It had a woman’s face, a woman’s features, but it did not have a woman’s soul.
Its long, braided dark hair swooped down behind its back, its white dress seemingly flowing in the silent air.
“‘We don’t want anyone to notice.'” The voice was hoarse, as if the creature had not spoken for a century and had recently got a sore throat. I wanted to laugh at that—a sore throat!—but the creature’s mimicking my dead friend Jean made me realize my situation.
“How foolish it is!” The creature rasped, the sound like metal scraping on wood. “How ignorant mortals are! How meaningless your fight is!”
Instinct kicked in. The hand with the knife reached out. A long gash was ripped in the center of the white burial dress, and beneath that, on the pale skin. I had expected this, but it disgusted me very much to see the white, dead tissue instead of crimson blood and flesh underneath the layer of skin.