They say that long ago a group of hunters were running through the forest, deep into depths where they had never ventured before.  It was a sacred place, and though they knew to never hunt there, they had gotten turned about and were not quite sure where they ran.  A glitter of light cut through the trees as it reflected off the back of their prey.  Second to the front, a young man on his fifth hunt let his arrow fly.  The others sent their arrows after it.  They heard the cry of the bird as it hit the ground a few yards away and they trotted over to surround it and take stock of the kill.

Sprawled on the floor of the forest was a gorgeous bird, made of light and wind, a trickle of blood painting a line down the side of its neck.  Their hearts sank as they realized the sin they had committed.  A low rumbling preceded the darkness that fell over the middle of the day.  The hunters slowly fell to their knees, praying hands raised above their heads in supplication to an angry god.

They were sentenced an eternity of death in their sin.  White birds dropped from the sky, onto and around each hunter, still crouched in prayer.  When the birds alighted, each carried with it a head, fused within it like some hideous tumor, and raising from between their wings were the praying fingers of each hunter.  The hunter’s bodies collapsed onto the ground, headless and handless.

The hunter’s misery, forever not quite dead and not quite alive inside their bird tombs, will infect anyone who gazes into their face for more than a moment and drive them mad.

One of these creatures was in my dream last night, trapped in my utility room that wasn’t really my utility room.  We were trying to let it out the door without looking it in the face, but then the alarm went off.