The old farmer is tending to his wheelbarrow, he hears an unusual rustling in the distance; he’d already put the animals up for the night, those damned foxes must be after his crops again! At this rate, Greg wouldn’t have any food for the winter, let alone any to sell.

He stood his wheelbarrow up on its rear, clapped his hands together, and headed up the hill. As he approached the small shed atop the hill, “There's that rustling again, damned fox.” he hustled over to the shed and began messing with the lock quietly, he’d left his varmint rifle up on the shelf inside; just as the lock unlatched he heard something different.

He dashed inside the abyssal shed, hearing a prolonged scratching sound against the wooden shed, losing the moonlight entirely. He reached for the rifle, knocking the shelves down he found himself rummaging around on the floor and finally grasped his rifle; he spins around, and he was sure he was facing the door even with no light or sense of direction.

He feels up the rifle checking to see if she’s loaded, all the heat in his face fades. “Fuck.” he cried softly, “fucking bullets.” He looked around blindly, feeling around on the floor with his left hand looking for ammo. Part of him knew there was none in the shed, he was smarter than to leave a gun and bullets outside of his own home; he’d never regretted having common sense so much.

Then there it was again, the scratching followed by the rustling. He was shaking, gun in hand pointing at what he thought was the door, no bullets, of course, sitting on the cold ground helpless. “Greg?” a soft voice said, “Greg are you in there?” He wasn’t sure if he should stay silent or run out and try to save that poor woman who was out there with whatever he was hiding from. He lowered the useless gun and leaned forward slightly, listening carefully, it was silent now, not even the wind was whistling outside. “Greg?” she sounded bored, “I saw you go in there Greg.” he would rather stay quiet he didn’t trust this.

Scraaatch along the wood again, he stiffened and pointed the empty gun upward again, “Who’s there!” he called. Silence, then Scraaatch again from in front of him this time, slowly he stood up using the gun to push up his body, “Who’s there!” he called louder. Silence again, he took a few steps forward, still sure he was facing the door. He can hear the wind now and the rustling of the wheat against the shed.

He prepared himself to bust down the door the way he learned all those years ago in the army, he stood back and ran shoulder-first into the shed wall; he screamed in agony and fell to his side against the wall. He heard laughing outside the shed, the door creaked open to the right side of his body, and he could feel the door hit his legs.

He’d been leaning against the door the whole time.

The moonlight flooded the shed and all he could see was a silhouette of what he assumed was a woman, with long hair and a flowing dress, the smell of salt water flooded the tiny room, as the door shut behind her. She descended on him layers of fabric covering his body her hair in his face, “Wha-”

She pushed a freezing hand to his face and hushed him. “It’ll be over soon.” He couldn’t move, he felt frozen underneath her, she was so cold even her dress was cold to the touch, she moved down to his neck and bites down hard, he was surprised there was no pain, instead, he feels his body slowly turn numb.

Starting at his toes, slowly moving up his legs; just as he realized he couldn't feel his legs, his fingertips went cold too. His panic is short-lived before his heart rate slows, and his chest and neck go cold. He struggles to face her before she stands up and turns away, in his last moments alive he watched her silhouette glide away in the moonlight before everything went black.