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The window remains open, the wind shifting the curtains. The moonlight shines in, casting shadows about the room. The ghost of a laugh remains. Or maybe, it was a scream. The girl was a beauty at even such a young age. Her ebony hair, her pale, pale skin, red lips. Her red-stained dress, as dark as blood. She hangs, suspended in mid-air by a myriad of wires shooting out from all four sides of the room. They shot through her fragile body, piercing skin, flesh, and bone. They wrapped around her, embracing and leaving behind swollen and bleeding kisses. Plip, plop. Plip, plop. Her blood drips down in a steady rhythm. Plip, plop. Plip, plop.