The Nightwalker Comes
From our once fallen brethren had come the despicable beasts of the night. Ghoulish faces of absent eyes and gaping mouths, half rotten and deteriorated. Fueled by their lust of consumption, the perished had become the living, much to the horror of the mortals who existed in the wake of the nightmare. Oh, but from where do they come? Out of the graveyard and into our homes, feeding upon our children and unborn souls, mothers screaming in utter agony. Lock your doors or seal your fate, for the Nightwalker has risen.
It is known that the end is near when that twisted laugh echoes loudly above the evil moans and screams of the undead. Out of the darkness he appears but a shadow, though he rises into the sky and above the clouds, cascading all in a blanket of the unseeing. Quiet it becomes, as all we hear is the sound of footsteps, wet, the sound of gnashing and soft cries. When the sun returns, none remains but seldom men, standing, shaking, their wives lay beneath them soaked in that inevitable red we all desire. In that moment, he appears from above, his tall figure, lanky and somber. Skin twisted and eyes nearly devoid, he radiates a light almost devoid of shine, murky and dark. Ominous, truly, the melted flesh upon his shoulders, knees, elbows, his joints all burned to a crisp and flaking, yet gelatinous. In his hand, a staff, tall like himself and socketed with a swampy green jewel, radiating a pulse of gentle light. The men before him fall to their knees, as he raises his staff, it begins to glow brighter than seven suns.
Soon there is nothing, nothing but the dead. The fallen lay lifeless against the cold dirt beneath their chins, toes digging into the soil. Oh, but it is until the fingers begin to twitch. The Nightwalker has come. All have fallen, only to rise again, to feed upon their friends, their families and their lovers. Their hunger never sated, they sulk across the lands in wait. Just as the Nightwalker had come, he disappeared, leaving behind the hungry dead.