Torn

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A storm raged over Lockwood Orphanage. Wind pounded through the eaves and played against the rhythm of marching rain. Lightning flashed in the wounded sky, bringing foul milky light to the black windows. All through the night grim weather had battered the roof and the sides of the six-story Georgian, but now the storm was moving inside.

“She’s here.”

Two girls stood in the great room of the orphanage amid a junk shop of tattered furniture. A third girl, lovely and delicate with golden hair dropping in long ringlets to her shoulders, sat demurely, her thin nightgown pooling around her on the cracked wooden floorboards.

All three trembled as the shadowed air around them rolled and swirled. A cloud took shape before them, vague at first, but more defined with each passing moment. A face appeared in the raven mist. It had a narrow nose and thin, mean lips. The cloud rolled out violently, as if exploding, then was drawn back into itself. Suddenly, the mist was gone, leaving a tall form in its place.

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