They’ve Been Walking Around For A While Now. Not Really Sure Where They’re Going, Not Really Sure

They’ve been walking around for a while now. Not really sure where they’re going, not really sure why. Their legs start to ache, and they can walk no longer.

They come to the front of an old building, well-maintained yet clearly showing its age. They ignore the gardens, and do not dare to cross the fence. The cold and rain bite into their face.

They need to stop. They need to rest. They go towards the doorway, and sit on one of the steps there, protected from the elements.

They sit there for a while. It is so late at night, and they are so tired.

They sit and stare into the night.

They do this for a while.

The door behind them opens, and they wake from their reverie. They quickly lift themselves off of the step, and turn to face whoever is in the doorway.

How can they describe the sight that awaits them?

A beautiful looking young lady stands there, wearing an elaborate dress they swear they’ve seen in a museum somewhere. Her skin is pale, looking almost dead. Her hands are clasped together in front of her, and they do not move. Her eyes appear as though they do not need to blink, and she stares at them and through them. She does not appear to be breathing.

The most horrible detail of her appearance, though, is her smile.

It appears kind, caring, almost loving. But it is clear as day that it is only an appearance. There is no feeling behind it. It is a smile born of manners and propriety and nothing else. They imagine it is the kind of smile serial killers give their victims before they plunge a knife into their chest.

This is not to mention what lies beyond the threshold of the building. The hall is warmly lit, yet is cold and uninviting nevertheless. The aroma of flowers fills the air, and it reminds them of the bouquets people leave at funerals or on graves. They can see some of the flowers themselves. They are so beautiful, yet so horrid at the same time.

She has some of them in her hair.

They wonder if she is a ghost of some kind. If she is one of the Fair Folk, here to torment and torture them. If she is human at all, or ever was.

She opens her mouth, and the sound that emanates is so sickly sweet as to be smothering.

‘Are you quite alright?’

The words themselves should be comforting. They should fill them with warmth and reassurance.

But the tone…

There is nothing behind it. It is the tone one hears from a clock chiming the hour, or a music box repeating a song. Words that should calm and help instead fix them to the steps.

They stare at her in terror, even though they cannot put a finger on what is amiss.

Maybe it’s that everything is amiss.

She steps forwards, and it is this that breaks them. Her movements are so measured, so perfect. She does not shake or twitch. It is as though something has placed a hand on her and moved her.

The smell of her flowers fills their nose as they inhale. Maybe it is their imagination, but there is an undertone of flesh and meat and blood.

Her shoe hits the step.

They turn and run into the night. At least whatever monsters await them in the shadows do not pretend to be something else. They do not wear a dress that is centuries out of fashion. They do not act with such inhuman grace. They do not gut and flay kindness and dress their words up in its skin.

Those monsters would tear them apart, and at this moment they would find it a mercy compared to whatever fate she would promise them.

As they sprint away as fast as their legs can carry them, they wonder if she is following them. They wonder if she will catch up with them. They wonder if she will ask them what exactly caused them to leave so suddenly, utterly oblivious to her own wrongness.

The thought terrifies them.