Footprints

They led,

deep into the woods,
dark and beckoning.
Thatched cottage
at the far distance,
a lamp, dim and flickering.
The air still damp,
from a storm’s end.
Sludge, moss and green foliage,
the footprints, beneath
just barely visible.
Fear gripped the edge
of my pounding heart
thundering like a drumroll
in the stillness of the dark.
The cold sweat
framed the sides of my face.
Gasps, short and quick
with every forefoot
increasing its pace.
My trembling fingers
reached for the rusted handle…

The devilish eyes,
devoured her every move,
waiting for that moment
to rip out her soul…

MISSING, read the news
Many a day later
No trace, no witnesses,
Plenty of rumours & muse
Meanwhile,
prints of her fingers,
on the rusty handle.
The air reeking of blood,
deep in the wood, lingers.