creative writing, Gothic

Briskly walking through the mysterious darkness of the menacing forest, grasping tightly my withering frozen hand, my petrified newly wed wife clung on for protection. It was pitch dark on a cold foggy night in the mid days of December. We were in search of somewhere to rest our staggering and lost bodies. My wife and I had been walking for miles through this never ending cursed old forest.

Every step we made on the thin and almost transparent layer of snow had a sudden fall and we heard the snap, crackle and crumble of the lanky branches, crisp leaves and woodlouse infested logs. Winter was killing the forest. The trees were hunched over and their dead beat bark was blistering under the harsh weight of the freezing bitter quilt which strained their aching ancient backs. A tunnel had been formed. It was as if they were frail, vile and disfigured old men with a dozen spindly limbs to wrap around each other for dear life. The barred branches resembled a prison in my eyes. This endless tunnel was hiding us from the crucial light of the evil eye, the moon. There were gaps in the endless arch so as to let the descending snow slowly fall on to the path we were destined to walk.

Suddenly as if out of nothingness appeared a red eyed beast at the top of the wretched, steep hill we were attempting to scale. The wolf approached us with her steaming breath and her head low to the ground as if she was ready for the pounce. If we had run she would have reacted with great violence, so we kept our bodies and expressions as lifeless as a china doll. Her eyes were glowing like a fire replenishing itself; the eyes of a burning demon. Her coat was as grey as the fog that surrounded us, the beast froze corpse still, silent and motionless. It was a struggle to see. We could just see that the beast was among us. The brute still had made no move and the deep fog was thickening. It came to the point were we were blind in that we could not see any thing but the dull greyness of the