No wonder, I thought, that the Northerners in their land
of heath and bog were the poets of elves and goblins and
of the fear of ghosts. Shrouds were these fogs, hanging
and waving and floating shrouds! Mocking spirits were
plucking at them and setting them into their gentle
motions. Gleams of light, that dance over the bog, lured
you in, and once caught in these veils after veils of
mystery, madness would seize you, and you would wildly
dash here and there in a vain attempt at regaining your
freedom; and when, exhausted at last, you broke down and
huddled together on the ground, the werwolf would come,
ghostly himself, and huge and airy and weird, his body
woven of mist, and in the fog's stately and leisurely
way he would kneel down on your chest, slowly crushing
you beneath his exceeding weight; and bending and
straightening, bending and stretching, slowly--slowly
down came his head to your throat; and then he would lie
and not stir until morning and suck; and after few or
many days people would find you, dead in the woods--a
victim of fog and mist...
A rumbling sound made me sit up at last.
Pages:
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67