Chapter 11

His imagination was such that he could see the scene outside of his cabin and in the forest around; shadows dissembling, seeming to be something other than they were or perhaps fooling one into believing the horror was a most common object, until cold, icy fingers clasped one about the throat. Even true nature was cruel. Birds and bats hunted the unfortunate insects that scurried under the sole light of the moon, its sparkling whiteness reflected in the bubbling steam that ran down through the valley eventually to reach the sea, the white mist rolling in up Main Street to mask the hills and cloak the forsaken in the mire. What manner of spirit might the mist transport in its depths? What horror might it conceal, so that it could traipse from door to door, seeking someone foolish enough to open up at its knocking?