At night, they say, is a terrible whisper. A croak more than a whisper actually, they say. It calls out to those that wander the wood under dim moonlight. It taunts the lovers who flee the noise and light of the village, to wrestle their lust away from prying eyes. It tempts the children, fat with laziness and sloth with the prospect of candy and other confections. It scents the air with musky lust to those men stumbling home after a hard night's drink.
It waits there. Silent and calm like the grave with just as many bodies beneath, they say. Me, being a man of reason and science, detest these tales. Not that i abhor fantasy, i actually while away many a hour between the covers of peculiar tales of far away places, rather i detest the notion of fear manifesting itself. Fear is, as many would agree, healthy in moderation. Like a stiff drink, one or two can make you keen amd aware, any more and you're babbling to any who will listen. All things in moderation. Fear is a curious drug.
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