The ruins of a chateau swayed sinisterly, with the echoing breeze wrapping itself around the alluring figure and enveloping the surroundings in a haunting haze. The remains lay atop a looming hill, with one wondering if it was a protector or a dictator of the town that lay beneath it. The cobblestone path strayed from intentions of warmth and cast a hopeless glow in the swirling night sky. It deceived those that were fearless enough to wander the vicinity, the foolish youth that confidently cast aside the treacherous warnings in an attempt of their own self worth, the hungry businessmen, intending to convince the owner of profit margins and tourism worth, or the roaming strangers, with an eye for survival and any place to rest. Those that returned with the reputation of forcing themselves to make the trek did so to placate themselves, with intentions that strayed from witnessing the concealed. It was a hopeless journey, but curiosity could not be suppressed.
If the mind had reluctantly settled upon undertaking the journey, intention be damned, then one had to account for other disasters. The path was often blocked by fallen trees, with the whirlwind of storms and winds thrashing against the weak, uprooting the evergreen in an incredulous, senseless manner, knocking them down like pebbles and it made out so carefully that they just had to lay upon the singular road that would bring visitors to the chateau. The whispers from the cowardly town below suggested that nature was intentionally warning, protecting the living from whatever strange inhabitants, and the rumours had infested the folks into avoiding the large stretch of land by whatever means necessary. One evaded every inch of territory, so fearful as if one intake of breath on the disgraced might inflict dishonor upon themselves.
If transport did manage to escape the aftermath of a carefully calculated storm, and the path was abnormally clear and safe, they must wind their vehicles up, up, up against the extensive driveway. Those that would return from the perilous trek, recounted the upward climb as a never ending spiral, wondering if the end was an honest sight or a mere betrayal of facts. Maybe the chateau was a facade against the haunting mist and no ruins lay bare on top of the hill. Many only returned in response to defeat, the spiral so exhausting, a labyrinth that seemed to direct them towards the exit, and they came back in large droves, with only a sprinkling truly able to state that they had accomplished the impossible.
If even that did not deter, if even nature's own warning did not bear any heavy weight, the task that succeeded cast a heavy cloud against the gullible mind. It filled the most determined with dread, and the most weak stepped away until they pressed their backs against the hard, cold wall and hid their faces with shame. Even the most unfeeling would feel.
What arised within the ruined hulk of mess, was the venomous and armoured gaze that could drill bullets into your body, and peel the skeletons hidden in your closet until they felt far removed from you, an entity of their own. Her hands could wrap themselves within your pumping heart and strangle it until your lungs felt crushed, until you felt paralysed by the need to move, to do something, until oxygen felt far out of reach. One would finally understand the vitality of breathing when it finally seemed impossible to do so. Amongst this vulnerability and intoxicating hesitance, the shell of a woman would gaze at you with raw disgust. Her nails, once clasping dollar bills and golden chains, now cracked and worn, gripped your own skin. A subconscious welling of disgust trailed within, almost natural, succeeded by admonishment, forcing your own mind to feel pity and sorrow. Your eyes deceive you and one can only smell the stench and can only see the grime. One rips their hand away instinctively, but an apology wells in their eyes, a sight that the woman has seen for a while.
Rebecca was her first name, and she inhabited the ruins of the castle. She had become a living legend, the villain of the tale, but essentially an enigma. Her home was once vast and beautiful and valuable. She emphasised valuable in a wistful tone, as a visitor could only avert their eyes from the ruined state of not only the chateau but of Rebecca itself. The castle had certainly strayed from its grandeur, becoming much a shell as the woman who owned it. The cobblestone path was meant to resemble the entree before the main course that was the chateau itself. Now it was torment and caused many to turn back, a sight that meant Rebecca had less and less visitors.
The foolish youth turned away in fear of garnering the attention of the infamous Rebecca, if they could ever gather the courage to continue up, up, up the winding driveway. The hungry business winced at the sight of the scrutinising glare and turned away, content without an answer. The roaming strangers were left with the remnants of kindness that Rebecca had left to give. Some escaped her gaze, and slept on the edges of her property while some were offered a warm bed and a meal.
No, Rebecca was faced with only two kinds: the government officials, reminding her of the debt that she was now buried under, or the local tourists, fed by the haunted stories of the townsfolks, with curiosity, hunger and slight boredom filling their bellies. The most fearless of townsfolk were the only constant companions for Rebecca, driven by their humanity as they offered food to someone who once had every materialistic richness that one enviously desired but could now barely acquire a pan to cook their eggs in.