It starts with a noise.
A single footprint embedded in the snow,
Leading towards the impervious darkness.
To the right a noise pierces the silence.
Will you enter the forbidden land,
Of dead pine needles and broken, clawing branches?
Placing feet so as not to be seen or heard,
Something black. Shiny. Dead, catches the eye.
Red. Spot. Red. Puddle.
Agony echoes in different pitched voices.
New prints are uncovered in the snow.
Follow the track, the screeching, shrieking, scratching.
Surrounded by inhuman glares of bloodlust,
Everything is alive. But.
A red puddle forms beneath the Moon’s friend.