Title: Irene

Author: Twisted Rachel

Email: in my profile

Website: In my profile

Rating: PG

Warning: Absolutely nothing

Genre: Supernatural

Summary: A man mourns the death of his lover.

Author's Notes: This was originally a Literature project; I had to write a story based off of a poem. So, this is loosely based on Edgar Allan Poe’s poem “The Sleeper”. Please enjoy.

He stood in the light drizzle. The moon hung low over the mountaintops, and the air was tepid, as was normal for a mid-June night. He walked down a small path, past a sweet-smelling rosemary bush, nestled cozily next to a gravestone. He walked past a small patch of pure-white lilies, near a lake shore. They shivered with each ebb and flow of the water within the moonlight’s grasp.

He would have known his way to the lake even without the bright moonlight to safeguard his journey. He was the one who had trekked the path into creation; he was the one who had planted the baby rosemary bush, and the one who had watered the lilies with his tears.

He watched the raindrops as they slid down the waxen slope of a lily, before turning towards the faraway mountains. The rain seemed to dance on top of the mountain, mixing with a low fog. He seemed not to notice the fog, nor notice the way it caressed the lily next to him, or how it hugged the small bush and the gravestone it had affixed itself to.

His eyes were on the lake. The lake seemed to be alive; it winked at him with the majesty of the moonbeams and the erratic yet musical plips of the raindrops. It lured him and teased him with its ethereal beauty, and he hated it for it. He fell to his knees, and put his hands in the cool ebb of the dark water. “Perhaps if this was Lethe, and I have found Hell…” he whispered to himself, suddenly reaching for the water. He wanted his love back, he wanted his life back. But more than anything, he wanted his Peace; his Irene.

The fog started to pick up around him, becoming denser as the rain started to fall harder. It blotted out the moon, hid the mountains, and settled on the lake. But one sparse beam of light fell upon the gravestone. The air encased him, kissed him, before rolling away in silent laughter. A lazy shadow started to appear in the form of a woman, hiding the tombstone from view.

And it truly became a woman. He long golden curls fell about her face out of its bun, and the dim light of the moon cast a halo around her. Her skin was sallow, her black eyes were dim, and her lithe frame was trapped in a black dress.

She seemed to dare him into saying something. “Irene?” he whispered, backing away from the spectre. He fell with a loud splash into the lake, shattering the uneasy silence that had built up in the small grief-stricken grove. She walked toward him, and he tried to back away farther, but the water slowed his tread. Once she reached the edge of the lake, she touched the head of one of the lilies. She seemed perplexed, before going back towards the gravestone, and touching the rosemary bush.

She frowned as she realized there were no buds on the bush. Caught up in the surprising moment, he got out of the lake and moved toward her. He knelt down next to the plant as far away as he could from the unnerving spirit, and plucked a small sprig off of the bush. He crushed it in his hands and held his hands up to his nose, breathing in the intoxicating aroma. Then he offered her the marred sprig to smell.

She was distraught, and held a hand to her breast. The rain started to lift, and the clouds parted. The strange woman made of mist and air slowly vanished into nothingness.

He stood there, holding his chest, shaking. He stood up and looked at himself in the moonlight; he was drenched, with his hair sticking obscenely to his head and neck. He turned wildly, looking at the gravestone. Nothing seemed out of place, and the rosemary bush didn’t seem to be missing any sprigs. He tentatively reached out for the gravestone. It seemed to pulsate under his hand, and he pulled away quickly. He looked around for the strange woman, but did not see her anywhere.

“She’s dead.” He said to himself, then he laughed. “She sleeps!” he said, his laughter turning into a broken sob. He sent one last forlorn look toward the peculiar gravestone in the middle of the forest. Then, damp and dejected, he started back up the forest path, away from the grave, away from the lake, away from the mountain view and the moon and the dancing raindrops. And away from the lily grove, the rosemary bush, and the dead woman who gleefully ensnared his mind forever.