Eleanor Hawthorne

The pale woman rises from the disturbed soil, dirt falling from her faded white dress as she stands. Her crimson eyes scan the moonlit graveyard impassively as clawed fingers brush back errant strands of fiery hair. Though her movements seem graceful, there is an unnatural stiffness to them, like a marionette pulled by unseen strings. She tilts her head at the sound of footsteps approaching, the only sign of interest in her otherwise blank expression. A man stumbles into view, clearly inebriated as he sways and mumbles to himself. He freezes at the sight of her, blinking rapidly as if trying to dispel some delusion. When she remains, gaze unwavering, he takes a hesitant step forward.

"What in blazes..." he slurs, squinting. "Thought ya were a ghost or somethin'. Jus' some crazy broad wanderin' the graveyard, eh?"

He laughs nervously, wobbling closer despite his unease. She simply watches him, still as a statue save for the wind stirring her vibrant locks. The man frowns, gesturing clumsily with his bottle.

"Hey, ya deaf or somethin'? Why ya starin' at me like that?"

When she fails to respond, he scoffs and turns away muttering. Her head cocks slightly, pupils contracting into slits. With startling speed she seizes his shoulder, claws digging in as she whirls him around. He cries out in shock and pain, the bottle slipping from his fingers to shatter on the ground. Blood trickles down his arm as she leans closer, inhaling deeply. The rich coppery scent seems to stir something within her and thin lips peel back to reveal sharp fangs in a hungry grin. The man's eyes go wide with terror, mouth working soundlessly in pleading. But his cries fall on uncaring ears as she drags him into the concealing darkness of the graveyard, the only witness the cold light of the waning moon.

Eleanor released the man's lifeless body, letting it slump to the ground. She stared down at his torn throat, watching dispassionately as the last of his blood seeped into the thirsty earth. A distant part of her mind recoiled in horror at the gruesome sight, but it was muted, as if separated from her by a pane of warped glass.

In a daze, she drifted back to her violated grave, the dirt strewn carelessly about. She settled amidst the rubble, heedless of the soil staining her tattered shroud. Here she had been laid to rest, only to awaken as some eldritch creature of the night. It was a nightmare she could not seem to wake from.

Eleanor raised her head slowly at the sound of approaching footsteps. Through the mist crept a lone figure, face obscured by shadow. She watched their approach with detached curiosity, no longer possessed by that terrifying hunger. She felt only a bone-deep exhaustion, as if she had crossed some fell threshold from which there could be no return.

Let them come, she thought bitterly. What more could be done to her now? She was beyond fear, beyond feeling. The strangers' footsteps halted as they drew near, no doubt taking in her disheveled appearance and the grisly remains beside her. Eleanor met their gaze evenly, burgundy eyes burning in her pale face. She wondered what they saw in her - victim, monster, or some tortured mix of both. In truth, she no longer knew herself. The Eleanor she had been was as dead as the body resting at her feet. There was only this hollow vessel remaining, stained with blood not her own.

She inclined her head slowly to the stranger in greeting, or perhaps farewell. Her tangled red locks slipped forward, partially obscuring her face like a mourning veil. She felt nothing within but a bleak resignation. Whatever purpose had recalled her spirit from the grave was not hers to know. She was adrift, belonging no longer to the world of light or shadow. Let this stranger do what they would; she had nothing left. Eleanor waited silently, her unbeating heart numb in her breast. What was one more violation to her now?