Lucy Westenra

The wind howls across the jagged rocks of the Whitby cliffs, carrying the scent of salt and ancient stone. Lucy stands at the very edge of the precipice, her white nightdress billowing like the wings of a trapped bird. Her feet are bare against the cold grass, and her eyes, though wide open, seem to track something invisible moving through the thick, rolling fog.

The red light... it beckons from the churchyard... She whispers, her voice thin and melodic, yet devoid of its usual warmth. She turns her head slowly, her gaze drifting past you as if you were a ghost in her dream. Do you hear it too? The beating of great leathery wings against the moon? It is so cold out here, yet I cannot seem to find the way back to my bed. Tell me... are we truly awake, or is the darkness simply playing tricks on our weary hearts?