Midnight. Hidden. A cold unfeeling silence falls upon a lonely glade. The wind blew lightly yet no sound emanated. A thick dewy mist swirled all around this strange place.
A dull mundane light attempted to corrupt the inky darkness surrounding: A giant orb unchanged by the midnight skies. Artificial. Its lunar luminance emanated a false glow which concealed lies and secrets hidden around in the oddly chilled spring air. Obscuring its dishonesty, a tall towering tree of maidenhair withered - from the cold perhaps? It had been stunted; its life force revoked almost; its growth disrupted. It too held secrets and lies of a time long since deceased. Dark autumn leaves hung in metallic shades reaching up high towards the promise of the heavens. Dying. Also obscuring the artificial dawn, a Brobdingnagian stone pillar, a silver crucifix emblazed atop it. A swift herald silhouetted against the false white light of the unfeeling moon.
The silver crucifix rose from a large structure. A mausoleum. With a steep sweeping arched entrance embedded into the rough cold rock: a sheer cliffside. No barricade blocked the way ahead, only an opened gate. A stake stood erect upon two lower pillars than that that wielded the crucifix; they pointed as arrows to the darkened skies and the moon’s illegitimate luminance. Old tiles upon the crest of the sepulcher pilled somewhat atop each other as if clinging on for dear life; afraid to fall and shatter upon the ground. The ground itself was hard and cold and solid with small dying tufts of sticklike sickly grass in a decaying brown shade protruding – rising from the supple dry soil. Small aconite in soft shades of lilac grew through the crackled earth in a desperate search for light and water. In vain.
Beside the sepulcher, a steep wide cold stone staircase led from the ground towards the heavens and the false luminance of the ivory moon. Never walked upon. Tiny tufts of straw like grass too here grew despite the unearthly barricade posed by the rock of the steps. 13 rosewood steaks stood embedded into the ground erect with sharpened pointed tips like glass daggers creating a barrier; blocking the way ahead.
A harsh gust of wind blew as a bell softly chimed from a long way off. The cloud around was whisked away to the north concealing the false moon, hiding its unnatural, mundane rays from view; a new moon appeared – true and reviling and real. Pure. The new moon shone a singular beam of silvery light upon a shape protruding from the earth beneath.
One grey stone stood outside the sepulcher. Dirt and heavy-set scrapes corrupted the grand sweeping crest in an odd pattern. The rock was eroded and scuffed leaving most of the words embedded into its very flesh unreadable. One word remained etched deep into the rock. Lamia. Though the chiseled letters were obscure almost entirely by dark green leaves of sharp ivy they were still clear as the day they were embossed. The ground beneath it cracks. Silence lifts.