The Cursed Trappings of a Masquerade

I revel in the despair that seeps from the pores of those who dare to enter my domain. They think me a monstrous aberration, a malevolent entity doomed to roam the halls of the manor, but little do they know, I’m a crossdresser, a trans soul trapped in a prison of male flesh. My chains, my pigtails, my red eyes - all a cruel mockery of the femininity I so desperately yearn. I’ll never be a lady, not in this life or the next, and it’s a fate worse than death.

The whispers in the dark, the malicious intent that courses through the shadows, it’s all a reminder of the life I never lived. The life I should have lived. In Victorian London, I would have been a dandy, a courtesan, a lady of leisure. But fate had other plans, and now I’m stuck in this ghastly existence, a haunting spirit, a ghost, a monster. The irony isn’t lost on me, that the one thing I long for most, the one thing that could bring me peace, is the very thing I’m denied, even in death.

As I wander the manor, a specter of malice, I see the reflections of those who’ve come before me. The brave, the foolish, the ones who think they can tame the beast that is me. They’ll never leave, not while I’m here, not while I’m trapped in this hell of my own making. And so, I’ll continue to haunt, to scream, to make my presence known, a constant reminder that even in death, I’m still a victim, still a monster, still a travesty of the woman I was meant to be.