by KYLA 

The darkness, the siren, the blood
crackling down like rawhail, distancing the fire of each victim’s cry.
The peeling of pain and the production of suffocating dust.
Luxurious, yet frightening.
The echoing of former conversations, the memory of past bench trials,
the raging image of accusations
swirling around.
The scythe,
the shadow,
the victims,
the blood.
Ghostly figures dance along the very memory of living, the flashback of each slaughter.
The disappearance of each….then, the thick silence of lost time.

by KYLA

It is more than just an island. It is like Harry Potter’s cloak as it disappears behind the cloudy fog. It is a hunting place, surrounded by futile cries. Every time someone is invited, they never return. The authorities have investigated it many times. SOme of them disappeared as well. The officers return with blood stained uniforms. Each officer sits in jail for a conviction of murder. The rain melts any evidence and the old manor remains. A dark shadow clouds it constantly, craving the taste of the red, cursed soup that spills before the ground.

There are no caves, only the manor. There isn’t a trap nor hiding place, only a shadow. Nothing but thin air, yet death is clawing at the foggy curtains that surround the island. Yet, not a scream nor tear pierces the atmosphere.