She is in the mists somewhere. In this darkness which she calls her home, her mind and her body mingles together in the cold rain that falls through the night. The moon is hidden there... in the darkness nothing is visible, so the sound of the rain falling hits the ear with a dull dripping prolonged note that has been stretched too long, trilling and tripping on its way.
She stares at this darkness that permeates parts of her. But parts of her refuse to be in the dark. They spread out, run out, the colours of the night barely hide the mad glints of her eyes, white as snow, still and terribly still as they focus on the prey that lurks in the darkness.
Slowly she moves through the mists, the darkness often cuts through to reveal the pale gleam of a ring, or the flash of feral teeth.
Slowly, and slowly she closes on her prey. She nears and nears and nears.
And then she pauses.
For there the Julychildren sat, staring at the laptop first, then suddenly looking up and an impish grin spread as they quietly closed the lid of the computer and ordered a glass of Appletini.
And hence ended the morbid tale that never was.