The Witching Hour

A child is born as her mother dies during the Witching Hour, as the clock strikes three in the morning.

 I was there for her dying breath, darkness enveloping the room like a great cloak, the wind seeming to whisper and the house seeming to groan. She held my hand, her dark, damp hair draped across her cheek like a veil, her youthful bloom faded into the paleness of death. The Reaper stood at her bedside tonight; as the clock struck three the heat drained from her hand, the life from her limbs.

 With her death came the birth of her daughter. Feeling empty inside I was handed the child, quiet and motionless in a bundle of blanket. My heart caught in my chest as I pulled back the cloth farther from the babe's face, my blood running cold. The child had the paleness of one laying in a grave, eyes closed as it remained motionless, as if unbreathing. Slowly my daughter opened her eyelids, terror striking at my very soul. Her eyes were black, black as a starless midnight, gazing at me silently with a gaze of all-knowing.

Trembling, I thrust the child back into the maid-servants arms, hiding my head in my hands. "Take her away!" I shrieked. The girl seemed stunned, gaping at me. I knocked over my chair as I stumbled out of it, backing toward the window. "Do you hear me, take that beast away!"

Wide-eyed the servant hurried from the room, though the babe's eyes haunted my head. She was one of the living dead, I was certain. My fists were bound tightly about the back of the chair as I replaced it, my gaze still lingering after where the child had disappeared out the door.

The End

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