Aliattan Anderson's Journal

<The first half of the journal is entirely unremarkable. A young man's struggles with growing up, supporting his family and their farm, making a living, dreams and aspirations, budding love, his favorite food, pets and horses...>$B$B<Rather suddenly, the neat ink handwriting is replaced with a much thicker writing. Black and smudged, as though scribed with a ghostly fingertip.>

DAY 1$B$BThe boy was so delicious looking in his innocence. We allowed him to sleep, sleep so softly beneath my willow tree. He was warmed by the fire, though our bodies could never warm him now. We watched his nose flare with each youthful breath.$B$BAnd how were we repaid? The boy kicked over the campfire to put it out. In the heat of summer, the fire spread, scorching my mushroom rings, the bark of my willow, my delicate grass blades...

DAY 4$B$BWe mourned, we sang songs of bereavement. It was my willow, so it is my vengeance. I followed his scent back to his farm. I observed the boy. He seemed to forget it already. I would make him remember.$B$BAt night, I so softly tapped against the window. Rapped against it. I smiled. I waved to him through the veil. Oh, the sweat of his brow! Oh, the fear in his eyes! Oh the strained beating of his heart!

DAY 15$B$BHe has barely slept. I always remind him I am watching. A scratching at the door, a flickering of the candles, a touch of breath against the nape of the neck, a pair of eyes in the fog. I can feel his mind growing tired, delirious, day by day.$B$BSo tired was he, he fell asleep on his feet. I allowed myself into his mind, smothered his thoughts, drowned his hopes. His body temperature dropped so deliciously. I will have to indulge myself in his dreams more and more...

DAY 32$B$BHis parents and friends know something is wrong. I told him not to tell. If he tells, that would make me so very upset and angry. I would be forced to extend his curse onto those he loves most. I would hate to have to do that. His parents are so very old, they would not make good dance partners. And his little love is not my type.$B$B I ran my invisible, cold fingers through his golden mane as he returned home, today. It was barely dusk, and I had not appeared to him so early as of yet. He did not even run. He is growing accepting of his fate.

DAY 56$B$BHe is almost gone. The boy has bags under his eyes, his hair is greying, he stutters and dares not to raise his eyes above floor level. His will is almost broken. I have begun whispering to him during the day as well as the night now. Join us... join us...$B$BHe will join us. He will join us around my willow. He will enter our circle. He will dance the black waltz. He will dance with us forever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and...$B$B<The same words are repeated for fifty pages.>