Page 4 of Haunt

I can see why she chose it, this space. It is probable that most do not even know of its existence. The perfect space for an ambush.

By her.

Penelope Hart.

Her scent fills my nostrils as I inhale, the deep breath inflating my chest. It is exactly how I remember it. Soft roses and damp earth. Intoxicating. She smells like sweet death, specifically mine, but beneath it, here, in this room, there is a putrid odour infecting it. Overwhelming it with an acrid perfume.

Actualdeath.

My memory of her is pure, possibly the only thing in my life which is, but this room is not. And with the closed door at my back, nothing more than the perfectly made cot, table beside it, filling the space, I easily locate the source of the stench.

Bending forward, fingers curling over the hem of white sheets trailing the stone floor, I flip them up, bend my knees and peer beneath the rickety metal frame.

Lifeless grey eyes stare back at me as I blink into the dark space. Mouth slack, skin sallow, definitely dead. Nevertheless, he is fresh, perhaps a kill from just this morning, not more than a few hours old. Without disturbing him to look for more, all I can see is a single wound. An inch long, in the side of his neck. It is neat. Surgical almost, in its precision. There is not much blood. There is no mess. It is packed, the small wound bulging just a little, a peek of red-stained substance exposed just enough to see that something isn’t quite right there.

Clever.

Dropping the sheet, I push to my feet, allowing the corpse to be hidden once more. I wonder how she will dispose of him now. How she plans to get him out, if she does at all, of this space with the tight, winding staircase, the eyes of orphans, nuns, bishops and priests all likely on her.

She does not fit here. As much as she does. She has always managed to adapt to any place she lands. But I have been here little more than three hours and have already witnessed the way in which eyeballs, that should not stare at children, roll in their sockets, follow and track her every movement. She likely knows it too. With the extra sway in her narrow hips, innocent bats of her eyelashes over those big brown eyes. The way she skips, carefree andabsolutelyaware of everything and everyone around her. She is a fancy, colourful lure in stagnant water. A sunflower bloom in the depths of a cave. The first ray of sunshine in a place deprived of it all winter.

She is mine.

I am here to collect.

It is written.

We are to be.

The scriptures say that it is my time. My older brother Gore is impatient for this to go ahead, and so I shall do as my brother wishes. I am the second son of the first father, birthed by the second mother and it is deemed the time ofTwos.

I itch with the desire to see her again. Having first watched her from a darkened alcove as she unknowingly hurried her way past me to the mouth of the stairs. Appearing before her at breakfast, if only to make her question her sanity when I disappeared just as quickly.

I am sure she is on her way back to this very room, but I left the hall first, have longer legs with larger strides.

It took everything in me not to just grab her, but I want her to see me first.

Feel me.

It is a compulsion in my blood, the need to be close.

We are tethered in ways even I do not fully understand. And I have been starved of her for the last twelve years.

I am ravenous.

Because it was written.

I am Two.

We were too young when I first found her. The year I was given for finding my pair and consecrating them into our family did not lend us enough time. We were nothing more to each other than innocent children acting as comfort blankets in the night. Together for a year and then pulled apart by my departure. Beckoned back to the unholy circle as a failure. It was not a failure; I just did not want her exposed to so much cruelty at such a young age. Like I was. So I lied. Said I did not think her worthy.

But they know everything. And I do not lie as well as she. Therefore, in order to save her, I inadvertently condemned her. A punishment bestowed upon me, forcing me to wait longer to find her again. A punishment, for her, from everyone I wasn’t able to protect her from.

Better the evil you know.

Two years turned into twelve, and only now, by my brother’s hand, do I find myself here. After the things that she went through, I am not of the belief she will be very compliant.

But as it stands.

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