“I…my…silence…remember…”

  The whispered words held no meaning, at first.

  The fear that had begun to settle around Edda like dust in still air was, suddenly, awhirl again—freshly stirred by the breached silence. Petrified already by the horrifying thing that swayed and shifted in the corner, her blood curdled with the soft, murmurous sounds that now rose up. For several, excruciating moments after the voice reached her, she could do nothing but gape at the monster—certain that the noise would spur it to turn and meet her eyes.

  But it remained where it was, undisturbed.

  Expecting the whispers, even resolving to listen to them, had not prepared her in the slightest for the mind-bending terror she felt at hearing them beside her now. Reality itself seemed to slip, the frigid chamber warping and righting itself with each of her cloudy breaths, still muffled behind her hands. She was at the very ends of her sanity, of that she was sure—if she had not finished with it, already. Should there be more to this night than what she had already endured, the hysteria that she kept at bay by will alone would, without a doubt, overwhelm her.

  And she knew, somehow, that the moment the creature heard her, it would come.

  “…reach…name…you…”

  Whether it would reach her before the dead girl whispering at her bedside was another matter entirely.

  Edda could not turn her head away from the monster and so, she could only see the girl from the corner of her eye. It was enough, more than enough, to have a vague impression of this new visitor; indeed, she was little more than an outline that flickered into and out of Edda’s consciousness. Like a shadow in the likeness of a human, the girl stared at her with filmy grey eyes and whispered to her in words she was too scared to comprehend.

  “I reach…my…”

  And Edda knew, of course, that the girl was dead. From the moment the crow had stolen the sleeping powder, some part of her had suspected that it would come to this. The dead woke when the living were asleep, after all, but the girl was not the blood witch she had been expecting. Somehow, Edda knew with visceral certainty that the entity beside her was something quite different—different, too, from the monstrosity in the corner of her room. She was a spirit, Edda supposed; the final echo of a life.

  It was a strange intuition, this knowledge. Perhaps, it was born of kinship, as Edda herself had been dead not so long ago.

  Of course, such things existed in superstition, too, but in the stories of her youth, spirits were not a thing to be feared. Rather, they were memories of loved ones lost, lingering on for a time after their passing. Sometimes appearing in dreams before they faded away with the last of the prayers said for them. Even so, Edda would bet every coin in her purse that any who believed spirits were harmless had never actually seen one standing at their bedside. To dream of something was a far more tender fate than to face it in reality.

  “…my name…swallows it…”

  Nevertheless, any relief inherited by the fact that she was not in a blood witch’s company was quickly decimated by the ominous movement of the monster in the corner, and the dead girl’s lifeless eyes intent upon her. She swallowed down a dry sob, her tears frozen in her eyelashes. Oh, she must be mad at last. Or, at least, she hoped that was the case, for that would be simpler than confronting what was now before her.

  If the dead girl was not a blood witch, then she must be a blood witch’s victim. And that was the furthest thing from a consolation Edda had ever conceived of.

  “…remember…”

  The disjointed whispers continued, floating up to brush her ears before falling away into an incomprehensible mutter. She could see the girl’s bloodless lips working through each word, and yet there seemed to be no force behind her utterances. Indeed, the spirit shimmered as though on the verge of disappearing. Against her will, Edda remembered what the crow had told her—that the whispers would wane with each moon. How many moons had this spirit’s whispers gone unheard?

  She had to listen; cursed crow be damned—Edda knew she had to listen. Despite the abject terror of the situation, despite her growing certainty that she had lost her sane mind—this was her first real opportunity, and perhaps her last, to understand what was happening at Cachtice Castle. To hear of it, perhaps, firsthand. The thought brought a sickening lump to her throat.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “…reach for…name…”

  If only she were brave enough to close her eyes; to trust that when she opened them again, the thing in the corner would not have its spindly fingers about her neck. Perhaps then, blinded to the unbelievable sight before her, she might stem the tides of terror that buffeted her, drowning out the girl’s whispers in wave after wave of sheer fright. But she was a coward. A silly, stupid coward, even more so in the midst of this waking black dream. She could hardly even get herself to breathe. How would she get herself to listen?

  She did not have to think long on it.

  Abruptly, the girl leaned over the bed, extending a pallid hand toward her. Despite her effort not to make any noise, Edda jumped—fighting the urge to throw herself off the other side of the bed, away from the reaching fingers. The mattress creaked beneath her, and she only just stifled a whimper of terrified surprise—before freezing at the quiet commotion.

  Across the room, the monster seemed to pause, listening. And Edda trembled fearfully, her gaze trained on it even as she watched, peripherally, as the girl’s white hand closed over her own—the touch firm and burning with cold.

  The spirit’s ethereal voice reached Edda as though it spoke within her head. Like the final notes of a song, or the wind that carries the last of winter, it whispered to her, “I reach for my name, but the silence swallows it. You are like me, but you remember.”

  The chill that coursed through Edda’s body was indescribable. Did it stem from the icy hold upon her arm—far realer, far stronger than Edda had thought possible? The spirit herself seemed to have solidified now, the previously fluctuating silhouette more human, more stable than before. Or was it the words that the dead girl spoke that incited this cold fear? An insinuation of a life lost…and a reminder of a death escaped.

  The spirit seemed to wait, as though for an acknowledgment, but Edda could not respond—not without alerting the monster. Without facing her directly, she could just make out the girl’s face—grey and expressionless in death. Not older than Edda herself, surely. The thought made Edda’s insides convulse with a distress she could not express, and the spirit’s grip upon her arm tightened.

  It did not feel threatening. Rather, she almost felt as though the girl sought to comfort her. And so, with the barest of movements, Edda nodded her head, terrified, but willing the spirit to know that she listened.

  “I yearn for what I do not remember. And cannot forget what I do,” the girl said, “Only the end remains, and I wish it were not so.”

  Edda gulped, uneasy, her mind working frantically to decipher the spirit’s words. Understanding came haltingly, almost unwillingly. For the first time since she had seen it, Edda looked away from the thing in the corner—meeting the spirit’s gaze with eyes that bulged in muted fright. Although the girl’s words were regretful, her eyes were clouded and vacant. The eyes of a corpse, with no memories of the time before death had taken her. But Edda knew that she needed to hear what the spirit longed to forget—and so with her quick glance, she implored the girl to tell her.

  There was a heavy silence, filled only by Edda’s rapid breaths—hardly audible through her trembling fingers.

  “The skinless ones came first,” the dead girl whispered, “I could not outrun them.”

  Edda’s heart stopped in her chest.

  “I was not lucky, for they did not eat me themselves.” The girl’s voice seemed to intensify, to raise in pitch. Her image slipped away, then returned, as if tethered somehow to her hold on Edda. “My blood sipped sweet, so they served me to the witch.” Edda felt weak, feverish with the fear that now beat within her, replacing the erratic cadence of her heartbeat. It was all she could do not to weep in horror at the girl’s emotionless words.

  There was a pause; a dreadful one, where Edda was certain she would lose herself to the churning, drumming, throbbing terror. But the spirit released her suddenly then, and the unexpectedness of the loss had Edda tearing her eyes from the monster once more. Horrified, she watched as the girl’s form quivered and shook.

  “They served me to the witch,” a crackle of emotion broke through—raw and frightened as Edda felt—reaching a crescendo with the girl’s next words, “and she plays with her food.”

  The girl’s face and body crumpled. Edda could describe it no other way. The mask of death she had worn fell in upon itself, collapsing as her form disappeared, bulging and twisting as it materialized again. There was an abrupt and violent shift, like a flash of lightning without any brightness, and then the dead girl solidified.

  She stood at Edda’s bedside still, but she was herself no longer. Instead, a blood-soaked apparition had taken her place.

  “She plays with her food,” it shrieked, loud and angry as thunder.

  Tears of blood streaked down a face contorted in anguish, and those dead eyes were bloodshot and alive with fury. As she moved her head to settle her glare upon Edda, it fell upon her shoulder—unsupported. A jagged chunk of flesh had been taken from her neck—bitten off, the wound gnawed, Edda realized with horror—leaving little more than a strip of flesh to hold her head to her body.

  Like vomit rising up within her throat, Edda felt the scream come forth. How many, vile and bitter, had she swallowed back down this night? In the end, it was no matter. As her eyes fell to the ghost’s hands, frozen in a rictus of pain and mutilated almost beyond recognition, the scream split her lips, spilling forth uncontrollably.

  In the corner, the thing turned.