The Witching Hour
Come closer and listen to the tales of wonders of those who roam the earth and haunt our dreams; tales full of howls and tears, and screams tearing the night apart. Come closer to the fire so the hollow eyes cannot see you for they will take you and sharpen their teeth on your bones if you venture into the woods after the darkness has fallen.
Listen to the whispers of those forgotten and turned into stories and tales spinning on our tongues like golden threads. They are dust in our eyes, blood on our fingertips, and the magic of our breath. Echo still carries the sounds of their songs, their voices tangled in the roots of the oldest trees, drowned on the bottom of the seas, shattered and carried by the wind to the end of the world.
They will never leave. They cannot leave. They linger and seize us with their ravenous hands, enchant with trills and lullabies, their bodies of veils and shrieks, and coldness.
They reign over the night, the dead, the wicked.
Do not listen to their tales.