Yet, it is not the howling that sends a shudder though a soul. Once you try to sleep a night or two here in this dark woods, you learn to set aside that moonlight screaming and make it but an aspect of the night. No, the fear comes when you notice the pack taking their stations across the moonlit snowfields. One by one, they find their places, sit on their haunches and begin staring. They will just sit there by the hour, just staring at the Lodge.
The Grey Ghosts do that now and then. They sometimes come and keep a ghastly, somehow oily watch over this cursed Lodge, as if they were some enchanted Order of Greyfriar monks chanting last rites for some departed, ancient soul.
In the frozen air, the heated breath of the wolves has the look of smoke escaping from a smoldering deep within their hot-blooded hearts. In the icy moonlight, their eyes become blazing coals with the look amber if amber were ever to catch fire. And they listen, ears alert, as if listening for some unseen Master to issue the next silent command. They will do this with little regard for the passing of time, as long as there is moonlight and as long as there is present some mortal human soul to haunt.
Tonight, the grey fellows had come to visit. I look out through the sheer curtains, and they arrive at their posts. There they are, the ghostly six, staring toward the Lodge, awaiting for my surrender to their will, to come forth and meet my God forsaken fate. I have yet to yield, but I fear my time will come, and I will join those bones that have been dragged back into the wild, screaming.