Cold bitter winter. Not like North Carolina where the winters were sweet, wet, and dripping with a Mother's passion. This was a lonely cold with no hot chocolate, mittens by the fire, or a lullaby to lull me to sleep. Every perch of wood in the still night was dry. The leaves crunched tenderly underneath small vermin feet, and soil bent for deer hooves. The owl was the conductor for night. A stretch of thin, opaque grey clouds peeked through the trees.
I felt like a poet chilled by death, and sorrow, and night.
I was on one of those perches of wood. A small porch with a creaking lantern, hanging from a yard-long chain already aged and coated with rust. The lantern light was dim and chalky yellow, instead of a warm orange like I expected. There was a whimpering cry carried in the breeze, brazing my lips purple.
I turned to the wind and stood, holding a thin papery coat to my bare freckled shoulders. If I hadn't looked down to see the loosely knitted cloth, I would have thought I was wrapped in dried leaves. 'Mom, forget the firewood and come home,' I thought, before stepping into the lonely backyard with no companion but the stars.
It wasn't until my feet and hands began to tingle and go numb from the cold that mom appeared. I was smiling at first, relieved to see Mom with jet black hair and moonlit silvery skin. But a familiar pleasant sensation turned to dread when I saw the mom that studied me with a wandering lure, like fishbait attracting mon prey.
"Hush, Mallorie, fair 'nan swell 'tis moi heart," Mom whispered, musical and gentle.
Suddenly a great shadow loomed overhead, from behind her. She had no time to reach me, her arms outspread towards me. Grasping for me, but not ever reaching. I tried to move from the shadow gripping my mom, but my feet were stagnant and refused to follow my commands.
Before I could raise a finger, a shrill scream violently shook me out of my constant calm.
"Ashmodai!"
And I woke with extreme terror tenaciously ripping away my wildly thumping heart.