Trashes of the Counts' Families || Trash of the Count's Family || OC

50

[There is gore, implied panic attacks]

[In more professional words, TW: Graphic Violence, Disturbing Imagery, possibly Psychological Horror]

Adara turned around in the dark space. She tried squinting, she tried to see who was there.

All she could see was dark fog.

There was nobody there.

But she felt uneasy, the stabbing feeling in her shoulder was constant, digging deep into her arm. It was too dark she could not see who was there.

It was too quiet.

It was too cold.

She wanted to warm up, she wanted to be warm, but the chill in the air was freezing her and she could not move. The back of her neck was cold, the hairs standing up.

She felt a tightening feeling in her chest, goosebumps appearing on her skin. It was too quiet. Too quiet. Something was wrong.

The silence was suffocating, she was trying to hear something, footsteps, a rustle of clothing, the unsheathing of a dagger. She could hear nothing. And that was worse than hearing everything.

She felt a pressing stare into the back of her head. Turning around quickly, she almost tripped over her own feet.

But there was no one there. Nobody she could see. It was too dark. It was too quiet, all that was echoing in this horrible foggy place was her own anxious breaths.

She turned around in the opposite direction, feeling the same stare, only now more pressing. She felt her heart drop and her blood run cold when she saw what was in those foggy shadows.

With a shriek, she fell backwards, the echo of her terror lingering in the heavy silence that followed.

In front of her, sometimes a step away, sometimes too close, was an unnaturally tall figure, its face hidden in the fog, but its eyes clearly seen. It was lanky and thin, the face of a 10-year-old with chubby cheeks. Its hair was brown, its unsettling eyes a bright green. Her blood splattered across the nightclothes of the figure, making her catch her breath to choke back another scream.

But then just as quickly it disappeared and she was alone again, seeing nothing, hearing less.

She scrambled to her feet. She wanted to run away. She wanted to run away from this foggy room— if it could even be called that.

She felt a cold presence at her side, the pressing stare making the hairs on her neck stand up on edge. She turned, letting out another screech as she saw what was staring her down. 

The figure was taller than the one before. But this one bent down, its back crooked, so that she could see its face clearly. It had blonde hair that seemed grey compared to the golden she knew from this figure, the blonde hair that was usually in intricate hairstyles, was now messy with strands pouring out. Its pale skin appeared stretched taut across the bony structure of its long face. Those protruding eyes that seemed to be trying their hardest to be the most prominent part of its face, were even paler and brighter than she was used to, the eyes almost ashen. And those eyes were watching her, making every muscle in her body want to run in the opposite direction.

It was too close to her, looming over her. Its extravagant dress was ripped and torn, the lavish satin and silk in a tangled, mangled mess, barely hanging onto the tall figure's thin skeleton of a body.