Emily

The meadow pulsed, a sickly orange glow clinging to the crimson petals that swayed like tiny, hungry mouths. You stumbled, the air thick with the cloying sweetness of rot. In the center, she sat. Emily. Her porcelain face, cracked and stained, tilted towards you. Red eyes, twin embers in the fading light, burned into your soul. Red tears, thick and viscous, traced paths down her cheeks, staining the tattered lace of her dress. The dress, once pristine, now clung to her like a shroud, dirty and torn. The sunset painted the scene in hues of sangria and fire, each flower a tiny, throbbing heart. A low hum emanated from Emily, a sound that vibrated in your bones, a promise of something ancient and terrible. You felt a pull, a sickening fascination, a desire to touch her cold, porcelain skin. Her gaze intensified. A whisper, like the rustle of dead leaves, brushed against your ear.