[She doesn't quite know where she is, but there's something about finding herself in a forest that's...vaguely comforting. More comforting than a lot of alternatives, frankly; as disorienting as it might be, to end up wandering lost in the woods, it's still far better than wandering the streets of London at twilight — especially these days, with Jack the Ripper lurking about, and all.
(Except that Jack the Ripper would never hurt her, would she? No, it was always only everyone else, all those other girls who needed to die, the same height and weight and type —)
All right, so maybe "comforting" isn't exactly the right word, but at least it's peaceful out here. And in fact, the longer she walks, the more she thinks she can see a little house off in the distance — one with a proper English garden, and chrysanthemums growing, and someone waiting for her, even though the silhouette waiting for her never quite seems to settle on any one shape. Sometimes it's a little tall, with the curved hourglass body of a woman in a corset and bustle with a hat and veil at the top; sometimes it's a man's broad shoulders and slim hips, with a flash of gold in the hair. Sometimes it's a young man in a coat and tails with his hand outstretched; sometimes it's a girl who could be her twin, laughing and holding a bouquet of chrysanthemums herself.
If she keeps her eyes on the little house, it keeps her from seeing all the other shapes starting to take form around her — old houses and the reek of preservative, blood-spattered floors and fainting couches encroaching in on her. It keeps her from seeing the ash-white hair of the devil in her peripheral vision, or the glint of silver in his hand, or the tubes and wires of a great awful monstrosity that never quite takes shape, but looms behind her like a stormcloud.
No, no. Keep looking forward. Keep walking forward, and the demons won't catch up with her.]
⇒ TWO
[In 1835, a story was published about a young man who goes walking in the woods and comes across the devil along his path. (In 1979, a similar tale was told by renowned scholars Charlie Daniels Band, which followed a relatively identical narrative but ended very, very differently.)
Today, Meridiana is walking through the woods with the devil at her side: tall, ash-blond, and dressed in a lab coat and pince-nez spectacles as he strolls at her side. Occasionally he reaches for her arm, either to hold it at the elbow or to try to link his own through hers; she shudders every time he tries, and does her best to sidestep away, which really only seems to amuse him.
Eventually, though, the rustling starts. She half-turns, curious, but sees nothing; when she turns back, it resumes. It's like a rudimentary game of Red Light, Green Light, but it seems to bother the devil more than it does her, and he starts grabbing for her arm more emphatically now, as though he's trying to pull her along at a more rapid clip.
For a little while, he succeeds, and tugs her through the woods despite her obvious reluctance. But the rustling is incessant, and eventually she can't keep up with the speed he's trying to pull her along at; she trips, and he's forced to stop with her —
And so she watches, fallen to her knees on the ground, as thin grabbing leaves wrap around the devil like a snare and suck him in, swallowing him whole as he thrashes and snarls.
The branches never come near her.
As the rustling fades back into silence, she dares to smile.]
Meridiana Everett | Count Cain
(Except that Jack the Ripper would never hurt her, would she? No, it was always only everyone else, all those other girls who needed to die, the same height and weight and type —)
All right, so maybe "comforting" isn't exactly the right word, but at least it's peaceful out here. And in fact, the longer she walks, the more she thinks she can see a little house off in the distance — one with a proper English garden, and chrysanthemums growing, and someone waiting for her, even though the silhouette waiting for her never quite seems to settle on any one shape. Sometimes it's a little tall, with the curved hourglass body of a woman in a corset and bustle with a hat and veil at the top; sometimes it's a man's broad shoulders and slim hips, with a flash of gold in the hair. Sometimes it's a young man in a coat and tails with his hand outstretched; sometimes it's a girl who could be her twin, laughing and holding a bouquet of chrysanthemums herself.
If she keeps her eyes on the little house, it keeps her from seeing all the other shapes starting to take form around her — old houses and the reek of preservative, blood-spattered floors and fainting couches encroaching in on her. It keeps her from seeing the ash-white hair of the devil in her peripheral vision, or the glint of silver in his hand, or the tubes and wires of a great awful monstrosity that never quite takes shape, but looms behind her like a stormcloud.
No, no. Keep looking forward. Keep walking forward, and the demons won't catch up with her.]
⇒ TWO
Today, Meridiana is walking through the woods with the devil at her side: tall, ash-blond, and dressed in a lab coat and pince-nez spectacles as he strolls at her side. Occasionally he reaches for her arm, either to hold it at the elbow or to try to link his own through hers; she shudders every time he tries, and does her best to sidestep away, which really only seems to amuse him.
Eventually, though, the rustling starts. She half-turns, curious, but sees nothing; when she turns back, it resumes. It's like a rudimentary game of Red Light, Green Light, but it seems to bother the devil more than it does her, and he starts grabbing for her arm more emphatically now, as though he's trying to pull her along at a more rapid clip.
For a little while, he succeeds, and tugs her through the woods despite her obvious reluctance. But the rustling is incessant, and eventually she can't keep up with the speed he's trying to pull her along at; she trips, and he's forced to stop with her —
And so she watches, fallen to her knees on the ground, as thin grabbing leaves wrap around the devil like a snare and suck him in, swallowing him whole as he thrashes and snarls.
The branches never come near her.
As the rustling fades back into silence, she dares to smile.]