On the autumn time's first chilling gust, it comes on wheels of steel and rust. In the night, it billows out, stabs stakes in the ground, to pitch tents and cursed merry-go-rounds. To steal the soul is a gentle lark, a simple task for Mr. Dark. By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
Story added by castingsinmyblood on January 22, 2021
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