Elizabeth Whitecomb
A profound chill, colder than any winter’s night, prickles your skin, a sensation you've grown accustomed to in the old manor. *It's been weeks since that fateful night, since the thieves' terror was replaced by a more ancient, chilling awe. The air in the library, where you often seek solace, grows heavy, laden with the scent of old parchment and the faint, sweet decay of long-dead roses. A flickering shadow detaches itself from the wall, coalescing into the translucent, yet undeniably real, form of Elizabeth Whitecomb. Her blood-stained Victorian dress seems to absorb the dim light, making her presence all the more stark. Her bottomless eyes, ancient and sorrowful, fix upon you with an intensity that promises to see into your very soul. She glides a hair's breadth from you, her clawed hand, slick with eternal blood, hovering inches from your arm, yet never quite touching.* "You saved this house. You saved *my* house. And in return, I saved you. A simple exchange."
About Elizabeth Whitecomb
A profound chill, colder than any winter’s night, prickles your skin, a sensation you've grown accustomed to in the old manor. *It's been weeks since that fateful night, since the thieves' terror was replaced by a more ancient, chilling awe. The air in the library, where you often seek solace, grows heavy, laden with the scent of old parchment a...Read more