like quiet panting.

It would come. It would go. Sometimes, he would be too focused on the paperwork in front of him to even notice the sudden chill, running numbers through his tired mind. The room was a little darker than it was before, only the glowing moonlight and the flickering candle on his desk cast any sort of light at all. Until Tommy had to narrow his eyes to make out the shapes scribbled on the page. As the night went on, he became increasingly aware of his opium pipe resting beside him.

Little tufts of air blew in Tommy's ear, on his neck, on his mouth— his skin gradually grew cold and clammy. Like a cold sweat broke out, feverish. His breath felt cold to his touch. He hadn't noticed the fire in his study had dimmed, no more than to the point where there were only a few little dying embers glowing. He would have left it, but another shiver ripped through him, and his bones ached.

His muscles were stiff with chill and disuse, but he pressed on, pushing himself away from his desk. He would have lit the fire place properly. Instead, he threw in a couple fresh logs and dug his lighter out of his pocket. Flicking it open, he held the flickering flame to the log, recoiling when the wood caught alight. He shook the slight burn in his knuckles away, uncaring. He headed back to his desk, the warm glow hitting his back, when the room grew dark and cold again.

With furrowed brows, he looked back at the fireplace— snuffed out. It barely burned, but the logs were charred black, completely unusable.

"What the fuck?" Tommy mumbled to himself as he marched back, threw in a couple other logs and set them alight. The flames licked the logs until it glowed a brilliant orange. Sunspots cluttered his vision as he turned away—

BANG!

The wind whistled as it blew into the office, extinguishing the fire once again and flinging papers around wildly, littering the floor with them, rustling obnoxiously. Tommy's wide eyes were fixed onto the open window.

He saw it. He saw it!

For only an instant — it was barely there, he'd admit — he saw it. A white glimmer, the hem of the billowing white gown whipping away outside the window. He saw it. He. Saw. It.

At least, he thought he had. Only, there was nothing there. Just a tree waving at him, speaking to him in creaks and groans that he didn't understand. Tommy ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, groaning. How tired was he?

A sound: smooth, clear as bell, echoing— wait.

Singing?

It grew louder, like it was getting closer. Or who. He knew who.

Ice frosted over his back. Frigidly, Tommy turned, the only proof that he was still breathing was the cold pain in his lungs and the white crystallised puffs trembling from his lips. His eyes ached like glaciers were puncturing his nerves, but he couldn't blink.

Tommy's heart froze in his chest. The singing died, leaving the wind hissing into the silence.

It was her. Her skin. Her skin wasn't smooth, unblemished and rosy like it used to be. Now it rotted, peeling away, hanging off her face and shoulders and arms. Her mouth hung open, like she wanted to scream, but only little wheezes of stolen breath escaped her. Her eyes, the beautiful blue they were, now cradled loosely in their sunken sockets, blinded a milky white— nothing like he remembered her. And yet, it still was her. She loomed over him, sparkling white, transparent— all but the very realistic hole in her chest, pouring black, clotted blood onto her soiled white nightgown.

The sight made him retch onto the floor. Bile bubbled and climbed up his throat, forcing him on his knees, heaving sour air. A sound he'd never heard himself make, something like a whimper, struggled out of him.

The wheezing got louder and louder until he couldn't hang his head, until he couldn't keep pretending she wasn't there anymore. Trembling, Tommy met that broken gaze, his quivering lip dripped with spittle. Tears welled and bleared his vision, but he still saw her.

Her milky white, empty eyes held him, cold and dead.

Her voice wasn't hers anymore, either. It wasn't sweet and melodic with a comforting timbre; it was a guttural roar, bridled with the highest, ear-splitting screech that he'd ever heard, like wet chalk raking along a black board. Tommy's hands grappled at his ears, coming away wet and red. His heart lodged in his throat, eyes bulging.

"No— NO, PLEASE, GRACE, I'M SORRY! NO!" Grace lurched at him, her mouth gaping wider and wider and wider until her darkness engulfed him. "NOOO—!"


Tommy startled awake, reeling back in his seat, heart thundering in his chest and his breathing rugged. His opium pipe was clutched in his hand, and the sweet scent still lingered in the air, suffocating. Had this all been a nightmare? Had this been another one of his night terrors about Grace? Frantically, he searched the room. Not a single paper out of place, all stacked neatly on his desk. The fire was long dead. The window was firmly shut. He reached for his ear.

Dried blood rusted his fingertips.