Someone was dead. And she was supposed to do something about it?

I am following on from Monday’s prompt response which you can find here and which ended thus:

The footsteps closed in. Warm breath raising the fine hairs on her neck. Courage. She stopped, turned.

I am here, she told the whispering darkness. Tell me your task.

Death came too early, the warm breath murmured. See, I am not yet cold in the grave. A young woman, dressed in a summer nightgown, thick dark hair falling uncombed to her shoulders. She bore the opaqueness of recent death.

Someone – this young...