It was under the gibbous moon when I first met her. Her black hair extinguished the pitiful rays of light from the lunar crescent. Her eyes were a moment of brightness in a vacant eternity. As she slinked through the cobbled streets of my home, I could not move. I longed so desperately to cry out but something external clutched at my throat and held taught my vocal cords.
I watched as her turbid form waxed and waned and disappeared against the siding of the Ableton house. She had disappeared and yet I still could not move. My feet would not lift from the ground, my breath was caught and yet I did not feel the effects of strangulation. It was agony to stand there, supernaturally paralyzed. When would this seizure of my freedom cease?
And then she came back out, carrying the limp and fragile form of the Ableton child, a mere toddler. It was their first child. The baby girl did not squeal, did not scream, but merely cooed at the shadow lady. I watched her saunter back down across the cobblestones, her feet gliding along the cobblestones. I wanted to scream stop and all the same I wanted to go with her. She looked back at me, one last time before she walked out of view.
I found my breath finally, and rushed after her. But no amount of running would bring me to her. I wouldn’t see her again until my own firstborn.