A chill wind whips through the treetops.

Clouds race past the silver-white disk rising above the woods. Moonlight bathes the landscape in silver tints.

Somewhere in the woods, a creature howls. The sound is forlorn, tragic, full of sadness. But there's rage, too, rage at the moon and its influence.

Water laps at the pier supports up and down the chain of lakes. But people lock their doors and draw their shades. Whatever's out there, they don't want any part of it.

The wind ripples through the trees, bringing with it the smell of woodsmoke.

And fear.