It’s quiet, deadly quiet.
There roses around my windowsill,
Once a vibrant red are black as a raven.
The music of the hell-hound Howling to the night
Grows louder, frightfully louder.
A gust of wind flings open my window
As my diary blows open,
Pages torn out,
Flying all around me.
My new bottle of midnight-blue ink falls,
Shattering on my hardwood floor.
The wild hunt is looming closer, closer,
The baying of the hell-hounds Looming closer, closer.
I close my eyes.
I do not emit a sound.
I cannot open my eyes.
They would get me.
They are there,
The dark fairies cries
Like fingernails dragged across concrete.
The banshee is here
With the morning wails of death,
The hell-hounds with their paws
Never touching the ground.
Now, comes the worst of all:
The carriage of death,
With the pooka at the lead.
The dark fairies bite and scratch.
Blood curses down my body.
There is pain, so much pain.
I open my eye
And there throbs blood red light.
Am I dead? I cannot say.
All I know is that I am now
The Mistress of the wild hunt.
