It is dark.

The night is like a blanket of evil,

Engulfing the bay with it's cruelty.

Trees look like skeletons,

Pale and dry to the touch.

Branches extend to the ground,

Like spiders crawling down your spine.

Moonlight filters through the cracks in the black obsidian,

Shimmering like magical crystals of light.

I cower in the corner of the cave,

Dreading the sound of bone against gravel,

The scraping of metal against metal,

The raspy sound of a corpse breathing,

And the feeling of a cold knife plunging into my back.

Everything outside seems to have died.

The frigid night is so silent.

There is no occasional screeching of owls,

The pattering of paws,

Nor the scampering of rodents.

All is still.

Dead.

Then I hear it,

The inevitable sound of gravel against bone,

Of metal scraping against metal,

A corpse's raspy breathing.

Those are the last things I hear as the humanoid figure towers above me,

Like a wolf going in for the kill.