The girl, or what had been a girl at one time, never spoke. Not in any language that could be understood, anyway. She just made some sort of keening, like some animal that had existed so long ago that nothing and no one had recorded it. It was a sound that was ancient and primal and bone chilling, simply because it was so raw.

She always wanted to tell the girl that there was no way this could exist, that it was a dream. But just as she couldn’t turn and walk away, she had no ability to speak. And after a minute or two it didn’t seem to matter. She’d already seen the bloodstain on the front of the girl’s dress, the liquid soaking out from between her legs and through the mud caked into what had been white lace over blue satin at one time, long ago.

She knew who the girl was. She’d never have been able to give her a name, because that memory wasn’t available to her. She didn’t know if it ever had been. But she knew her, as well as she knew herself. Better, even. And it still didn’t matter.

She wanted to ask the girl why she came, every night. It was just a kitchen; there was nothing at all special about it. But the girl would stand there in her bloodstained, muddy dress with half her face torn off, and she would grin as if she knew some hilarious joke that she wouldn’t share. And it always seemed to be better that way, not knowing the reason behind the grin.

The fingers along the back of her arm always scared her enough to scream, but she never could. And then things would be measurably better, because the fingers were alive and they belonged to someone she knew, someone who wasn’t bleeding out with half her face torn off.

“Jesus Christ, Jenny,” she’d always say as soon as it was possible to make any sound at all, and after that, any sound other than screaming. “Get out of here. This is just a dream, but it isn’t a good dream.” She never knew why she said it; it sounded like something you shouldn’t say. Especially not a time like this. But Jenny never seemed to mind her lack of eloquence.