The Song of the Pitchforked Children

Her lantern flickered and went out.
Hear the little children,
summoned from below.
They beckon and they beg,
for you to go and follow.

She crunched the leaves under her feet, reminding herself she was still on solid ground. It wasn’t windy or raining. The still, frigid air hung in the sky like a veil, impairing her vision.
They sing their little song,
and play their merry tune.
They’ll be leaving soon,
and they’ll take you too.

The whisper of a tune floated to her through the cool night. She shivered, though it wasn’t cold.
We are of the night,
we creep about the forest,
Careful where you tread,
you can easily get lost.

A figure emerged from the shadow. A pale child; pitchfork in hand. His eyes were pure white. He had no pupils. He gestured for her to follow. Young and naïve; she did.
The song was louder now; ringing in her ears. A group of children circled her. Pitchforks risen, they attacked her bloody.
Lead you into the field,
where no one else can see
Cut you into pieces
and eat you up for tea.

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