“We’re sorry about your wife,” everyone said to the Leader.
“Thank you,” he answered, wiping away a single tear. “I shouldn’t have let her into my heart. I’ll be wiser next time.”
She hadn’t simply been let into his heart: she had been let into his home. And once in, she couldn’t be removed. She rattled the windows and stole everything she could.
He married her for her psychic abilities, and killed her for not using them to grow his cult. Before her death, she had tried to convince everyone to leave before the Leader killed them. She had been treated as if she were already a ghost.
The former Consort would save them, even if they didn’t realize they needed saving. She slowly extended her reach through the walls, among the rats and dust. They spread, gave birth to litters, trapped skin cells, and grew. Once she had control of the building she simply lifted it into the air.
Cultists screamed as they rose skyward… all but one. The Leader remained on the ground, the floor beneath his feet not rising with the rest. It broke off, creating an island in the floor.
Dramatic, perhaps, but the Consort had long learned the import of symbolism. She dropped the building on his head, crushing him beneath the weight of his own shrine.