8

That night Byron dreamed. 

In his dream, he sat at a long table covered in lit candles. Other than the flickering candlelight, the room was completely dark. From somewhere in the distance music played, an eerie, droning music that sounded like it was being played backward. Across from him, on the other side of the table, sat a skinny woman with dark hair pulled into pigtails. She was a bit younger than Byron and looked vaguely familiar. 

“I'd leave her alone.” The woman said, her voice taking on the strange, languid tone that dream speech sometimes had. 

“Who?” Byron inquired, his voice he noticed, was normal. 

The woman narrowed her eyes, “You know who.”

“Janice,” Byron proclaimed as understanding suddenly dawned upon him. “And why should I leave Janice alone?”

“Because you won't like what lies at the end of that road. Be it that of needles or that of pins.”

The candles on the table grew until they towered over the people sitting there, each one like a tree, each flame a conflagration. Though she wasn't before, the woman was now wearing a scarlet cloak, its hood pulled up covering her face completely. 

Suddenly, Byron was scared. He knew even though he had seen her face only moments before, to see it again (her real face) would drive him over the ledge into sheer insanity. 

She reached for her hood. 

“No!” Byron shouted, “Don't.”

“I thought you wanted to see,” The girl said in a menacing voice, her thin fingers gripping the edge of the hood. “I thought you wanted to walk this particular path through my forest.”

As she began to pull her hood back, Byron woke, terrified but thankful that he did not, in fact, see what was under it.