George Carson_ or that which resembled him_ took a cautious step into the room and for the one step he put forth, Delilah regressed four back. His eyes were in concert with her, so many things afire in those obsidian gazes. Warmth and coldth. Caution and haste. Pride and pardon.
And Delilah believed in ghosts. Believed in what earth had cast off and heaven wouldn’t keep. What man had forgotten and God had forgotten to remember. And believing in ghosts, Delilah also feared them with a conviction.
It was a childhood circumspection. It had lingered somewhere as deep at in her bones, for it remained even as she grew from girl to woman.
The man right now looked human. And just as much preternatural to her.
George saw the stunned, maniac glow in Delilah’s eyes and stopped moving, froze. Delilah saw that it saw. ‘It’, not him. He had been dead.
Had been.
She remembered.
He instead moved toward the sofa, on which Emily was curled into ball, asleep. He touched Emily slightly on her head, caressing her hair and Delilah nearly knew that Emily wouldn’t feel him. Wouldn’t feel what was insubstantial, the thin air; but then_ the child stirred. And blinking her eyes open, Emily stared up at George.
“Upstairs, love.” He whispered, making Delilah flinch at the sound of his voice.
Like the quiet child she was, Emily Carson_ Walter scrambled off the sofa and collecting her books in her small hands, ambled out of the room. Delilah, who stood in the very corner, never came to her notice.
Cold sweat broke lose along her forehead, damping the stray strands of her hair as Delilah realized she was alone in the room with ‘that’ shadow.
She looked between the door and him, who was now watching her intently, and Delilah’s calculation made it clear that if she paced fast enough_ she could rush out of the room before it could reach her.
George read her intention like historian reading dead language, because no sooner had she reached the door, he was there too_ impeding her way completely.
“Delilah_”
“Oh God!” She cried backing away in alarm. “Out of my way, I implore you!”
“Don’t be like this.” He begged.
Delilah did not want to be like this, but in the abstemious blue, cross stitched light that fell into the room from the window_ George’s pale face seemed ashen, his hair a stark mismatch of deep black and his beauty did not seem earthly to her. The warmth of her hearth didn’t reach this far either, and cold air from the window prickled at Delilah without a mercy.
“Delilah_”
“Oh George.” She wept, trembling like leaf in rainstorm. “Why can I see you? Why must I see you? You are not there.”
“I am, my friend.” He clarified desperately and reached out to touch her.
“No.” She snarled, and backed away. “Dead. Cold and mutilated. George, I have mourned you. Stop haunting me.”
“He had spared me Delilah.”
“No.”
She kept backing away for every step he aborted closer, until_ once again, Delilah found herself trapped between the cold glass pane and him.
“You saved my Emily.” George spoke thickly. “I cannot express my gratitude to the intensity I suffer it. I am forever bound in your debt, Delilah. I am alive, and had I even been dead_ I would have come back to kiss your hands.”
आप पढ़ रहे हैं
The Unchaste
ऐतिहासिक साहित्यKill the man who deserves to die and you have eradicated the weed by its root. That was easier Done than Said for Delilah Eves. However, death of Benedict Ainsworth_ a culpably aristocratic lord of London led Delilah back North, to Yorkshire, Yorkto...
