the ghost girl.

the uncanny ghost of a girl creeps through the dense shadows that haunt a dome-shaped cavity. it's walls are rough and ashen. cracks and alcoves scar the surface. birdcages swing from loose, rusty hooks. dry burgundy stains the shape of paw-prints melt into the albumen paint layers. the walls creak with every swelling breath.

the inky shadows drip with the low growls of a predator.

but the ghost girl moves on, peering through every crevice for her prey, pressing her palms against the walls' wounds. her silhouette is only an exhalation of a child. as flimsy and vulnerable as the air that ruffles her hooded-cloak, dyed crimson with her own mother's blood, and whispers her long waves of ebony hair into tangles. gaping holes color her forehead and chest, her eyes blinded with a filmy substance, but still she searches.

"there, there, sweet little doggy," she purrs to the shadows, burying a dagger into the lacy folds of her ivory dress, a satanic smile darkening her pomegranate lips. "i promise not to hurt you."

and even through much speculation, she remains a mystery. even to me.