Gothic Story 2002
Rozabella struggled faithfully on, her hand firmly clasping that of little Edwin. The trees around them were blacker and darker then the night itself, every crack of a branch, every owl’s hoot made Rozabella’s maiden heart flutter and convolse with a terrible, otherworldly terror, for it was no ordinary man who would be on their trail tonight and already her weak limbs were failing her, but terror drove them on into the black, savage woods. The thick black mud hindered their progress and Rozabella was soon sobbing with exhaustion and despair. Every sound made the pair start with fright. It was still a long way to the road and rescue when the howling of wolves silenced the night air, both stood as if frightened rabbits, the boy shaking with terror, Rozabella struggling to keep her wits. The howls were bloodthiristy and wild, their voices promised a terrible death for the prey of tonight. The prey that even now they were tracking, bounding along the track, bloody saliva dripping from their jaws, luminous red eyes piercing the night and illuminating the path before them.
The path was muddy and Rozabella’s dainty feet were not made for such an ardoruos and dangerous journey. She first stumbled, then fell, a groan escaping her lips, her ankle sorely hurt, she could go no further. Even now faintness gripped and enticed her weary heart, but Edwin was beside her; while it now seemed that fate demanded she should be sacrificed to the wolves and the cruel unclean fancies of her bestial brother-in-law, the child’s fate was not certain. He shook her shoulder gently, his huge, blue eyes desperate for reasurance from the only one who had ever treated him with kindness, Rozabella could not refuse such a plea. Seizing his wrist, the little white hand was disfigured with burns and knife-wounds some festered with a evil green pus, she sent the child on into the night, whispering instructions first. It occurred to her that the wolves may find him anyway, but at least like this Edwin had a chance. Unlike her; for the wolves were close now, she could hear them on the road, they were so close that Rozabella could even smeall them, the foul, sickening, unclean stench of rotting flesh. For surely she had seen them, only days before tearing limb to limb the screaming servant girl Ricarda. Then they were there; their eyes glowing like the fires of hell, bloody saliva streaked their coats and they snarled and swung their heads in eager and bloodthirsty anticipation of the meal before them. Rozabella, who had struggled so faithfully to save her stepson, was barely aware, so stricken with terror was she, when the faintness grasped her and pulled her into a glad oblivion.
