In the midnight dark it swept through streets in a manner specific to the wraith that it was. Through the rain, street lights flickered then went out as it passed, thunder rolled overhead, lightning lit up all that the electric lamps no longer could.
She had her head down against the rain, it blew in driving cold and hard, her over coat clung to her, sodden and heavy. Her mouse brown hair streaked and whipped about her aged head. Each step filled her soaking shoes, more, and more, and more, until, tide like they overflowed; the leather began to stretch.
Darkness fell upon her unexpectedly, but it was not darkness of the night; the rain abruptly, unnaturally, stopped. She looked about herself, perplexed at the rude eventuality. A weightlessness lifted her, and pain struck in a manner so exquisite as she had never experienced, never imagined, never expected throughout the hardships of her life; a life now forfeit. The wraith had found her and tore at her soul. Devouring it, gorging itself fit to burst, until she had nought left to give.
Death spoke to her, acknowledging her plight, and left her, alone. Souls ascend to heaven or are cast to hell, the soulless are damned and doomed to wander the places in between.
Forever, in her very Moora.
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