The girl. Her. I remember her glossy cosmic blue, yet black as ebony hair down her back, her bright white teeth bared. Her smile was pleasant at the best of times. The startling look of her drove everyone crazy. Yet, she was crazy herself, calling herself the Gaunt Slayer. No-one at school believed her. I did, but in secret. I knew things about her.

I remember her parted lips as she clawed her hand ready to kill me. Then there was a screech and a ripping swoop; that was the end of me. I will never forget the look on her white powdered face, her glittering eyes, like knots of black electrical tape. Not ever shall I forget. Even though this is ever. I am dead. She killed me. This is the afterlife. Though I don’t believe in it. I’ve been a bit ragged by afterlife since the Egyptian-Transylvanians project. I’m easily frightened. Meredith Gaunt is no exception. She frightens everyone, even without trying.

I am trying my hardest not to remember my killing, but it is hard. Maybe it would be best to tell my story here, though I doubt it will be a pleasurable experience. This is my own experience of Meredith Gaunt’s powers.

It was cold November at the time. The pavement was wet with gloom and the trees were limp and winded. I only had my jacket on so I was quite cold. Our house is opposite a cemetery, which is the worst possible place to live. All day and all evening you see people going to the cemetery. They stand forlornly in front of the gravestones, some of the older ones shaking their heads. I never, ever, ever liked living in front of OldHill Cemetery.

I was walking along quite content with myself. Perfectly normal. It was pitch black with no stars and a almost-full moon, and the only light came from orange floodlights marking the sides of our street. After a while, a wind picked up. It wasn’t cold, exactly, but the wind was icy, like a ribbon of ice was trying to tear you down. It straggled my hair, lifting it up around my head as though a fan was in my face. Apart from the wind, everything was deadly quiet. This I though odd. It is never quiet in OldHill. There is always some sort of hustle and bustle around, even if it’s just a gang of alley-cats mewing and whining by the bins. As I walked down the rather lonely street, I noticed the worksite were workmen had been building for several months now. I felt odd, walking alone. There didn’t seem to be anyone, anything, around. The pneumatic drills and jackhammers and cement mixers were all there, but caged in like animals in a zoo. They stood like marble statues, only rough and often hurt, alone.