Annabelle walked out of the crooked house as the rain turned to ash. Behind her, the town burned. Not with fire, but with a creeping frost that turned wood to dust and stone to chalk.
Samuel tried to remove the locket. Annabelle’s iron fingers locked around his wrist. “No, Father. You gave it to me. It’s mine.” annabelle the creation
Samuel lunged for her, but she was faster. She drove her iron fingers into his chest—not to kill, but to feel. She pulled out something invisible: his courage, his hope, the last warm memory of his mother. She held it in her palm, a flickering silver thread, then ate it. Annabelle walked out of the crooked house as
