November 1st 1422
"Oh blessed womb, lead me to not where i fear but rather to where you call me. Call me to that where is kind, peaceful and safe." Claire rose to her knees, her belly far larger than the size of any melon swayed her.
"Careful." Her husband warned as he grasp her hand.
She smiled though pain mired her face. "I keep telling you…" she spoke rather out of breath, "it is natural for any woman to go through such pains especially at such a time."
"I am well aware you are heavy with child but it is no reason why i should not care for you, dear wife."
"We are yet to pick a name however." Claire said.
"We are yet to know the gender yet at all." Her husband laughed. "Come now, i promised you to supper after your prayers."
Claire nodded and moved to walk—
and then froze.
Her breath hitched.
Her husband's smile faded. "Claire?"
Her fingers tightened around his wrist, gradually at first, then with sudden, alarming force. Her back arched as though some unseen current had struck her spine. A tremor rippled through her limbs—small at first, then violent enough that the floorboards beneath her knees shuddered.
"Claire!" he shouted, catching her shoulders.
Her muscles seized as if pulled by strings. Her arms drew into rigid angles she could not have chosen; her head snapped back, eyes widening—unfocused, too wide, as though she were staring at something far beyond him.
The air around her shifted.
Her breath grew shallow, each exhale weaker than the last. A strange pallor washed over her skin, draining it of warmth and color, as though something within her was being pulled away—taken, not lost.
The prayers she had whispered moments ago still clung faintly to her lips, but now they trembled with a soundless plea.
Her husband held her trembling body to his chest, his own voice cracking.
"Claire, stay with me—look at me—Claire!"
But her gaze drifted upward, unfocused, almost luminous in its vacancy. The tremors wracking her body intensified once more, then abruptly ceased, leaving her limp in his arms—her breath thin, fragile, barely a thread.
On the day of her funeral, few gathered, even fewer mourned, it was not uncommon for a woman like 'her' to live long enough to see the fruit of her womb.
It was but a whisper of gossip that she and her husband had gone to obscene lengths to carry a child.
Indulging in satanic acts, Witchery and demonic possession. All of these were the key to an early death.
Still, even in death, she worked her hands twitching, her face grimacing, her uterus contacting time and time again.
Because within her death lived.
Born from a corpse, minutes passed and it… she began to walk. To move. To speak. And then she began to feel. Hunger.
Her mothers corpse was Relatively fresh. Cold but fresh enough to consume.
And she grew until the size of the coffin got too small for her.