Waindale
I never had to deal with anything like this in California.
As I turn to somehow get up the hill, a noise makes my heart jolt. I look back and try to assume that it's the rabbit, but the twisted branches and grey clouds are making it hard.
The sound comes again, like snapping twigs and rustling bushes and howling winds all in one. I suck in a sharp breath as a dark thing lurks in the distance, only visible for a second. Spinning around, I claw my way up the hill and dash for the path. My shoes seem to cake on more and more mud the more steps I take. I try to kick it off, but it's like cement.
Bab Populer