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“Voices. Women's voices, like in the old ghost stories. But they weren't screaming, crying as they drowned--- they were singing. This beautiful, lilting music--- I couldn't make out the words but I remember it sounded almost like a folk song. It comforted me, made me feel safe, somehow. It was different for Danny. His whole body froze. I could smell the fear coming off him. But there was something else, too. A kind of... desire." Lucy thinks, but doesn't say, how intertwined those things are. Fear and desire. How one can become the other so easily. All it takes is the tightening of a hand on your wrist, your throat.” — Emilia Hart
Voices. Women's voices, like in the old ghost stories. But they weren't screaming, crying as they drowned--- they were singing. This beautiful, lilting music--- I couldn't make out the words but I remember it sounded almost like a folk song. It comforted me, made me feel safe, somehow.
It was different for Danny. His whole body froze. I could smell the fear coming off him. But there was something else, too. A kind of... desire."
Lucy thinks, but doesn't say, how intertwined those things are. Fear and desire. How one can become the other so easily. All it takes is the tightening of a hand on your wrist, your throat.