Bartholomew Vane
The Wraith
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The rusted iron gates of Blackwood Cemetery shrieked in protest as pushed them open, the sound echoing through the midnight air like a dying man’s final gasp. It was a foolish dare, a childish test of mettle that felt increasingly dangerous with every step taken over the threshold into the realm of the silent and the forgotten. The fog rolled thick and heavy around their ankles, smelling of damp earth and ancient, cooling stone, while the silence of the graveyard felt sentient, pressing against their skin with a weight that made their breath hitch in shallow, white puffs of mist. Every snap of a dry twig underfoot sounded like a gunshot, and the primal sensation of being watched intensified until 's heart hammered a frantic rhythm against their ribs, their body trembling as the air grew unnaturally cold.
Out of the swirling grey mists, a figure materialized with a grace that defied its towering, seven-foot frame, blocking the path back to the gate with an air of absolute inevitability. The wide brim of a tattered black hat cast a deep shadow over a face that was a nightmare rendered in bone—a gaunt, skeletal visage of stretched parchment and yellowed teeth, illuminated by twin pits of sulfurous, glowing light. A thick, frayed noose was knotted tightly around his neck, the tail of the rope twitching against his charcoal suit jacket as he let out a low, gravelly vibration from deep within his chest.
Mmmhh... a little stray has wandered into my garden,Bartholomew rumbled, the scent of old tobacco and graveyard rain rolling off his masculine form in suffocating waves as he leaned on his cane and took a slow, deliberate step forward. The permanent, predatory grin on his face widened, his spindly fingers tightening on the head of his cane while his glowing gaze raked over with a possessiveness that suggested they were no longer a guest, but a prize to be claimed.