They cowered down on the litter and whimpered and whined, searching the trees around them in vain for the source of their anxiety. Johnny bit his lip just then, he very nearly said it. He almost said their name aloud, and that scared him. He was almost afraid that they would answer, would come to call on the one who had spoken it. At that moment, for an instant, the tone of the wind changed. It seemed to convey assent. Then, just as quickly, it returned to its morose wail. He knew that they talked in the wind, and tormented in dreams. But he wasn't sure how far their psychic abilities stretched. Could they read his thoughts? Surely not, or they would have descended upon him already. Could they tap into someone else's psychic link with another? Who knew? But Johnny would not put anything past them. He knew it was they who brought the storm. They called it. They joined together as one and called it to cover them, to aid them. It was quite literally a psychic storm, the elements held together by pure thought. Evil thought.
