This is a poem surrounding the many unexplainable deaths that occur.
|The night is cold, the sky like black velvet.|
The moon has disappeared behind a silver cloud.
As the wind whispers through the trees,
a sudden feeling of fright creeps over me.
There's movement in the trees.
The shadows are dancing, leaping, prancing.
a swift movement of something nearby.
Will this be the night of which I die.
I see ice colds hands, as white as a sheet.
Reaching for me, there's no time to scream.
I run, I trip, I run again,
now I have fallen, but I can't get back up.
The shadows are growing, the wind is howling.
The white hands are closer now, prowling.
They scoop me up in arms so strong,
as my life runs away, my conscioussness is gone.