When I was younger I used to wonder what Hell and Heaven were like. My mother always told me that Heaven was a place with silky white and gold clouds filled with eternal love and that Hell was hot like a witch’s pyre with a different torture everyday. And I believed her, because I had no proof otherwise. When you’re young, you never question adults because they always seem to know just what to do in every scenario. All knowing and all seeing, so why shouldn’t she be right? But there was no way my mother could have known she was wrong. You see, Hell isn’t a place under the ground. When you die, Hell is all around you and it never changes. Day after day with the same images and feelings that caused you to get there in the first place. No, my mother couldn’t have known she was wrong because women like her would never know what it's like to take a human life.

When I first met my husband-to-be, I had no idea who he truly was. All I knew was that he was a rich young man who wanted me, a rich young woman, as his bride. And truthfully, that was all my parents needed to know. With one stroke of ink on a feathered pen, they signed my life away to a monster of a man. He was an amiable gentleman to the public’s eye with a helping hand ready for anyone who needed it. He would often say that he was born into more money than many would receive for a life’s work of labor, and that it was his duty to use it for the betterment of our society. Oh, how those words mingled with his fair countenance to create a powerful warmth in my heart. I thought I had been blessed with a good husband to carry me through my years in comfort and companionship. Everyone agreed with my parents on the fact that he was a upstanding man; a perfect match for me. Everyone except my beloved little sister.

She was only two years younger than me, but more perceptive and delicate by far. She had porcelain hands and thoughtful blue pools for eyes. She loved me as much as I loved her. We were closer than most sisters, for there were no secrets between us. Fights were a rare and troubling occurrence, for they meant that something was truely amiss. And we never fought more than the last month before my wedding. At first she approved of my fiance and her only negative comment was that he was too humble. “Men who are too humble are hiding their pride dear sister,” she said. And I laughed at her sceptical tone. But she soon grew more serious in her opinion of him once he came to stay at our family manor the month before the wedding. His family lived far away so it was only natural he would wish to be closer to his future bride to help with wedding preparations. He was courteous to everyone that was equal to our “station”. Money and power gave you all of his kind words. The help, however, gained his scorn and disgusting attention. None of my family knew about his abuse to the servants except for my sister. The maids loved to talk to her and only her, for her kindness gave way to an open mindedness that attract people of all classes.

They told her all. Every gruesome detail. The complaining about even the smallest of mistakes, the habit of grabbing a braid to yank them to attention, and most disturbing of all, his devious affections upon the younger girls. Obviously, my sister came to me immediately with her newfound news. But, I didn’t believe her. I thought that she was just letting the kitchen gossip play with her bleeding heart. I told her she needed to realize that just because someone is in a position of less power than you, it didn’t mean they are always truthful. I still remember the look she gave me every time we had that discussion. A look of disbelief and hurt. I didn’t believe her because I was so caught up in my own fantasy of living happily ever after with a man of well renown. My indifference to her alarm was the greatest mistake I’d ever made.

My sister’s body was found at the bottom of the well a week before I was to be wed. A servant girl discovered her when she went to go fetch water for our breakfast.

I had no idea what was happening until my father sent for a group of men from town to help haul her up. I saw her body from my bedroom window. I heard my mother’s anguished wails and I saw the pale faces of the priest and the doctor. How could this have happened? Why? My mind stayed in a frozen state of shock as I knelt before the wilted flower that was my sister. Her once compassionate eyes were blank and still as a lake. The water had caused her golden hair to become brown and ratted. “We can’t explain it. She wouldn’t have fallen.” I hear the doctor conversing with my father. “ We saw her just that evening at supper.” What does he mean? “ I don’t mean to cause alarm right before the event sir, but is it possible your youngest had someone who wished her ill?” At that sentence I look up from the cold figure and into the crowd of people surrounding the scene. My eye was caught by a maid, no older than 16. The braid holding her chestnut hair in place brought everything back to a sudden clarity. There was indeed someone who would benefit from harming my sibling.

Soon after that horrific day, the young maid found me alone with my thoughts. Her hurried and concerned manner caused me to listen to her with earnest. She confirmed my fears of who was responsible for taking away my beloved flower. The maid had seen it all unfold for she had been protected by my sister from that man. His plan to ravish the poor girl had been interrupted by my sister who told him that he would soon be leaving our house once she told our family the truth of his actions. He would be denied my fortune and love and most likely all social status once word got out of just how he fell from my family’s favor. Needless to say, he was greatly angered by her words. Of just how he got her outside and into the well after he fell upon her in a fit of rage, the maid could tell me not. The child had fled the scene in terror soon after he had released her from his python’s grip. The only comfort the girl could give me was by giving me her kerchief once I fell upon the floor in a barrage of tears. “Is there nothing I can do? I am to be married to the monster who killed my brightest light! I do not wish to live in a word where her smile is concealed under the earth!” My whimpers of despair seemed to last an eternity. My mind could reach no happy ending. My tears ceased to flow only when I realised that there would be no fairy tale ending. My sister would never come back.

Upon this realization, my heart stilled. My mind, once previously filled with a whirlwind of grief, finally had found its anwer. If there is to be no happiness left for me in this life, then I shall not partake in it any longer. And the demon who brought this plague, this misery upon my house; he shall journey with me to the afterlife. The thought of murder had never crossed my mind in all my years of life, I assure you. I was taught only evil people took the lives of humans. I was no sociopath nor a deranged woman with a lust for blood. I simply wished to end my suffering and the possible suffering of women in the future in one fell swoop. My heart now calmed with the promise of an end to it all helped me keep my composure until the day of the union.

The actual event of the wedding was not as dark or dramatic as one may have guessed. People were relieved to finally have something to celebrate and celebrate they did. I do not believe I have ever seen so much marry making in one night ever- before or since. My smile was not fabricated, even though my happiness was not for the wedding itself. I finally felt as if the weight on my shoulders would be lifted soon enough. Nightfall would bring with it a carriage to the land of the dead where I believed my problems would be left behind with my body. I remember, however, the one thing that almost caused me to abandon my mindset. The thought that my parents would have to go through another funeral of a daughter caused me to pause as the festivities were beginning to die down. Would I really wish upon them more grief? Perhaps, I thought, I could learn to avoid him as much as possible. I could just move across the sea and only see him every summer. Then my mother would be spared more tears. But once my gaze came to rest upon my husband, all the feelings of hate resurfaced in my breast. That man could not continue his life with no punishment for what he had done. That I was sure of. And that is what really made me lift the gun from its wooden box inside the bedroom’s metal chest.

If you have read my entire tale just for the accounts of the deaths, then I believe you will be sorely disappointed dear reader. For my intent is not to enthrall you with horrific details of a black widow woman weilding a gun in a wedding gown. In my afterlife, the point of my death is not one I dwell upon often. No, I am simply here to warn you of the danger of holding on too tightly. It is not one’s circumstances in death nor one’s count of sins that creates a ghost. It is one’s attachment to their life’s memories. Many a owner of this house I have seen die. Yet, I am the only one who remains as a fragment after death. It is because of my unwillingness to let go of my guilt. My husband’s spirit never stayed with me in the dusty house after his death even though you could say his murder justified a resentment to moving on. It is just me, year after year. My heavy heart weighs me down and keeps me at the bottom of the bitter sea. The water swirling around me echos with sorrow. If only I had listened, I only I had been strong, if only I had saved her. My hand outstretched reaches for an escape from the memories of the life I left behind. My grief becomes a cold chain wrapped around my ankle. But still I can never free myself from this self made prison. The only cries that make it out are reduced to echoes in forgotten hallway. A light in a window flickers. Then, all is silent except for the distant sound of a woman crying in a long overgrown graveyard.