The woods aren't haunted when I am what haunts them, this castle and crumbling walls, unnatural velvet skin and the like. I howl at night, make lights flicker, nothing more than a phantom screaming on the water, some unclean spirit at the bottom of a well I drowned in. Small blue body outside, picture-perfect portrait, a daughter and an icy grave, the unvisited tomb among the lily and black blooms of infernal flowers. People pray through rain, bloody eyes that look like the sun, parched lips and heads spinning. There's an old minaret, crown of thorns, some remnant of an ancient religion, looks like it has bullet holes, all the faces here turned to murmurs and shadows on the stone.