No rest for the wicked.
Noëlle is 98.9% sure that this was a dream, but try as she might she just could not seem to run fast enough from the farmhouse. She could not escape the screams of the people, of the children and parents as her fire consumed them all, smoke slithering into their veins and blackening their lungs.
For Hell was fire and brimstone and little girls named Noëlle.
With a broken wail, the woman awakes in her bed with a jolt, burns trailing her cheeks where tears once were. Her bedroom was dark save for the faint city lights filtering in through the window
Noëlle sits up properly, and if her heart could beat, it would sound a lot like an 808 drum. The images reply over and over in her mind, and her hands curl into her hair, tugging hard at the raven strands as another strangled sob leaves her.
As Noëlle takes in short, gasping breaths, ash begins to flutter around her bedroom. They catch in her lashes and the temperature seems to skyrocket, tears fizzling into steam and leaving her cheeks pink and raw as they scrape along the soft skin.
Soon, Noëlle falls into a fitful, dreamless sleep and as she slumbers, snow covers the city of Seoul in a soft blanket.
Just on the wall farthest from her, the woman’s shadow writhes and hisses, watching in rapt attention with narrowed eyes and teeth bared. A reminder that dark forces wait, restless and hungry for a taste of chaos.
REBLOG. LIKE. FOLLOW. ✉ | ✉ | ✉ | ✉ | ✉
