The Widow

The fire in the hearth died instantly. The room plunged into freezing cold.

Silas clawed at the necklace with his good hand, his fingernails scraping uselessly against the gold. "Take it off! Elara, please! I'll give you anything! Money! Power!"

Elara rolled off him and scrambled backward toward the door. She stood up, smoothing her torn dress.

"I don't need you to give me anything, Silas," she said coldly. "I'm your wife. I inherit everything."

The shadows in the corners of the room began to detach from the walls. They weren't just absences of light; they were physical things. Thick, oily tendrils of darkness slithered across the floorboards, converging on the figure writhing on the rug.

"No!" Silas screamed. "It’s her! Take her!"

The shadows ignored Elara. They swirled around Silas, drawn to the pulsing red light of the ruby.

A form began to rise from the center of the darkness—a towering, skeletal shape made of smoke and teeth. It loomed over the groom.

Silas looked at Elara one last time. His eyes were filled with the terrified realization of a butcher who finds himself on the hook.

"Help me," he whispered.

Elara turned her back.

The scream that followed was wet and short. It was the sound of a soul being ripped from a body like a root from dry earth.

Then, silence.

Elara waited. The oppressive weight in the air lifted. The temperature in the room normalized. The fire in the hearth flared back to life.

She turned around.

The rug was empty. There was no body. No blood. Just the ruby necklace, lying on the floor, the gem dull and dark now that its hunger was sated.

Elara walked over and picked up the necklace. She placed it in her pocket.

She unlocked the door.

The hallway was quiet. The storm outside had broken. Moonlight streamed through the corridor windows.

She walked down the grand staircase. The servants were gathered in the foyer, whispering nervously. They stopped when they saw her. They looked at her torn dress, the bruise on her neck, and the blood on her hands.

The head butler, a man who had served Silas for fifty years, stepped forward. He looked up the stairs, waiting for his master. When no one followed, he looked back at Elara. He saw the cold steel in her eyes. He knew the contract had been fulfilled.

He bowed low.

"Good morning, Madam Blackwood," he said.

Elara stopped at the bottom of the stairs. She touched the raw skin of her neck, winced, and then smiled.

"Good morning, Charles," she said. "Prepare the car. I'm going into town to deposit a check. And have someone clean the bridal suite. It’s a mess."

She walked out the front doors into the cool, fresh air of the morning, the mistress of the manor, leaving the ghosts behind her in the dark.