The Woods

but the wood line dark, longing to have light again, A cold shape watched the infant sleep, waiting to retrieve it. It knew it wouldn't be hard to find a way into the cabin, the window stood open, the crib near the window anyway. It came out of the woods into the soft light, as it did the sky became dark, black, cold, the wind stopped as well. As the shape touched the wooden log, it rotted and became dark just where the shape touched it no where else a perfect hand print indented into the wood.