It cuts like waxworm apples, a satisfying--
shring-- like a comicbook samurai.
A living host for light... our light.

It's severed tendrals bathed in moonlight and connected to the earth and it doesn't look back until I've given him eyes, but by then it's too late.

He smiles-- without the slightest sign of hypocracy.

A smile he was meant to smile. To guide the dead along their way, for tonight-- it's visiting hours again.

Tonight this light will stave off the living and make way for the dead.

Keep the candles burning, they'll keep you safe.

Yes
No
Do nothing