By Brooke Whitcomb
The mist is within the foggy swamp, and the filling wind is rocking back and forth.
A spirit approaches my cabin with an eye as black as night and hair as red as blood. This is the night where she decides your fate, to live or to die, to have peace or to not; she will decide the light or decide the dark.
And so I wait, and wait, till the clock strikes 12, and that is when she’ll start the judgment. Wolves howl at the moonlit night, the wind blowing with chills of fright. The mist gets thicker and the howls get louder. The deeper I feel with fear, the more I tremble; the more I tremble, the more scared I become. With this fear, I feed her soul, for she is the decider of fear. I then turn from every corner, hearing the wolves come closer.
I soon get dizzy and I fall on the floor. The sounds of the wolves stop and the wind stops. Then I knew that she was here at the door.
The door then flies open, and the Girl comes inside, walking like the dead in her white, torn, flower dress, black eyes, bloody hair, and her little devilish laughter. The Lightning strikes and she is gone. Turning around, knowing she was there behind me…she wasn’t.
I then started to wonder if I was losing my mind, or if it were my imagination. I didn’t know. Then I heard a slight giggle from the little girl. I wanted to run; however, I knew if I did, I’d die anyway.
The giggle became louder and the wolves became closer and soon she is right in front of me, before my very eyes, and her eyes are black as night, and she has bloody red hair, just as the rumors say. My sight taking glimpse by glimpse of her and the devilish smile on her face…