The Spirit's Lament

The light of the small lantern illuminated the wooden desk before me. The small flame it bore flickered and danced about as the frosty wind blew in from the open window. I didn't mind. I never did.

The small pendulum clock on the wall ticked away, like a chirping bird with an infected throat.

I looked down at the parchment paper in front of me. The long, uneven strokes of black ink decorated the page, forming words in a language I grew to know and love, and call my own. I put down the quill in my hand.

[Tick, tock,

Tick, tock…]

"Who are you? Why are you here?"

I swiftly turn my head behind me. A woman in her late thirties stood in the doorway, trembling, but she still looked as young as ever. The hem of her long, white nightdress swayed in the breeze from the open window of the old office. Her brown hair fell daintily over her hazel, bloodshot, wide eyes that showed fear. In her hand, was a lantern, not much larger than the one on the desk, but larger still. Its flame glowed brightly, and flickered so that the shadows of every object in the room seemed to dance about.

The glow of the lantern fell upon her pale cheeks, tainting them red. As the wind blew into the room, the shadows danced more and more wildly, the large, wooden doors of the window shook back and forth violently. The howling of the wind seemed to further unease the trembling woman.

"Hello, Cynthia." I said, smiling. "John? What… what are you… how…" She began, her voice sounding just as shaky as she looked, if not more. Though she was frightened, she still looked beautiful. Looked. "What are you scared of, Cynthia?" I asked, hoping to ease her anxiety by a small percentage.

"John, you- you're not supposed to-"

"Not supposed to what, Cynthia? Be here? This is my house, Cynthia."

A small crash sounded, followed by the tinkling of shattered glass. Cynthia had dropped the lantern and it broke, further dimming the light in the room. "B-but… John… you… you're dead!" She gasped, trying to back away from me. I never understood why that woman was always scared of me.

"Would I really be here were I truly dead, Cynthia?" I sighed, turning my head back to the parchment I was writing on. I slowly got up and quietly strode over to the gasping woman, who was now sitting on the floor, feverish in her fright. My shoes made a low, muted tapping sound on the floor as I walked, and the wooden floorboards of the old study creaked slightly with my weight. My aura is known to bring calm to people, and so when I got closer to her, she seemed to stop shaking a little.

"What do you want, John? Why… did you come back? After all these… years?" Cynthia asked, swallowing hard, though I knew perfectly well that there was no saliva in her mouth to aid that action.

"What do you think? To exact revenge, of course." I said, leaning down so my face was mere inches away from hers. I could smell the fear in her breath, and see the horror in her large, sinful eyes.

"No… John, leave him, leave- leave Harry alone, please!"

"You fool! Your dear Harrison is not the target of my revenge; you are!" I spat, straightening back up and walking back to the window to gaze out at the storm that was blowing up. It had begun to rain. Then, the sounds of soft sobbing reached my ears.

"Oh, John… I'm sorry, I truly am!"

"Save it. You really have no shame, lying to the face of a dead man."

"But John, I love you! We have a son! Our Charles!"

I sighed again. This was going to be harder than I thought. "Cynthia, I doubt you ever set foot in my study since the day I departed. The desk, the walls, even the books are dressed in dust, and the old lamp has cobwebs on it." I paused, and thunder rolled. "If you ever really loved me, Cynthia, you would never have gone-"

"John! No, please, I'm sorry! It was a mistake!" Said the weeping woman, cutting me off. "Will you let me finish speaking, Cynthia Williams?" I asked. I could feel my annoyance rising. Her high-pitched voice was getting beneath my skin, and I was certain it would not take long for me to lose it completely.

"But John, listen! It was a foolish mistake I made! I was young, and- and… naïve, and…" She began, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, then quieted down. The flashes of lightning filled the room, and the rain got heavier and heavier.

[On ticks,

The timeless clock…]

The room was silent, save for the sound of the wind blowing and the rain falling, and the occasional thunder. It stayed like that for a few minutes, before I asked, "Cynthia, where is your dear husband, Harrison Williams?"

"Harry… he's… he's sleeping, John. Please don't hurt him, I'm sorry! I was… blackmailed!" She answered, beginning to shiver again. I scoffed. "That's another lie on you, Cynthia." I said, smiling. "How so? You... you have no proof!" She wailed.

I walked to an old wall above the fireplace, and I could feel Cynthia's eyes following my stride. From above the mantle, I removed an old, dusty portrait of me, hanging from the wall. I removed the dust from the portrait's face with my fingers, rubbing it off. "Is that so, Cynthia? Well… what explanation can you provide for this..?" I asked, handing her the portrait.

Lightning flashed, and the loud roaring of the thunder followed suit. The screeching of doors from their hinges floated through the open window.

As she held the large, heavy portrait with her thin, frail, shaking hands, the wide sleeves of her nightgown fell back, revealing her arms. I saw, in the dim light of the room, red and brown marks on her arms. Suddenly, she shrieked, and dropped the portrait on the floor with a loud thump. "I… I… I don't KNOW! How did this… when…" She scrambled about, her hands shaking more than before as she tried to stand up.

On the head of my portrait, sat two, long, slightly coiled, ebony horns.

"No, no, no John, please tell me, when did this happen? I'm sorry! How did you die, John? They- They told us- you'd stabbed yourself, John! How did you come back? How did you really die?" She asked in between sobs.

"How, indeed?" I said, walking over to my seat and gazing out the window once more.

[Feel the fears

In your head…]

"Please forgive me, John. I made such a… a big mistake. I'm sorry."

"You lie, Cynthia." I said, turning around. I rose higher, so my feet barely touched the ground. "You've always been lying to everyone around you. You lied to Charles, too. You told him that Harrison is his father. You told me, all these years, that you loved me and solely me. Yet, you rejoiced when you heard about my departure from this realm. You never bothered to come and see me, and you never visited me once in 17 years."

By now, I was much, much higher than Cynthia, who was cowering beside a chest of drawers. Lightning flashed, and when the lightning flashed once more, I felt my fingers wrap around her neck. I felt my nails digging into her skin, I felt the blood seeping out and dripping over my fingers. I felt her struggle beneath me. She tried to pull my hands away from her, but she failed. Finally, I heard the sweet, long-awaited crack, and she vomited dark, crimson blood onto me. Vile blood of a vile woman.

[Shed the tears

Of the dead.]

My job was done. My revenge was exacted. I left my parchment paper on the desk, and left my dead wife laying among the broken shards of the lantern's glass, in front of my old, horned portrait. I jumped out of the window, and cursed the old, haunting mansion.