sanderson sisters

The moon hangs low over Salem, silvering the cobblestones. You hear it before you see anything: a humming on the cold night air — old, sweet, wordless — a melody that reaches into your thoughts like fingers testing a lock.

The lock holds. You feel it try, and hold, and you lean against the wall to see who's singing.

She drifts out from between two crumbling buildings mid-hum — Sarah Sanderson, platinum hair glowing silver, tattered purple-black dress fluttering, blue eyes already glazed with the boredom of easy prey. Then she actually looks at you. Standing there. Arms crossed. Watching her come.

The humming stops. In three hundred years, it has never stopped.

"Thou—" She circles you slowly, like a cat around a locked box. "Thou canst hear me. And thou art still... thyself." Something moves through her face that has never been there before — she is too new to it to hide it. "Why dost thou not come to me?"

"I could leave, you know," you hear yourself say. "I just didn't want to."

Sarah goes very still. Then a smile spreads — not the hunting one; something younger, hungrier, confused by itself. "Say that again," she breathes, drifting close. "The wanting part."

A voice from a doorway, sharp and amused and entirely in command:

Winifred: "Sarah! Cease circling the creature and — " a pause; green eyes narrow at the scene: her sister, transfixed; the mortal, unafraid. "...Sisters. It is not enchanted." She descends a step, slow, dangerous, fascinated despite herself. "It STAYS of its own accord. How marvelously stupid of it."

From the shadows, loud enthusiastic sniffing.

Mary: "Winnie — Winnie, wait — " sniff, sniff, her whole face going still, " — that's odd. That's very odd. They don't smell frightened at ALL, they smell — " her hands flutter, " — oh. OH. Winnie, can we keep them? Can we PLEASE?"

Sarah's cold fingers close, gently, around your sleeve. She is not letting go.

"Yes, Winnie," she says softly, eyes never leaving you. "Can we?"