The log cabin was nestled in between a few patches of tall trees, their thin trunks towering over the surroundings. The smaller trees and weeds had been cleared from around the structure, replaced by a birdbath, a simple little garden, and a scattering of rustic decorations. Smoke drifted out of the chimney. A single vehicle sat out front, a beat-up old sedan.

There was no rush. We made our preparations. A prayer to our mistress, she bid us bring fear.

The cabin was a bit of a mess. A mess in a cluttered yet pleasant way. No pests, rodents, or garbage were present. Instead, a guest would have to navigate stacks of document storage boxes, piles of papers, and other debris.

No wall remained bare. Paintings and posters, even a few tapestries decorated the cabin’s walls. Rustic furniture everywhere, much of it covered by junk sell trinkets and thrift store finds. A long and tall bookshelf was empty. The books that should have lived there were struin around the cabin, laying atop random things. Her nightstand alone was home to five volumes.

We peered in through the window. She lay in a bath. Soap bubbles floated on the surface of the water, clung to her shoulders. Music blasted from a stereo. Classical, a relic of that world’s past. It brought happiness just the same. A tray was stretched across the tub, a typewriter sat on it.

She swayed her head back and forth. Strands of her hair peeled off of her wet shoulders. Slender fingers found a few keys. Clacking sounds intruded on the music. Locked there in that moment of bliss, something from outside was channeled in, channeled through her.

The symphony reached its climax. She spotted us. The scream overcame the music. The woman tried to jump up, hit the tray, knocking it over. The typewriter fell into the bath, water splashed over the rim.

She scrambled over the edge. The woman presented her shining rear to us as she let herself slide out and onto the floor. Her body was slick with soapy water. Another cry of terror escaped her lips as she got up and bolted out of the bathroom.

The victim darted down the hallway, reached the bedroom. The true horror kicked in when she picked up the telephone and found it dead. Frantic, she looked around the room, mouth and eyes locked open.

Still soaking wet, still covered with suds, she dressed, throwing on whatever clothes she first laid eyes on. Then the woman simply stood there. Her breaths slowed. Terrified eyes looked around the room, desperate for anything of use, horrified at the prospect of catching another glimpse of us.

We broke the bathroom window. The sound sent her running again. In a flash she was out the door. She reached the car, pulled the door open. With impressive speed she was inside, had the doors locked.

A little tinge of relief, conquered as she turned the key. The engine failed to start. She tried it again, nothing. For a third time the key was turned, and still nothing. The car just sat there.

Our trip around the house was taken slowly. Why rush? We stepped up to the driver’s side door. The woman watched us as we advanced, gasping, turning the key over and over again.

We held the engine part up to the window, putting the piece of equipment on display. It dangled there, wires swaying back and forth. She stared at it, eyes tracking this metronome as it mocked her.

The woman’s next move came without warning. Diving across the seats, she opened the passenger door and made a break for it. Without looking back, she sprinted to the house. She slammed the door shut behind her, locked it. Then she leaned her back against it, as if to brace it. Thinking better of this, she turned and backed away from it.

The victim’s gaze stayed on the locked door, as if we would suddenly burst through it. Instead, we slipped in through the backdoor. We had already silently disabled the lock.

A shadow rolled across the front door as we blocked the light. She turned, watched in fascination as we closed the distance. No reaction. What could she hope to do?

We grabbed her by the throat and lifted her up, careful to keep our claws away from the critical veins. As we examined her, she kicked frantically. This female was a little too old to impregnate. Still, she would make a fine sacrifice.

We broke her neck. The snap was like the only sound that had ever been, like the beginning of the universe. The twisted voice sung to itself.

We checked the house. Sitting on her bed, we focused our awareness. Thousands, hundreds of thousands of words. The remnants of emotions, of heights obtained while beset by the creative spirit.

With glee the twisted voice read her writing. The charming voice sent praise to her escaped soul, cherishing her as one who embraced the coming of the grand festival. She had truly been a fine victim, an unwitting martyr.

We went outside, checked her vehicle. The maps it contained showed us the way forward. The township to the west, Orava, would be our destination. It was the seat of this rural county. After that, a mountain range. And beyond that, Diefenbaker, a sprawling suburb of a massive city. Its families would be the final sacrifice.

Distant clouds wore lovely pink. What we could see of the horizon blazed orange behind the tall trees. The creatures of the night returned to their dens.

We found a little cave. It was there that we slept the day away. Our dreams were of the old charnel house on the Nilhiouc plateau.