And she's standing there.

Twenty-three.

Twenty-three years that Renata Dimenticato endured perpetual torture.

Twenty-three scars she carries on her body.

The twenty-third hour of the day. An hour to midnight. She appears. Holding her torch, glowing fire illuminating, gleaming off blood, open wounds, seeping scarlet sins. Illegitimacy, as the torch lights her cheek. Disobedience, as it passes across her forehead. Adultery, one, two, three gashes on her chin. And they never faded.

Blonde hair, coarse with time, intricately done up, pins sticking out at ungodly angles, broken bones in a bird's nest, tied off with a braid, crossing her head like a bridge, falling apart and rotting. Grotesquely paralyzed by her, what would you notice if her torch dropped? If it fell into the water, rippling and leaping back like it too, was fearful? If fire took hold of the water, like oil, and burned the water to ash?

The aftermath would be deafening, not from an explosion, but from the silencing of her light. The edge of Whispering Bay had been guarded by her flickering presence for as long as anyone could remember. With the torch extinguished, the whispers would swell into screams, and the wind would lash out, carrying the brine and secrets of the deep. The bay would churn with unnatural force.

You would see, not with your eyes, but with your soul. The darkness would be absolute, and the veil would thin, then tear, revealing the things that lurked beyond. You'd see glimpses of gnashing teeth, burning eyes, and tendrils reaching out from the blackness. You'd understand why the villagers feared the silence before Renata's appearance, why they never spoke her name aloud, and why they offered silent prayers for protection.

Renata, despite her appearance and perceived madness, was their shield. Her pain and scars kept the horrors at bay. With the torch extinguished, the horrors would come, and you'd be among the first claimed. The water would freeze you from the inside out, solidifying you into a silent statue of terror. In the morning, the villagers would find you, your soul cleansed of sin, and quietly know it was time to find another Dimenticato.