The shifting shadows with witchlight eyes were closer every
night. I had thought the fire was keeping them away, and piled on logs, hoping
to drive whatever they were away. Though I have run out of wood, the lights and
shadows haven’t taken me. But they have come closer every night. Their
unblinking, green eyes stare at me all night, vanishing with the return of the
sun, just before I think I can make out what they really are.
The cold is keeping me awake, and the stares. I shake as I
write, fearing the end is not far off.
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