The Lady in Red

The ominous clacking of heels on pavement was the first indication of trouble. The second came moments later, when their owner's red dress and matching grin prowled forward from the shadows and into the pale moonlight. Jagged fear pierced through Wyles body like a dagger at the sudden attention. A cornered mouse in the direct eye line of a tiger. Her face was a pretty round shape that reminded him of Roman beauty. Her long brown hair trickled down towards her elbows with a delicate curl at the end. She looked harmless enough, except for those eyes. They were shaped like a shifty cat and shone an ominous onyx which burned like coals. The tremor which ran down his spine came from the final blaring warning sign that echoed in his mind. It had arrived on closer examination of her dress, which had a dark, dripping tint that could never quite be accomplished by dye, not even for Halloween makeup and clothing. That shade of blood red only came from what was in the name. Blood. That's when the realization struck. Not only was her attire a striking red, but her slicing smile was painted the same glossy pigment. 

It was as if she read his mind. Wyles eyes widened in horror as the woman - no, he was sure this was no normal woman - lifted a dainty finger to her lips, transferring some of the blood onto her skin, and after a moment of suspenseful hesitation, licked it from her hand, her grin growing into an even more menacing smile. 

Wyle had never been one to cower in fear. He was a larger man, with sculpted muscles painstakingly curated from hours at the gym and a steel mindset gifted from a broken home. He was the definition of a defier of fear, but the sight before him sent a shaking chill through his bones that he'd never felt before. Not when a gun was held to his head at the ripe age of seventeen. Not when an eighteen wheeler hit his Ford raptor head on, crushing everything but himself. Not when he jumped from a plane with a parachute that didn't open until seconds before consequences would turn fatal. In all those instances, a miraculous knowing that he would come out alive had always comforted him. But not this time. This time, the pit blooming in his gut told him just the opposite. He needed to get out of here, and fast. 

But it was too late. He couldn't slink away without notice, her eyes were trained on him, and he had seen that look before. A predator hunting its prey. She wouldn't stop until she had him, he was sure of that. 

That didn't stop him from trying. Wyle ran with all his might. When he was sure he had made some distance, he glanced back at where the woman had been, only to find her still standing there, a blurred red blip in the distance. Wyle slowed in confusion. Had he been wrong? Was he really just paranoid? Maybe it was just because of the setting sun and Halloween being just around the corner, after all the holiday always did give him a trickle of unease-

Before Wyle could even begin to let the comfort settle, something grabbed him by the head and slammed him face first into the ground with cracking force. He blinked slowly with a drowsy attempt to keep himself conscious. It was no use, he was no match for the sleep tugging at his head. 

The last thing that echoed in his ears and flooded his eye line was a pair of clacking blood red heels.  

Wyle awoke thrashing in desperation. He tried to wrestle free from the steady grasp which dragged him away to a destination unknown. Though he didn't know how long his captor had been dragging him, or where they were headed. He knew one thing for sure. Whatever was in store for him, it would not be good.

After what felt like an eternity of struggle against jerky left and sharp right turns, the captor dumped Wyle’s quivering form onto the dusty floor, snapping his attention back to the present situation. He blinked rapidly, desperately trying to orient himself with his surroundings. They were somewhere unnaturally quiet. It looked like a corner of one of those twisted corn mazes. Except this was not something that included family fun. The place radiated an aura of something demonic, something cursed. Something haunted.

Wyles head whipped around, searching for the lady in red with a bloodshot and utterly terrified gaze.

Suddenly, from the darkness a dim figure took form. It came together in pieces. The beautiful nightmare that took shape reminded Wyle of a ballerina. A soft white skirt which jutted out and looked like snow, a pure pearly corset radiating purity and feminine softness, matching tights and light slippers. Wyle’s frantic eyes finally reached the figure's face. 

His lips parted in surprise at the sight of the beautiful woman. Symmetrical features, a welcoming smile, eyes made of the darkest chocolate brown. Any trepidation or fear that Wyle had felt was washed away and replaced with a tidal wave of honey coating which tasted of welcome. The angel before him held out a manicured hand made of porcelain. Wyle was in awe, entranced by this goddess's very being, her flawlessness. He reached out toward her hand. 

The second his skin touched hers his infatuation increased by ten folds. Wyle had never believed in love. He had always seen women as temporary objects, never anything similar to that soulmate crap. But now he was sure he was feeling love. No, the word didn't do justice to his reaction to this mystery woman. His whole body buzzed with affection and adoration. Devotion and loyalty, absolute passion and desire.

The beauty tilted her head and a small grin touched her rosy lips. Wyle was enchanted. When she spoke he thought his heart would explode.

“My name is Cyprus, ghost of love.” She said in a voice made of velvet. “I have watched you and your earthly brethren for a time of long, and am here for a reason that carries utmost importance.”

Her voice was but a whisper, yet it commanded all attention. Wyle was captivated, her words sending chills rolling down his skin and hairs standing on his arms. It seemed the universe itself had stopped to listen to her proclamations. A shift in the atmosphere had occurred in her presence. A more heady, rich lens had been cast into the air.

“It is known to many that I am a representative of the regards of deep affection. But my advocate goes not only to those of love.” She continued, her riddled words wrapping around Wyles head in a ribbon of symphonies. “I find fondness in what you living know as justice.”

She took a step closer to the dazed man, her hand leaving his. The loss of contact sent a crashing doc of depression through his system, but his mood was quickly heightened when her hand brushed his cheek. He leaned into her touch on instinct, his whole body humming with adrenaline and glee at her attention.

“You are unable to speak words, but the body can be a voice much better than the mind.” She continued to speak. “I must have you present in mind at this moment, for justice calls for it.” With that, the fog of Wyles mind cleared, and terror crept back up his veins as he recalled the events of the night and who this demonic stranger could be. But when he tried to pull away, his body couldn't inch back one bit. His physical self was still present in whatever hypnosis his mind had been under only moments before. 

“Wyle Pauley, son of Rhinna and Gerald Pauley, I am here to convict you for the sin and crimes your kind carry.” When the ghost spoke, it was no longer an affectionate chill that went up his spine, but rather one of fear at the razor in her tone. “You are one who mistreats my children. The women who roam on this rock afloat are not meant to be put through your games of evil and heartbreaks which ache. It is here by my duty and pleasure to inflict upon you the punishment I see fit for the wicked acts of your kind. Sir Wyle, I will make you feel the pain that my children have experienced at your species hands. I will make you feel all of their pain in one. Pray to your gods that the weak heart inside you may stand it.” 

With that, the ghost Cyprus leaned in, one last smile crooking her lips, and gave Wyle a light, lingering kiss.  

Unexplainable, undefinable pain ripped through Wyles body. He couldn't move, couldn't break contact, couldn't speak, but his internal pain was so vivid, so loud, he was sure he could hear the screams inside him ringing in his ears. His depression was tangible, and he internally wailed in utter agony. Devastation tainted his tongue and silent screams ripped through his limbs. Tears flowed freely from his eyes and his heart stuttered at the weight of heartbreak which squeezed it. Wyle tried. He tried to fight it, tried to hold all the grief that consumed him, but in the end the weight was too great. His heart gave one more trembling beat, then ceased.

The ghost pulled back and the man before her slumped over in a lifeless heap.

Wyle Pauley was dead and gone, struck down by heartbreak and sin of his species. Cyprus, the ghost of love, the inflictor of justice. She was known by many names, many forms. The mask of a ballerina morphed back into her most pure form. A thicker, more vibrant shade of blood had been restored onto her stained dress and dripping lips. Wyles blood. With one more ghostly smile, she disappeared into the shadows of which she came, moving on to the next sinful man who was unfortunate enough to catch her gaze. The defender of women, the slayer of men and sins alike, the Lady in Red.