In Broad Peycroft they keep the lake and surrounding marshlands fenced off under the guise of a "nature reserve". All funding comes from the family who own the abandoned manor house that squats along the shoreline, now home to birds, beetles and (if local legend is to be believed) the mad aunt of the family who is locked away in the attic still.
There is always a light on in the attic window. Though officially it's a memorial light for the last great war, shadows flitter about in front of it from time to time and no explanation has ever been released. Unofficially somehow an old woman lives there and survives by eating whatever wanders close enough for her skeletal arms to seize.
Teenagers and drunken adults alike dare each other to climb the fence and pay her a visit but very few make it past up the stairs. The house has a way of disturbing something in your hindbrain that makes every fibre of your being scream "NOPE" as your legs reverse before you can fully comprehend what you are doing.
If anyone were to make it past the stairs all they'd find is empty bedrooms, bathrooms and an open hatch leading to the attic itself. Thick power chords run throughout the house, linking the light to three generators so that no matter what, the light will be kept going. It's the only thing keeping her up there, she loathes the cold.
She isn't alive any more, not that she knows it. She died back in 1914, five weeks after her family moved out and swore they'd come back for her only to be delayed by the war. By the time they could come back to her she was little more than rags wrapped around bones. Bones that asked for food.
Though her eyes are long gone and her movements are limited, it doesn't mean she won't come for you if she sees you - if anything feels real to her it's the warmth of the light and the hunger pains in her stomach. They keep her bent low and keen for something living to eat, something with warm blood that'll slip down her throat and temporarily ease the ache.
Doesn't even matter if it's human.
There is always a light on in the attic window. Though officially it's a memorial light for the last great war, shadows flitter about in front of it from time to time and no explanation has ever been released. Unofficially somehow an old woman lives there and survives by eating whatever wanders close enough for her skeletal arms to seize.
Teenagers and drunken adults alike dare each other to climb the fence and pay her a visit but very few make it past up the stairs. The house has a way of disturbing something in your hindbrain that makes every fibre of your being scream "NOPE" as your legs reverse before you can fully comprehend what you are doing.
If anyone were to make it past the stairs all they'd find is empty bedrooms, bathrooms and an open hatch leading to the attic itself. Thick power chords run throughout the house, linking the light to three generators so that no matter what, the light will be kept going. It's the only thing keeping her up there, she loathes the cold.
She isn't alive any more, not that she knows it. She died back in 1914, five weeks after her family moved out and swore they'd come back for her only to be delayed by the war. By the time they could come back to her she was little more than rags wrapped around bones. Bones that asked for food.
Though her eyes are long gone and her movements are limited, it doesn't mean she won't come for you if she sees you - if anything feels real to her it's the warmth of the light and the hunger pains in her stomach. They keep her bent low and keen for something living to eat, something with warm blood that'll slip down her throat and temporarily ease the ache.
Doesn't even matter if it's human.
No comments:
Post a Comment