Two Broken Candles

There was once an awe-inspiring mansion built on the far reaches of a neverending road.
And within that mansion, resting there on the never ending checkered pattern of the marble tiles,
by the dying flames still dancing over the weathered stones of a formidable fireplace,
there was once an old wooden chest.
And within that old wooden chest, carefully folded like a priceless relic,
there was once a beautiful butterfly-shaped silk scarf.

There was once a little girl. Inquiring eyes and tiny hands,
a fragile silhouette holding a porcelain doll...

The little girl opened the old wooden chest cautiously, took the scarf out and laid it flat,
opening the wings of the butterfly on the warming tiles, next to a small hand mirror.
Catching briefly her own moonlight bathed reflection in the looking glass,
she held her doll close to her chin and started to rock her gently.
Humming a lullaby from times gone, she barely heard the steps behind her.
A ghostly shape moved silently towards her and looked over her shoulder.
Dark, ominous, the dominating shadow revealed itself. A tall man, his skin white as milk,
holding tight to an antique sword taken from a wall display.

Feeling a shiver down her spine, the little girl raised her head and swivelled.
The tall man raised his sword.
As the little girl was about to scream, the tall man clenched his teeth,
ran to the door and left the room.

Alone, wary and anxious, the little girl replaced the scarf and the mirror
inside the old wooden chest. She closed the lid delicately and locked it.
Then, she grabbed the cold lifeless hand of her porcelain doll and went wandering
through the twisted corridors of the mansion. She finally reached the
balcony overlooking the grand circular hall. Right there, in the center,
as if the mansion had been built around it, was growing a magnificent oak tree,
its dense foliage undulating in the pale moonlight shining through an ancient
glass dome roof, its tentaculary roots piercing through the floor tiles.
Raising on her toes, the little girl peeped over the banister
and there she spotted the threatening shadow of the tall man.

Looking for something or someone, he went around the tree.
Hesitating, he didn't see the orb of pulsating white light
emerging from one of the nearby corridors and speeding towards him.
Whirling briskly, the man raised his hands to protect his eyes.
The blinding beam rammed into him.
Gasping a silent shriek, the man was smashed against the rough trunk.

The air suddenly went deathy still.
The little girl ran down the stairs frantically.
She froze in terror, her breath caught midway through her throat.
There, before her frightened eyes was the tall man,
hanging like a pityfull puppet,
dead in the old tree,
impaled on one of the gnarly branches.
The little girl let go off her porcelain doll.
Its head hit the marble floor and cracked open,
oozing dark blood that stained its delicate linen hair.

There was once a decaying mansion, built on the far reaches of nowhere.
No one but the passing time had witnessed the long agony of the withering old tree.
No soul had ever heard again of that fragile little girl with her porcelain doll.
No hand had ever grabbed the smooth shiny brass knob of the grand door.

Until now...