Callan looked down at her bloody hands, hot tears stinging the corners of her bright blue eyes as she did. At this point, she couldn't distinguish between her blood and the blood of someone else. Or, more accurately, something else. He skin was covered in the thick scarlet stain, some of it dried and some of it still running in wet lines down her pale skin.

Her raven black hair swirled around her in the breeze as shadows danced around her, almost seeming to mock and taunt her. They would come up close to her, and then recede back to the forest's edge just as quickly as they came. The darkness was suffocating her, though the cool air was thin. There were no stars in the sky that night; only a blood-red moon casting a rusty glow.

The young 15-year old looked out down the winding road, watching every little movement that danced across the horizon line at the other end. She kicked the dirt with her tennis-shoe, but the loose sand only blew back at her legs.

That's when she heard it.

It was a shrill cackle that echoed through her, sending the most unpleasant sensation through her already-rigid body. She soon straightened up, swallowing thickly. She closed her eyes and began walking down the winding Wisconsin road. Scrawny, sharp trees loomed overhead, looking down on the young girl. She held tight to the charm dangling around her neck as she pressed forward. She was alone; she always was. No one ever dared to make a journey down Callan Road past dusk. No one.

She kept walking at a slow, steady pace, following the call of the devil.