You can still feel it, can't you? The warm breath on your cheek after you wake from your nightmarish slumbers. The hot condensation whispering in your ear, memories of the tales you just submerged yourself in. In the witching hours, these tales of macabre will penetrate your anxious mind. You will ruminate on the bloody, rusted scissors, left lying on the floor. The swaying, humming, skeleton will burn her image into your memory. The purring, cooing, demon will lull your eyes closed. The screeching owl who collects infants’ bones and devours damsels’ souls will smother your mouth shut with her bloody, feathered wings. These tales will entrap you in their embrace and remind you that there is no escape.
Claws shredded the canvas backpack, accompanied by screaming and screeching. Shay's eyes were still clouded with a foreign visitor. Her body emitted a sinister presence. She lurched and twisted towards her basement stairs. From within her bag a feral hissing and screaming. Claws were digging into her back, little beads of blood forming with ……