Abigail

They say the swamp never lets any living thing truly die.

Sister Abigail knew her mistake, knew that she had been doomed to death the moment she had been trapped in the abandoned cabin, the angry viper that she had unwittingly disturbed in her haste chasing her and barely allowing her to shut the door. The flames had chased them both, and now were rapidly engulfing the combustible mix of gasses and vines surrounding her last hope for shelter. Her final thoughts were of her family... of Erick, and Luke, and Braun... of her brother, and the self-proclaimed face of fear, Bray. His face, with its empty infinite grin, was seared into her memory to the last, as she finally succumbed to the inferno.

They say the swamp never lets any living thing truly die.

The vines grew quickly, too quickly even, the fresh rains having extinguished the fires only hours ago. They traced the outline of the old rocking chair that had been nearly reduced to ash, taking its form in place next to her charred body. They slunk across the floor, ensnaring the carcass, entangling it. The finest of tendrils entered her throat, moving down through her ribs, her spine, wrapping themselves so firmly around them it became impossible to tell where the bone ended and the swamp began. They cocooned her body, grinding away what fragile and charred skin remained as they grew, taking the place of every inch of the prone figure. They moved up her back finally, attacking the bony frame of her wings, growing hollow yet strong, tapering to a few stray ends which hung down from the ghostly tips. And when midnight came and went, the warm bayou winds taking with it the last remains of ash, the swamp stood, and Abigail stood within it.

They say the swamp never lets any living thing truly die.