I see her every night. She provides a melancholy form of company for my otherwise dull dreams, but is marched off by the daylight before I wake. I can only presume it’s a she, as her corseted waist is always draped in dark silk and her fingers caged in fine lace gloves. The heavy heels of her shoes pierce the ground beneath it, creating a trail of proud punctures wherever they go while the hem of her dress chokes amongst the countless creatures and leaves intertwined in its needlework. While there are eyes on her, she seems to sedate the clock. The seconds lean sleepily onto the minutes and those onto hours. You watch until your eyes grow thorns only to see her take a few teasing steps across the path. However, blink and she’d barely be in view, swallowed up by the shadows. She always carries a satchel in which could lie a perfume or a python, for no matter how many nights she visits I’m always confronted by the stubborn buckle. It gleams smugly in the dregs of dim moonlight; content with the air of mystery it causes. The satchel sticks out prominently, a clumsy tool that cant be concealed beneath her many layers of skirts. Instead it makes a rhythmic thud against what I imagine to be her shin and she strides onward, yet I often find myself questioning how a human leg can make a sound so jarring.

Despite being a “she”, this figure is certainly not human. In place of a warm, pink face is a covering. A stark piece of arrogantly white cloth, guarding whatever is under it with extreme concentration. No wind, rain or hail could ever blow it out of place for a storm that sliced my own hand with a fragment of window glass, left her completely unscathed.

This time is different. The air itself was unsettled before I even saw her. The patch of ground on which I was sat had gangs of thistles like I had never seen before. There was no wind, yet the sky whispered coldly as my neck strained upwards, just waiting for her to pass. The most significant difference though was how she stayed with me until morning. When I woke, I wasn’t alone. She’s there, at the end of the bed, with a hand crawling carefully into the satchel, and a face beneath the cloth that certainly doesn’t belong to a human.