Samara

A scream fills the still and chilled night air. Her work is finished for tonight. She knows that someone's bound to find the tape in a couple of days. She turns away from the now recently deceased, and faces the old TV. Her wet black hair lifts in the cool breeze coming from the window, if you look at it against her skin; it looks like an oil spill in the arctic. She is just as deadly. Her flowing white gown was now stained from the murky waters of the well she stayed in. She continues to walk around the room for a moment taking in details of the room. She finds the recent pictures drawn by the now dearly departed. She saw herself, the drowned horses, and the top of the well. She sighed and yawned. She did not yawn because she was tired, she never slept, and she merely yawned because she was extremely bored. She took note that the

dead woman at her feet was a better artist than the last one. She sighed again and turned toward the TV. She then got on her knees and crawled back to the well.