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[EP] A wisp of a thing
Dec. 28th, 2018 10:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
st_oneswidowSeven days and seven nights. That was how long he'd been running her down.
Or at least, that was how long the calendar would say he'd been doing it, but Curnen wasn't so sure anymore. He had been in the inn, performing on his banjo for the inhabitants and making the strings of that fucking thing ring like the bells of Christian heaven. Just to taunt her. Just to show that in this new form, he could sing just as powerfully as ever. He had taken her back in time to show her his indomitable will, over her, over her mother, over the whole of the valley. He had been in her room, in her bed, so she couldn't sleep but in stolen snatches of rest in the trees. And even when she'd managed that, he had been singing in her dreams. She could not shake his haint. He would break her. He would kill her.
She could remember no more songs. She couldn't remember her own name. She remembered only the fear and the hate and the pain and the panic and the power as he opened his mouth to sing her dying dirge.
But when Rockhouse got to the end of "Pretty Polly," nothing had happened.
Father and daughter watched each other across the grass, the former faltering for the first time, the latter nearly naked in her tattered dress and snarl of long black hair, eyes huge and staring and mad.
She sprinted. She lunged. She tore his throat with her teeth and laughed in his face as his blood ran all down her chin, her breasts, her stomach. Had it been any other part of him touching her there, she would have wailed and buckled under the horror of it, but she could bear the copper salt heat of blood just fine. Hell, she stayed close and let it spurt all over her.
As the blood burbled out of his gaping throat and the haint faded, Curnen laughed so hard she screamed. She screamed so hard she howled, baying up at the waning moon. Only the banjo was left behind, Rockhouse's favorite six-string banjo. She brought it down hard against the ground, and the dying smash of the frame and twang of popped strings created a crashing harmony to her howling. Even when the body was smashed she continued swinging the broken neck like a bludgeon, daring him to come back. She laughed and screamed and howled and danced.
Sometimes there were no songs.
Or at least, that was how long the calendar would say he'd been doing it, but Curnen wasn't so sure anymore. He had been in the inn, performing on his banjo for the inhabitants and making the strings of that fucking thing ring like the bells of Christian heaven. Just to taunt her. Just to show that in this new form, he could sing just as powerfully as ever. He had taken her back in time to show her his indomitable will, over her, over her mother, over the whole of the valley. He had been in her room, in her bed, so she couldn't sleep but in stolen snatches of rest in the trees. And even when she'd managed that, he had been singing in her dreams. She could not shake his haint. He would break her. He would kill her.
She could remember no more songs. She couldn't remember her own name. She remembered only the fear and the hate and the pain and the panic and the power as he opened his mouth to sing her dying dirge.
But when Rockhouse got to the end of "Pretty Polly," nothing had happened.
Father and daughter watched each other across the grass, the former faltering for the first time, the latter nearly naked in her tattered dress and snarl of long black hair, eyes huge and staring and mad.
She sprinted. She lunged. She tore his throat with her teeth and laughed in his face as his blood ran all down her chin, her breasts, her stomach. Had it been any other part of him touching her there, she would have wailed and buckled under the horror of it, but she could bear the copper salt heat of blood just fine. Hell, she stayed close and let it spurt all over her.
As the blood burbled out of his gaping throat and the haint faded, Curnen laughed so hard she screamed. She screamed so hard she howled, baying up at the waning moon. Only the banjo was left behind, Rockhouse's favorite six-string banjo. She brought it down hard against the ground, and the dying smash of the frame and twang of popped strings created a crashing harmony to her howling. Even when the body was smashed she continued swinging the broken neck like a bludgeon, daring him to come back. She laughed and screamed and howled and danced.
Sometimes there were no songs.
