The scarlet moon rises in the inkly sky as the night's creatures begin to walk, roaming the darkness of the forest in search of themselves.
One mustn't fall subject to their pleads, the withered remnants of their voices, ever begging the souls of the living for a piece of their life. Bit by bit, piece by ever growing piece will their soul be taken, until nothing remains but a breath, a whisper, barely a silhouette of who they used to be as their stolen soul is used as a vessel for another to move on.
Now bound to the forest, they crawl. Endlessly they will search for another, a living soul to replace them to be able to move on. A fruitless attempt for many, and a miserable existence for all.
So on your way home, when the bushes rustle, and the forest whispers louder, do not spare a thought or glance to the forest's edge. The whispers are not real.
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