He dipped his quill into the ink pot and quickly began scratching away at the parchment; his swift hand movements, although know to be so quick throughout the land, could still not keep up with the invigorating image burning in his mind. A girl, walking through the forest - always the same forest - wearing a long white gown and with skin so pale it would challenge that of the moon.
Frantically, he spilt a few drops of black ink on the desk, but it did not matter, for he knew that soon the image would leave him, and he must not hesitate to write such visions, for one with his wisdom and knowledge would understand how vital it was that these pictures should be written down and recorded. The girl was terrified as she walked down the path; the forest was awake that night, and alive no doubt, wild and angered and ghastly. The branches moved down and whipped her, and so she fell; a dark swamp caught her and began to suck her under with a floor of quicksand. Mud flowed into her dear white face; screaming she desperately crawled out, and while pushing herself away from that place, a black wind blew and beat her backwards.
The writer was hyperventilating. His heart was beating fast, but not as fast as the blurring image in his mind of the girl. Standing up, dirty and scared, she ran, knowing the monster was only a second behind. There was no more path to follow now, for the forest had grown so much in her way. To her left, a murder of crows flew upon her and attacked with their vicious claws and beaks. Dizzy, she swiped with her arms as they soon fell away, before she tripped and slid further into the hungry trees with rocks sharp and hot, fresh from the fire.
The feather of the quill was moving faster than ever before in its life for the writer could barely keep up, as the girl was pushed along. Massive boulders from the nearby mountains fell and attempted to crush her in their wake. The leaves of the forest floor were now, she realised, dead bodies of birds, with fallen sticks becoming snakes that spat at her. Ghosts flew down from above, pain slashed at her from every angle, the trees moved forward and took her limbs, she was held down by them, on top of all the bodies, wind beat upon her, there was no escape, she could hear the monster coming and saw threw the sparkles in her eyes the ever growing blake smoke, she would die, she would die, her blood spilt out as she saw the most hideous face of the beast, she drew all the breath she could...
She screamed.
Louder than ever.
The beast came upon her...
The writer gasped as he was thrown backwards onto his seat. Breathing heavily, he knew he had just witnessed another fall to the hands of that forest. The beast had taken another soul and was temporarily satisfied, it would hide for a short while now, but the writer knew he would wake again, and again, be more hungry than the last time, just like every time.
He looked towards the drops of ink on the table. They weren't black anymore. Instead, they were three drops of bright crimson.
Far away, in the midst of an average green forest, a while off the path, lay a girl wearing a long white gown and with skin so pale it would challenge that of the moon. She might have been asleep, if it wasn't for the countless scars that bit into her flesh.
And by the side of a neck was a slash greater than any other on her body, yet from there no blood came. It had all been taken. And if one was to find such a pure body lost, they would have read the complete and absolute fear in her eyes if they ever dared to open them.
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