It was beautiful . . . yet the sight of the massacre of woodland creatures sent a shiver down her spine.  She shuddered once more, but not from the crisp chill of the empty darkness of the forest. It was from something different, something that was wrong. Something that was coming closer.  So she ran, ran from the gruesome mosaic of the animals and birds. Ran from what had caused it, ran into darkness as thick as treacle. She couldn't see the mud track, dry and tough, yet she felt the uneven ground thumping against the soles of her tall, leather boots. She heard the dry leaves crunching to dust beneath her feet, yet could see none of the fiery tones of the autumn leaves. She saw no bushes of thorns, no boughs of holly, yet her bare arms, wrists clad with leather and beaded bracelets, we're soon covered in the small cuts and scratches of the spiked plants as they sliced through her skin. She felt the cold, crisp air rushing around her, brushing through her long, thick hair, leaving it in a tangled mess. Her fingers, long and thin like the pianist she was, were freezing, along with her toes. She was panting as she ran, panting hard, yet despite the freezing air around her, there was no cloud of her breath, no proof of her surroundings. And she was scared. She ran on. She ran like the demons of hell were snatching at her ankles, yet she didn't even know what she was running from. So she decided to find out. She picked up the pace, her steady running turning to a frantic sprint. All of a sudden, she stopped, and spun around, nimble as a cat. Still as a statue she stood, and she saw it. She saw what had given her an eerie sense of foreboding, what had mauled the creatures of the forest. She saw what she was scared of the most. She saw herself.