🕯️The Taken in the Veil
The Taken in the Veil
A Burrington Confession (1825)
Written by Temperance Prynn
Compiled from letters found in her mother’s trunk, October 1825
Dearest Eliza,
The wind has turned these past days, cold yet breathless, as though it fears itself. I write by candlelight, though the flame flickers in ways that unsettle me. Each evening, the sky stains darker, a bruise across heaven, and the fog curls through the streets of Burrington thicker than a mother’s shawl.
The townsfolk whisper that the veil is thinner this year. I scoffed at it at first; superstition, idle fancy of frightened minds. Yet I cannot ignore the clock in our hallway. At midnight last night, it struck thirteen, though my mother insists no hand touched it. She muttered prayers under her breath; I confess, I felt a chill deeper than mere autumn.
In the market, they talk of Samuel Dorran, the butcher’s boy. He wandered too far by the river and has not been seen these past two nights. Children dare one another to call his name aloud; the older folk shush them as though the wind itself might hear. I feel my heart quicken even at the thought, though I have yet to venture beyond our gate.
I pray you are well, Eliza, and that this letter finds you far from such mists. I fear Burrington breathes its own dark air, and I am yet too naïve to reckon its weight.
Yours in haste,
Temperance Prynn
Letter II: October 28, 1825
Eliza,
Last night I heard it; my own name, whispered, faint as breath, outside my chamber window. At first, I thought it wind or my imagination, yet the tone was deliberate. I cannot explain the terror that seized me. My mother saw nothing; she scolded my ears and bade me return to prayer.
The fog along the marsh has grown thicker. I watched from our gate, and in the dim lantern light, shadows twist as though they have their own life. Even familiar trees seemed to lean inward, eager to overhear.
Samuel Dorran’s mother claims she hears him knocking upon her door in the quiet of night. The sound wakes her, though no child sleeps within. They whisper that the river itself has grown restless. I find I must close my eyes lest I see more than I should.
I have resolved, I must go to the river come dawn. I do not know what draws me there. Perhaps courage, perhaps folly. I leave my prayers folded upon the dresser, though I feel their worth is less than the weight pressing upon my chest.
Pray for me, Eliza, that I do not wander too far into this mist.
Temperance
Letter III: October 29, 1825
Eliza,
The candles in the church refused to stay lit this morning, though I struck them briskly and trimmed their wicks. I smelled tallow and rust, iron-sweet in the air. And the wind - it moved against me, though no window opened.
I ventured past the village outskirts to the marsh. There, the boy’s voice called to me again. “Temperance,” it said. “It is cold. Please, come.” My body trembled. I had resolved not to follow, and yet I found my feet moving of their own accord.
I cannot explain the sensation: a weight pressing behind my eyes, a chill in my stomach like water freezing within. The fog parted, and the river reflected nothing I knew. The land behind me seemed to vanish, leaving only the sound of my breath and the whispering reeds.
I write this quickly, for I fear tomorrow may demand more courage than I possess. If I am not heard from again, Eliza, know that I loved Burrington, even as it sought to swallow me whole.
Temperance
Letter IV: October 30, 1825
Eliza,
I am writing from the riverbank. I have no other place to mark the passing hours, and the moon hangs low and heavy in the sky. The fog wraps around me as though it were an old friend, and yet I feel its teeth upon my shoulders.
The voice called again. I saw a lantern floating upon the river, flame undisturbed by the wind. I passed beneath the trees - their branches grasped, not in anger, but with a curious patience. And the world changed its shape. I know not what I crossed into, though I feel its weight in my bones.
Shadows now speak to me. They wear faces I know and yet do not, and they whisper my secrets aloud. One has taken form, a man-shaped shadow that knows my thoughts, my fears, the corners of my heart I never dared reveal. He offers guidance, yet I feel his hunger.
He calls me by the names of those I love. “Temperance,” he says, in my father’s voice. “Temperance,” in Samuel’s voice. And I know, I cannot trust. And yet I take his hand, hoping for escape.
The world bends, Eliza. I fear I am no longer wholly myself.
Temperance
Letter V: October 31, 1825
Eliza,
I cannot hold the candle steady. My hand shakes, and the words I write seem already spoken into the void. I realize now I am not alive, and yet I am not gone. Burrington lies behind a veil I cannot pass, yet I cannot remain entirely.
The shadow spoke again, offering home, and I obeyed, whispering my name. Each repetition steals another piece of me. I look into the river - my body lies still upon the bank, hands folded in prayer, eyes open to the mist. I call to it, to myself, and my voice answers in tones I do not recognize.
If you ever find this letter, remember my name. Remember that I walked into the fog willingly, and that Burrington waits for those who listen too closely. Pray for me, Eliza, for I fear I shall fade entirely.
The fog does not lift, and the river whispers my confession.
Temperance
Letter VI: Undated
Found years hence in a trunk of forgotten things, unsigned:
The river runs both ways. The town does not sleep, it only dreams. Those who walk its streets may see themselves reflected in other eyes, hear their name called by voices long dead.
And if you listen too long, you may hear a woman praying in a tongue you do not know, her voice rising from the water, seeking a home that no longer exists.
The End... For Now
- Makitia Thompson
A Publication of Minds In Design
#Makitia #MindsInDesign #TheMidUniverse #Spookystories #MidStories #WhereTimeCantExist #Burrington #UntilTimeRemembers #MakitiaThompson #TheDayThatBrokeTime
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