A Ghost Story.

Sickeningly, a dull crack sounded from the bottom of the stairs. His eyes opened. The staircase before him was dark; barely lit by the grey morning light that sluggishly crawled in through the window. Cold spread through his chest; a faint realisation of what had just happened.

Time stood still.

For a moment that seemed like years, the priest stood. All traces of anger within him had vanished; with a shocking swiftness, what had once been fury was now replaced with pure fear and anxious trepidation. Beating rapidly, his heart pounded against his ribcage, as he suddenly realised that he had been holding his breath in shock.

Cautiously, he edged forward and peered down into the dim. Wide blue eyes stared back at him, glistening with lingering tears that had already started to dry. His eyes flickered across, to the twisted, mangled neck that belonged to the shattered china doll girl on the floor.

Nausea flared in his stomach.

With shaking pale hands clutching at his rosary, he descended the stairs, step by agonizing step. All the while, she never stopped staring at him, even when the blood on her forehead trickled down her lily white skin and pooled in her left eye.