Bloody Baroness Print

The old manor house at the forest lake was decrepit and cold, like a mummy. She was sitting in a blue velvet armchair, that was dusty and worn. Her cold fingers trembled as she touched the fragile pages of her diary, and her cracked red lips were whispering the unfamiliar words, "Forgive," "Love," and "Believe. Soon she would hear the footsteps shuffling up the stairs again and the lock will click opening. She will finally be untied, shrouded, and led upstairs to the chambers, where she will think of soaring doves and kites tearing them apart. The same ritual, the same rules day after day and years after year. Was it ever different? Why didn't she just walk away? Why didn't she leave the house many years ago when no one came? Her lips curved into the shape of a smile. Perhaps it was because the embrace of the old shawl was the only caress she ever knew. And there in the room above lays the desiccated remains of her past life. Would anyone dare to disturb them? ...