A1a. The Saint's Greeting

Location: Master Bedroom, Guest Bedrooms

Characters: The Scarlet Saint

‘Tis the night before solstice, and no creature is stirring.
The old timbers creak and the fire is roaring.
In your hands rests a letter, all wrinkled and creased,
That bestowed you this cabin from your great aunt, deceased.
A long snowy journey through wild northern lands,
Saw you safe to this shelter from winter’s demands.

As you sit by the hearth, your bellies well stuffed,
Your thoughts turn to details the letter discussed.
Your aunt’s written words gave you little advice,
Instead Agnes trusted one line to suffice:
“It’s yours now, my dears, but please keep in mind,
“Be gracious to those who belong here in kind.”

As the eve stretches on, your thoughts start to drift
To sugar-plums, dancing, and other sweet gifts.
At last, you retire and surrender to sleep,
While under the floorboards, a slow shadow creeps . . .

You each drift in pleasant dreams, your thoughts warm and sluggish. Your minds flicker through joyful scenes: a crackling hearth; a gallant dance; a field of fresh-fallen snow.

But beneath it all, a shadow lingers.

One by one, tendrils of shadow wrap around your dreams, encircling and piercing them like roots around stone. Your dreams fracture, then snap. You feel yourself rising, thrust almost violently, toward a dim, bitter light.

Your eyes snap open. The bed lies beneath you, its comfortable plush suddenly icy and hard. Your muscles feel frozen—petrified, even—refusing to move even an inch at your command.

Then, you see it—the shadow crouched atop your bed.

It is lanky, wearing a loose blood-red cloak lined with white wool. A deep hood covers its face, enshrouding all features but a pair of glowing, unblinking eyes. Long sleeves cover its uncanny, too-long arms—until one lifts and reaches slowly toward you.

Your heart screams in your chest, but your muscles ignore your commands. A hand slips from the sleeve: blue-gray, with long, near-skeletal fingers. Slowly, the hand presses against your chest, radiating any icy chill like the Sun radiates warmth.

With a thrust, the figure pushes its hand into your chest, moving through fabric and flesh like putty. You feel its bony fingers wrap around something inside you, and your insides erupt into burning pain. Your chest rises, its insides suddenly hard and brittle.

The figure slides its hands upwards through your neck, your skull, and your face, until it reaches your eyes. It withdraws its fingers, then—with a gentle, near-tender motion—draws your eyelids closed. 

When you open them again, the figure is gone.

All of you awaken at once. Your muscles unfreeze, your bodies able to move once more—but each of you is suddenly wracked by vicious, thundering coughs, expelling clouds of black dust into the air as something within your chests still burns.

A heartbeat later, three knocks echo from the lodge’s front door.