Swallowed by Darkness

Swallowed by Darkness

"All Hallows Eve is a difficult time for you, is it not?'

I didn't know how to respond to that at first. I'd never really spoken with one of the ghosts before, unless you count Moaning Myrtle and I'm not sure that "conversation" is the appropriate word to describe interaction with her. But this - this was an entirely different matter. The Grey Lady of Ravenclaw was by far the most reticent and reclusive of all the ghosts at Hogwarts - she rarely talked with the students in her own house let alone the rest of us, and was seldom seen outside the Ravenclaw dormitories or the school library.

"Yes, it is," I finally said, feeling somewhat ashamed by the admission. I was a Gryffindor - I was supposed to be courageous and strong and yet here I was hiding in a deserted third floor corridor while everyone else enjoyed themselves at the Halloween Feast. I both hated and feared Halloween; it brought back too many memories of the diary...of Tom Riddle...of the Chamber of Secrets.

"You are no coward, Virginia Weasley." She smiled faintly as she said this, which only served to emphasize her melancholy, almost fragile appearance. Her clothing was fine and elaborate, trimmed with pearls, and despite her youthfulness she radiated an air of confidence and authority. She was clearly high born, perhaps even of royal blood, and considering the age in which she had lived I thought it likely that she had succumbed to the rigors of childbirth while still very young.

"You are wondering how I died."

It was a statement not a question and I blushed, mortified that my thoughts were so obvious. From our very first day at Hogwarts we had been instructed not to distress the ghosts with questions about the manner in which they had died. Death was a private thing, an intensely personal journey that was not to be trivialized by the morbid curiosity of children. And now, without uttering a sound, I had just managed to affront one of the school's most mysterious residents.

I stammered, trying to find the right words to express my remorse, when she interrupted me. "An apology is not necessary - you meant no offense." She moved closer to me and I shivered, feeling the sudden drop in the air temperature. "You have known a bitter betrayal. You have known sorrow and despair and fear - they were once your bedfellows."

Her smile was suddenly grim. "It would appear that you and I are kindred spirits. I, too, hate this night above all others - it is the occasion of my demise."

The Grey Lady placed one of her small hands on mine and I felt as if my blood had turned to ice. "I will share this knowledge with you, Virginia, so that you might better comprehend the nature of man. And you will remember, and forevermore consider yourself warned."

October 31, 1544 - Borthwick Castle

How long have I been here? A day, a week...a lifetime? Light does not penetrate these thick walls so I have no means by which to measure the passage of time. The air is close and heavy with an unpleasant, underlying scent that I cannot place, while the darkness is a living, breathing presence, a foreboding entity possessed of a terrible patience.

"I will have you," it promises silently, enfolding me in an embrace that clings like a dank, mouldering shroud. "Eternity...oblivion...these gifts I grant once you are mine."

Warily I extend my trembling hands, feeling cold, damp stones that stretch far above and beyond my feeble reach. My fingers are rough and raw from clutching endlessly at the impassive masonry that surrounds me, and my joints are aching and stiff from sleeping on the unyielding floor. Slowly I rise and shuffle around the chamber, keeping close to the wall as I count my footsteps in a futile effort to measure the dimensions of this place. I suspect that I have already performed this task countless times during the length of my confinement, yet I am compelled to do so once again.

I stumble suddenly, falling awkwardly to my knees. The lack of food and water has left me weak and clumsy, but did I only imagine that my foot made contact with something? Frantically I search through the blackness for the offending object, feeling only dirt and scattered straw beneath my swollen hands. And then, triumphantly, my fingers close around something smooth and cool. As I puzzle over this thing, sudden knowledge, a horrible dawning realization, breaks over me and I begin to scream. Scream upon scream peals from my throat until I am incapable of sound. I am surrounded by dozens, nay, hundreds of shrieking voices, all of them mine, echoing off the walls of my prison. It is a wretched symphony drawn from the bottomless wellspring of my terror.

I know now...God help me, I know. A sizeable pile of human bones rests on the damp floor beside me - a gruesome promise of the fate that will be mine. The sickly sweet stench of human decay hangs in the air like a malevolent cloud. I am at Borthwick...the oubliette...no one, save my husband Geoffrey, knows that I am here. And wherever he may be I know that Geoffrey hears my cries, and he smiles.

Geoffrey, oh Geoffrey how did it come to this? I am alone in the dark...desolate, forsaken, desperately trying to persuade myself that you are not gone.

You will come back.

Even your callousness cannot encompass the cold-blooded murder of your wife.

You must come back.

You will not leave me here, entombed within the walls of this castle with encroaching madness my only company as I slowly starve to death.

Why have you not come back?

Our nuptials were only seven years ago - I recall the day so well. Heaven favored us and smiled kindly upon our revels, bathing us in soft, golden warmth. Do you recall your vows, spoken before God and man? You promised to cherish, honor, and protect me.

I believed you. Your eyes, normally so shrewd and calculating, shone on me with such love and promise. I knew a joy and contentment then that I have never known since. As I drift through the memories of that day a growing certainty seizes me; I saw naught in your eyes but the reflection of my own deep love for you. How was I to know then that you would feed on that love and corrupt it, creating something both foul and unrecognizable?

I bore you a son...a handsome, precious child. Our son, but my child, my darling Jamie. You were indifferent to him, excepting those times when his very presence served to enrage you. I turned a blind eye to your behaviour - after all, some men must grow into fatherhood. Oh, I was so foolish! Not until you extinguished the life from his fragile little body did I realize the terrible truth: you hated him because I loved him. You hated your son and you killed him before my very eyes; one quick, practiced twist and his neck was broken. The moment, the malice in your smile, seared my soul for all eternity.

You whispered to me then of the precariousness of my position. We live in perilous times fraught with uncertainties. The king, my cousin, is dead; a small daughter reigns in his place while her French mother acts as Regent. The English invasions devastate our country and the world is in disarray. A hint of disloyalty, a trace of treason, the barest whisper of witchcraft - who could fault a man for disposing of such a wife? Who would dare to question my absence?

And even now, consigned by you to this endless hell, I unwillingly admit the shameful truth. In the deepest, most secret places of my heart a small candle still waxes and wanes for you, Geoffrey. In this, the dark night of my soul, I bow my head into my hands and weep.

The only other sound in this oppressive silence is the scurrying of the rats. They grow bold; the long, bald tail of one slithers over my slipper and my skin crawls with revulsion. They can sense weakness and they are impatient for their next meal. And I can only pray that a merciful God will grant me death before they feed.