Nightward travelers sometimes cross paths with a silent procession of little girls garbed in blood-red. The va…
Nightward travelers sometimes cross paths with a silent procession of little girls garbed in blood-red. The vanguard of this macabre troupe appears the most wretched, forever reaching out to wayfarers with a trembling beg: "Walk with me a while. The dark frightens me."
A late-returning peddler, blinded by misplaced mercy, took the leading girl's hand. Instantly, he found her grip to be a shackle of freezing iron, impossible to cast off. His soul fractured with terror. He willed himself to flee, yet his legs betrayed him, forcing him to march in step with the crimson procession.
Their pace quickened, diving into the most barren, sunless thickets. He tried to cry for help, but his throat was sealed as if packed with grave-dirt. In mounting horror, he watched his own flesh turn a bruised, lifeless blue. He gazed at the girls, their eyes were vacuous pits, bereft of all humanity. At last, his mind clouded. His bones snapped and contorted until he took his place at the rear of the line: another girl in a red dress, marching silently into the gloom, his own eyes now hollow voids.
The old ones call them the replacement spirits, drawn in by the clasp. The first girl's hand is a soul-snaring noose. Clasp it, and you fill her vacancy, doomed to wander the dark forever.