Wind in the branches . . . although there was no wind. The night was as calm as it was black. She heard a soft cooing sound, the sort of sound a mourning dove might make . . . but not at night . . . . Instantly, she sprang away from the tree, barely evading the hands that plunged down and snatched at the spot where she’d been resting. She whirled around and switched on the flashlight, gasping to see a pair of mottled, mud-green hands clutch at the air, clawlike hands with thick, pointed black nails that clacked together in frustration – or eagerness. For a heartbeat, she froze. She stared at the hands as they now began to motion her forward. The creature, still hidden in the tree, extended its arms toward her – extremely long arms, scabbed and scaley. Again, she heard that cooing sound, soft and strangely appealing. But not appealing enough. Nieve began to back away slowly, keeping an eye on the motioning hands in case the creature made a lunge for her. Then abruptly she wheeled around .
