I started hearing their music pretty soon after the accident, and every night it became sweeter and more damning. I tried ignoring it, but it rattled in my brain long after the cries ceased. I heard it while working, while driving, while sleeping. I always heard it.
In time, it drowned out everything. Conversations gridlocked as the howling stripped my words away. I tried listening to music or watching my TV at full volume, but the howling overtook everything.

I wanted to hear it. At night, I struggled to keep my eyes inside my home. Curtains remained drawn, and windows which lacked them were covered with towels. But I’d still hear those songs, even if I couldn’t see the reflective eyes staring at my house, like jewels in the gloom of the forest.

They’d come closer. My resistance withered, like a flower at the first frost. The songs were pure velvet, caressing and comforting me. I wanted to wrap myself in them.

In time, I did. One night, while the moon was bright, I stepped outside. The jewels sparkled with excitement as they saw me, and they called to me.

I called back. My body ached as I fell onto my hands. But it wasn’t a problem for long. My bones cracked and my form changed, enclosing me in velvet.

They called to me, and I howled back.

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