A darkling drabble offers a shiver of horror in a hundred words…
It was quiet in the forest. Too quiet. The small things made no noise, and the busy brown birds hushed their chatter. The old woman sniffed the air. A smell of man sweat made her wrinkle her nostrils even as she climbed into the arms of a tall tree. The witch hunters dragged their prey into the clearing, laughing coarsely. She was young and might have been comely once; now she was just a smear on the forest floor. A smear whose blood awoke the hungry ones. The hunters screamed, but their prey died with a smile on her lips.
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