The air has petrified the tears on my face. Even smiling hurts in this arctic outpost. We stand huddled around the fire, holding our hot cocoa, as the flames rage and reach fifteen feet into the black sky.
We await the arrival of demons.
A low drum beat breaks the anticipation. It echoes from somewhere, out there, in the midnight winter forest.
They proceed down from the mountain in a ghoulish procession. The drums beat louder in cadence with our hearts. The things approaching hold torches in their clawed hands.