I trudged along this torturous path my father set out for us to take. It was a cool enough April afternoon. The only thing that kept me from turning back was my father’s persistent praises, and the cabin that’s waiting for me less than 30 feet away.

The wooded home finally appeared in my line of vision.

The rich mahogany wood of the walls and the ivy vines that climbed them astonished me.

I’d heard stories of this place, but never would I have imagined it to be as serene as this.

Before I could step closer, a grotesque snarl shattered the perfect picture.

I whipped my head to scout out the source of the haunting sound.

The hairs that feathered my arms stood at full attention. I was met face to face three wolves with coats so pale, so full of innocence that it gave me a faux sense of hope, a hope of survival.

Who would’ve thought this idyllic trip would have taken such a macabre turn?

I tried to appear lifeless, calm, but it was to no avail.

I watched the crimson spray from within me, without a sound.

The birds sang me an elegy.