- Chicago, IL
- Last Record: 2012-10-29 11:10:38 -1000
- Joined: Aug 23, 2012
Priscilla Penderghast had a lovely smile, the sweetest disposition, and dreamed of seeing the wonders of the world. Really she had everything going for her, save for one tiny, miniscule, barely-worth-mentioning setback...
Priscilla Penderghast was dead.
Dying itself hadn’t been a particularly pleasant experience, as one can hardly call pneumonia enjoyable, but Priscilla still recalled fondly the single day that ultimately lead to her untimely demise.
It started as a bright, cloudless winter day. The kind of day that that is so sunny it looks as if it should be warm. The sun glistened off snow-covered fields and icicles sparkled along eaves. Priscilla had pulled on layers of silk underclothes, wool breeches, her winter coat and a new set of burgundy, knit mittens and matching hat that had been a Christmas gift from her great aunt Mona on her father’s side. As Priscilla grabbed her ice skates out of the hall closet her mother called out to her from the kitchen, “be careful not to catch a cold and don’t forget that Mr. & Mrs. Mallory would be joining us for supper!” “Yes Mother, I’ll remember,” Priscilla had replied as she pulled the front door shut behind her.
Priscilla still remembered, but she had caught cold, and worse. For weeks she laid in bed, coughing and weak with fever, while doctor Corning had come and gone, her mother wept, and her father paced in his study. As she died Priscilla remembered the day she spent gliding and swirling across the icy pond beyond the field: how cold it had been and how that cold couldn’t compare to the chill deep in her bones as the fever took her life.
As far as afterlives went though, Priscilla had little cause for complaint, other than growing lonely has the years went by. She had stayed in her family’s home, an ornate Victorian place with turrets and high ceilings. When the Penderghast family had occupied the house there were fires in every hearth, frequent dinner parties, and pleasant smells from the kitchen permeated every room. The land around the house was full of fields and out buildings, ponds and groves of trees. Priscilla had silently watched life go by for her family, sharing in their joys and disappointments and after her parents were both gone (and had decided to move on, rather than haunt the halls as Priscilla did) her brother returned from University with a new bride, and the cycle started again. She watched another generation of Penderghasts grow up and grow old. Occasionally one of the children claimed their closet was haunted or someone glimpsed her out of the corner of their eye, but mostly her half-existence went unremarked.
And so many years went on that way for Priscilla though she never aged a day.
It was hard for Priscilla to pinpoint exactly when things changed. She supposed it had happened gradually without her notice as she watched what went on inside the house but never took note of things beyond her walls. However, things beyond those walls did change.
The family eventually fell on hard times and the city sprawled out, encroaching on their land. Paved roads and housing developments crept up until the stately manor stood as an island lost in time amid a sea of progress.