From, Blood’s History: Another Death
My mother has never truly left my house. After I killed her on the table, we butchered her corpse and buried the pieces at the cardinal points of the compass. Despite these efforts, and others which I choose not to name, she remained in her sewing room. No locks can hold the door shut; no shutters can bar the windows.
In July of 1842, Atticus Coffin and his young niece, Gwen, paid us a visit. The child, only six at the time, went chasing after one of the cats. Before we could stop her, she vanished into my mother’s sewing room. A heartbeat later, the child came staggering back into the hall, clutching her doll to her chest.
When Gwen turned around to race into her father’s open arms, her eyes were those of my mother, and in the child’s free hand was a darning needle.
Atticus twisted away from the death blow, but still, the possessed child slashed and stabbed with wanton glee. She battered Atticus to the floor and would have killed him had I not intervened.
I dragged her off of him, and I bear the scars of the needle still.
It is a terrible thing to kill a man’s child in front of him.
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