It was at the witching hour did she awaken, feeling as if somebody had been sitting over her bed while she was asleep. Yet, when she peered into the darkness, she could make out nothing but the four walls black that surrounded her.
It was the witching hour did he awaken, feeling her eyes upon him and bristling as he often did when she sought him out. Yet, when she peered into the darkness, her eyes floated past his form, glazing throughout the room and landing on nothing in particular.
It was three minutes past the mark of the witching hour did she bring herself to her feet, hesitantly stepping out of the bedroom. She felt a chill as she passed through the center of her room, but attributed it, as usual, to the drafty window.
It was three minutes past the mark of the witching hour did he bring himself a step back, watching her get to her feet. She walked forward, and as was every night, she passed directly through him. A shiver rippled up his spine, but he knew she attributed it to the drafty window.
It was four minutes past the mark of the witching hour, did she bring herself to the top of the stairs, her steps labored and hesitant. She thought she heard a creak on the steps behind her, but as the routine was every night, when she looked back, she made out nothing.
It was four minutes past the mark of the witching hour, did he bring himself to the bottom of the stairs, watching her creep upward. He planted his foot on the bottom stair and felt her gaze go through him. He felt a hollow chill, seeing her eyes on him but knowing he was unseen.
It was eight minutes past the mark of the witching hour did, as usual, she found herself sitting on the couch, listening to the silence of the house. Yet she still felt like she was being watched, and couldn’t shake the thought that the house’s creaking was actually faint footsteps.
It was eight minutes past the mark of the witching hour did, as usual, he felt the frustration bubble up within him. He hated being unseen. He hated being brushed off as a draft or a creaky old house. He opened his mouth to shout, but he couldn’t summon his voice. He began to pace.
It was ten minutes past the mark of the witching hour did she bring herself to her feet and make her way for the stairs once more. She felt like she was in a dream. Her footsteps slowed sluggishly. Her mind began to savor the idea of sleep once more.
It was ten minutes past the mark of the witching hour did he pace circles around the house, fighting to find his voice and failing time and time again. He brought his claws through his hair and watched her begin moving toward the stairs once more.
It was eleven minutes past the mark of the witching hour, did she bring herself under the covers once again, letting her eyes flutter shut and her eyebrows draw together. Feeling deeply unsettled, she brought the blanket over her head.
It was eleven minutes past the mark of the witching hour, did he stop beside her bed once more. The anger grew and the fact that he was ignored fueled it. He gritted his fangs and felt them grind together. This was when he would do it.
It was twelve minutes past the mark of the witching hour, did he finally muster up the courage to speak. He didn’t speak her language, but he knew his own, “…Why don’t you listen to me?” and then, “Listen to me!”
It was twelve minutes past the mark of the witching hour, did she hear what sounded like bones twisting and popping together, before, after a brief moment of quiet, they cracked.
It was thirteen minutes past the mark of the witching hour, did he finally decide he was tired of being ignored.
It was thirteen minutes past the mark of the witching hour, did she feel something cold scrape her cheek.
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