Chapter Text
She never could truly recall the finer details of what happened, and neither could she understand.
There were the flames. The scent of burning wood and rotting flesh mingling in the night air, and pained wails from the poor souls the inferno consumed and made them a part of itself.
Then there were the hushed voices. A pair of arms encircling her little figure in a warm embrace, tears staining her clothes covered in soot and grime. That was it. The memories after that were silent, a blur where she couldn't see past the fog.
“Oh, dearest girl… oh, I’m so sorry.”
Despite the large gaps being ever so present in her psyche, there were moments of lucidity. Perhaps there was a lone flame lit from a tinderbox hovering over her eyes, each little flicker threatening to singe even just a small patch of skin below the lashes, just for a reaction. Anything. Yet it was which she paid almost no attention to, like other attempts. Or the occasional voice around her, that promised she’d “be better” than what she was ‘going to be’. There also was the sight of old, dusted wood, and the sounds of it creaking beneath her feet.
In every single memory she dragged out of the recesses of her consciousness long after the catastrophe, she couldn’t move. Not without help. Not without hands gently holding hers, leading her away, or the spoon and fork prodding against her lips, pleading for her to eat at least a small portion. They cannot have this poor girl starve, even if it means shoving the silverware down her throat. Anything to keep the girl alive.
Despite obvious difficulties to elicit a reaction from her, she does talk sometimes. There was a little ‘no’ when offered an item, or a flinch when a cold rag was placed on her arm to combat the sensitive skin from the burning. Yet, nothing too major. Nothing that could indicate for certain there was still something inhabiting the child.
And then there was this… sudden banshee-like howling in the night. The little outbursts that terrify every inhabitant yet they also serve as a clear reminder that she was never once a corpse. She did not die in the fire. Her very soul might be stuck in purgatory (thus the minimal response, the fleeting memories, and the lack of movement) yet her body stays warm. A corpse in every sense of the world except for physical. They might as well bury her along with the other fallen souls if they gave up that easily.
Until one day.
A hand pulling her by the hand into that familiar, old wooden environment, with the sun filtered through the stained glass. Reaching the raised table at the end, she recalls being told to stay as the man leaves for a few errands he must run. To not pay any mind to the red-faced priest who rocks in his chair, that blew his own nose, and goes on long tangents about how the world is riddled with demons, even in his own chapel.
She listened. Of course she did.
What happened shortly after he left was almost unexpected. The paranoid priest pointed a boney finger towards the girl, as he blabbered on about how she was a cursed child, how a demon possessed the little girl—yet he was met with no response.
Frustrated and fearing for his own life and his soul, he grabbed a sharp piece of wood. Promised he would free her damned spirit from the clutches of Hell and lunged after her—
“Beth.” A voice calls out, mostly muffled from the ringing in her ears, rendering her almost dizzy if not for the fact she felt all of her senses working once more, as if she broke out of stasis.
She blinked. There was a feeling of blood rushing to her head, and there was a feeling of it dripping to the floor. A feeling of something real for the first time in a while, despite its morbidity.
The priest slumped over her. The stench of sanguine filled her nostrils—the last thing she smelled was something akin to that, but burning—
“Oh, you naughty child. I left for five minutes…” There was that familiar voice again, clearer this time. Much clearer. Her widened, horrified eyes darted towards the source of the sound, and spotted a tall man, adorned in dark colours of a similar priestly garb the motionless one wore.
Motionless?
She turned her attention towards the priest and met the gaze of a corpse, causing her to scream and scramble backwards. In her hand was a bloodstained stake, with the sharpened wood splintered at the ends. “I—I’m so sorry, I—”
“It is a miracle…” his eyebrows shot up in astonishment when he noticed how she could fully react to his words, approaching her in a steady pace as he took in the sight of the now fully-responsive Beth. Still a shadow of what once was, but still an improvement. “For these things to happen, sacrifices are to be made.”
She shuddered, tears filling her eyes as she pushed herself up, wiping her face with the back of her hand while the other only tightened its grip on the wooden stick, only for the old man to pry it out of her hands and shush her softly.
“So he had it coming, little girl,” he assured her. “He had it coming.”
“...I want to go home,” was all she could reply with. A meek, trembling voice breaking with every tear that was threatening to fall.
…There was no home to return to.
It was all burnt down to ashes.
“I want to go back to my papa.”
There was no father. Not anymore.
The scent of burnt flesh was his.
“I know.”
The priest placed both of his hands on her shoulders.
“You are safe here. I promise.”
She glanced up. The light that filtered through the painted glass illuminated his face in a myriad of reds and blues, and for the first time in a few months, she felt the slightest bit of calmness. Of comfort. Knowing there was at least someone who provided a home for her, who fed her despite her previous corpse-like state in response to the fire that claimed the life of her Father.
“...Are you mad at me, Father Raynott?”
Raynott? How did she know his name?
A small smile that did not crinkle his eyes curved his lips as his hand enveloped hers, holding it tightly in reassurance as he used the other to pat her head.
“I would never be mad at you, little girl. Come, let us go home.”
I’m sorry.
“Let’s go home.”
I was scared, so scared, I didn’t know what to do.
January 10th, 1736
O Lord, forgive me for what I’ve done, I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it, I’m sorry, he was just a sickly old man, I didn't mean to do it, he was just scared, I didn't mean to kill him I didn't mean to kill him I didn't mean to kill him I didn’t mean to kill him I didn't mean to kill him I’m so sorry please Lord forgive me please I didn't mean to kill him I didn't mean to