[Seasonal Event] Table for one, please

… And make the first move they do. Wessex steadies herself, even though she would rather turn and swipe at the invisible, shadow-flitting things. Her confidence lies in her ability to kill, to vanquish, to outrun and outlast. So what’s a girl to do when you can’t kill it, can’t make it go away, can’t run from it, and haven’t the foggiest if you could endure this (whatever this is for a week? At least her flight or fight response has been curtailed. It’s beginning to seem as if she were made for fucked up situations. Where anyone else would run, she can only make conscious decisions with an effectively neutered sympathetic nervous system. All that’s left is mind over matter. Mind over matter. She repeats the phrase in her head when footsteps begin to appear and the rocking chair stops moving. When the air around her grows cold (not that she can feel it), and she sees the faintest outline of letters on the floor. R. E…. Re - what? Return? Rescue? Resist? Religion? Rejected? Re… re… resurrection? No. This couldn’t be a message specifically for her. But she can’t think of any threatening words that start with RE, nor anyone’s names… so Wessex decides to stay as she is, and is subconsciously so very glad that she doesn’t have a heart pounding a hundred miles per hour in her chest. WESSEX come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts unsex me here