Demons skulk the road less travelled, alone until a disturbance wakes their hunger. Will our hero survive?
Golden fingers crept forward, tinting each blade of grass as dusk rippled through the air. The nightfall had a melancholy hue about it, nothing to do with the trail of a lonesome piano melody that had begun with the return of the twilight. Across the vista, the only thing that remained in the air was that skeletal tone, a duet with the darkening sky.
When the vision of the sun had sunk low enough that not even pricks of orange-gold were still visible, it was then that the landscape gave way to its prize, the silhouette of a castle, seemingly built out of the hill that bore it. Inside its halls, movement would give the impression of lives living within those walls, but only the night gave away such obvious shadows; instead, one would not be able to define the mechanisms of the dying building from those figures within.
For there were residents within such a place on the moors, left alone for their own comfort. Any watcher would have seen the ritual visitors who never left more than a token of themselves, a shoe abandoned hastily, a piece of a cloak torn on the bridge. Any watcher would see those shadows, perhaps passing them by as nothing, despite the solemn solidification of consciousnesses.
Maybe those pianissimo echoes of the composers once so famous, so clear, would bring back memories of existence to any soul who happened that way.
But there was nobody to keep an eye on the road less travelled. If there had ever been, such a person would have quickly been swept away by not the mystery of the place, but by the evil that it held within its gaping teeth.