The setting sun cast a reddish glow on the Clock Tower
that loomed ominously upon the shore.
As the fishermen returned, a howl rose up
from the distant dark forest.
A few heads turned in the crowd,
and a few mutterings were heard.
But the noise was forgotten,
as the torches were lit in the village streets.
As darkness fell, and storms clouds
obscured the faint crescent moon,
again the chilling howl was heard.
And then a cold gale blew across the lake
as the storm rolled near.
And amidst the lashing rains and howling wind
that assaulted the village dwellings
and uprooted the trees,
there was a sound of fluttering
as of wings, and a growling
like no sound any one had ever heard.
And all the torches were extinguished
In the awful flood of death and ruin.
And when at last it ended,
and the clouds rolled past,
and the faint glow of dawn fell once more upon the streets,
only the Clock Tower still remained,
like a dead Titan, its hands twisted
in meaningless directions.
Not merely bent, but melted
in the awful nighttime storm
that had claimed all within the village boundaries.
And in the forest, all was quiet again.