The Red Room Prequel

Written as a Prequel to The Red Room, a short stroy by H.G Wells Showing how a ghost came to haunt the room and the tragedy of her passing

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3. Chapter 3

One day, she will visit them again, Marianne Smith will settle herself down on the hard, bone chilling stone bench, obscured under the shade of the thick dark and dank canopy of the mulberry tree. She will do nothing but stare, until the pale, ice ringed moon, still etched into the early morning sky, will dissolve into water colour swatches of orange and red, the colours  will melt and mix and meld together , into a great spectrum of blood red and fiery warmth before her.

                The light will filter through the profile of the mountains, the jagged outline of the horizon, to be fractured through the leaves overhead, leaving a pattern dancing across her mourning veil, black gown and pale flesh, akin  to the patterns found in cracked china. The sun will retreat back , the light will retreat back, the warmth , until she is alone again, cold and alone, staring straight back at her only daughters grave.

                How she will wish that it would rain on days such as these, it would be proof, to her at least that the world around her still feels the same void that she does, that whenever she will pass by an old framed picture of her little girl, and she is cut open afresh, she is not alone in her continued mourning, even many years on, even after other people around her will have moved on.

                In truth, she still wishes the world to turn itself inside out, for thunder clouds to roll in over head, for the ground to tremble and shake and then to crack down the center; for the whole world to be sent to oblivion. She will still want, after all these years, for the pain, for the memoires, for the little girls that were still alive to stop.

                She had read the inscription on the stone slab, over and over since her death and ye never truly came to terms with what it truly meant : beloved daughter. It was both everything and nothing all at once.

                Admitting defeat for the day, as the now elderly woman, aged beyond any possible number of years, will pick herself up to leave finally, stringing herself back together once more, she will turn to follow the path out of the cemetery and as she does so, she will pass a matching grave to her daughters, that of her now late son in law, passed not five years now.

                The memory of what he did to her family will still be something that she turns over in her mind.

 

 

 

 

 

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