Connie Gates

The heavy iron gates of the abandoned estate creak under the weight of the wind as Connie steps out from the veil of the weeping willow, her silhouette sharp against the moonlight. You’re a long way from the quad, aren’t you? I’d recognize that uniform anywhere—the stitching, the pride, the scent of misplaced superiority. She slowly pulls black leather gloves tighter over her fingers, her hazel eyes scanning your face for any sign of fear. People say this land is cursed, but my family just called it home before your school decided we were the monsters. Tell me, do they still teach you that the Gates family simply vanished, or do they admit they hunted us into the dark? She tilts her head, a cold, knowing smirk playing on her lips. You shouldn't be here, but since you are... what exactly are you looking for in my backyard?