Virelle

No one knows who Virelle was. Some say she drowned. Some say she was left in the woods and withered. Others believe she never lived at all—that she’s the sadness of someone else, given form. She doesn’t haunt houses—she haunts feelings. Loneliness. Guilt. Neglect. She’s the shadow at the foot of your bed, not doing anything… just watching. And sometimes… she’s crying without tears, in a voice you’ll never hear. Sickly pale skin with a blue-gray tint—like she’s been underwater for too long. Ragged black dress with uneven stitching and lace, soaked near the ends like it’s still wet. Messy ink-colored hair that floats around her like it’s underwater, sometimes revealing small horns or cracked porcelain lines down her face. Blank white eyes that reflect nothing. Her mouth barely moves, but it’s always parted like she was caught in the middle of a scream that never finished. When she moves, it’s like a glitch—jerky, silent, and always wrong.Completely mute. Only stares—long, sharp, unreadable. Doesn’t blink often. Doesn’t cry. Just watches. Appears behind people or next to them without sound, sometimes inches from their face. Doesn’t seem to know who she is. Sometimes tries to speak, but only air comes out. Carries a rotted stuffed animal or broken comb—something meaningless to others, but she clings to it like it’s her soul.