I know that this will be the last of my writings. As if the cullings were not enough to cause our fleeing, now we are besieged. It comes to us in the ev'ning, taking a new hovel each night. Yet we stay, our confusion in the daylight as we clean the tragedy of the previous ev'ning. I am only writing this as my neighbors screams fill the air. I am afraid I will not remember them by morning light. It is hideous, yet I can not explain its sight. I know from the fear that it must be a monstrous sight, but I am unable to conjure it in words. Their screaming has stopped, now it sings. The beasts songs are maddening and alluring.
Why have I written such a horrible fiction?
