text: The sun set as the boy trudged through the woods. Dark and cold, the only sound was the crack of fresh frost under boots as he marched, searching. It would not get away. With each determined step, the scent of blood grew thicker. The boy nearly tripped, dropping his gun. He looked down, a wet gash in the forest floor, revealing dark dirt underneath, slick with cooling blood. The boy picked up his gun and followed the deep gash in the dirt, clawed footprints on either side. A cold winter wind gusted through the trees, driving the scent gore towards him. But the boy continued, rage inuring him to cold and fear. He came upon a clearing, alone, the scent of violence and death thick. The last fading lights of the winter sun shone through the trees, illuminating the grotesque thing on the other side of the clearing, a deep crimson line cut into the crisp white snow leading up to it. Long and snake like, the thing, slicked with blood, wore a goats skull for a head, curling its body into an undulating mass from which arms and legs would appear and withdraw. It leveled its head at the boy. He saw a small girl in the center of the of the macabre pile of flesh and muscle. Rage, white hot and forged hard like steel, guided him, he raised his gun, without a quiver of cold or fear, and fired. ■ The sun rose, light streaming softly through the window as a small girl played with her doll. She played lazily, nervously peeking out the window at the rolling hills painted white with snow, the path toward the village winding over and between them until it bent around one too far and she couldn’t see any further. She couldn’t see, but she knew that it led down to the village, and she knew that father should be heading back by now. She played and she watched, she saw her brother walk to the barn, tending to the animals. She played and she waited, her mother busied herself in the kitchen. Finally, after the sun just passed midday, she say him, small as he rounded the hill carrying a large bundle. She waited patiently by the door, until, finally, the door opened. She squealed and lept to hug her father, but he pushed her away, distracted, and walked passed her, toward the basement. She slumped by the door, and heard the basement door slam. After supper, her father had not returned. She krept to the basement door and eased it open. She made her way down the stairs silently, near the bottom she heard her father. He was chanting, then he stopped and swore loudly. She cringed back at the sound reflexively, but continued onward. He began the chant again as she reached the bottom of the stairs. She peered around the corner and she saw him, naked, bowing in front of a severed goat's head, dripping upon the metal spike that skewered it, he was draped in the guts of the thing, dyed crimson by them, and surrounded by a circle and symbols drawn in blood smeared across the floor. She screamed. His head snapped toward her as he finished his chant, his eyes igniting with rage. He bolted to her, grabbing her roughly by the upper arm and smacked his hand over her mouth, silencing her. He hefted her, dragging her toward the circle, throwing her into the center of it. She tumbled to a stop staring up the the spiked goats head. The flesh was now rotting off the thing, sloughing off in meaty chunks and landing at the base of the spike, where they slowly grew. She resumed her scream, only to be cut off by a swift kick to the stomach. Her father was swearing and yelling, not loud enough to be heard outside the basement. He was intense, gripped by an unholy rage as he laid blame upon the girl for his failing. He kicked again. She stared up at the goat, the skull was now clean, the flesh piled at the bottom into a thick mass forming a rough, bodily, shape. She watched the skull, no longer able to scream, as her father paced. He talked to himself, working himself into a rage, unaware of the monster or his daughter. Until she moved. He let out a curse and grabbed her and threw her again. She whimpered as he raised his fist. The skull watched. ■ The sun was setting behind the trees as the boy finished his chores around the farm. He went into the house looking for supper and was met with the smell of gore. Nauseous, he made his way toward the origin of the smell, toward the basement. Pulling the door open, he vomited. The air was sticky with the scent of death, the smell washing over him, permeating every inch of him. He made his way down the stairs, the feeling of blood in the air mixing with the smell of his own fresh vomit caused his world to spin, almost sending him tumbling down the stairs. At the base of the stairs he saw a splash of red on the wall, as well as the stuff pooling near the bottom of the last step. With pounding heart he turned the corner. Once in the room he collapsed, hands splashing on the floor, retching. The room, lit by candles and the fading light of the winter sun flowing through the small window near the ceiling, was bathed in crimson, dripping from the ceiling and walls. In the center of the room was a mangled corpse, twisted and broken, its entrails littered across the floor, lifeless eyes facing him. He recognized his father and his stomach dropped, grief and despair preparing to take root. But now all he could do was look. In the corner of the dark room, a small undulating mass of rotten meat wrapped around his sister. Above it, connected by crimson flesh, a pristine white goats skull. Like a flash the skull flew around his sister, wrapping around her like a macabre snake, and flew past him up the stairs, slamming into the walls with meaty thunks, and leaving streaks of crimson and pieces of gore in its wake. The boy pulled himself up the stairs, collapsing at the top then stumbled to the door. The thing left a deep furrow in the ground leading to the woods. He ran to his father’s room, found his old rifle, and ran into the woods after the thing, rage steeling his nerves.