She was myth. The old wives tales, the verbal medicine that mothers and grandmothers administered to overly energetic children at bedtime. The stuff of infamy. " She walks with roses in her palms, but she smells of wet soil and all things wicked. " There would be no midnight trips to the icebox for little Jimmy and Sue Ellen..they would stay in bed, feet tucked under the sheets..motionless until morning. And so the legend of the Dark Lady of Dundane was passed along, across the generations. As each child matured, they took on the mantle of it, scaring the skin off thier own children before bedtime. They would leer at the child, enjoying the chance to be on the other end of the tale for once..but often afterwards..if you asked them..Not one could look you in the eye and say the Lady didnt exist. Such was her power..the strength of her darkness. No no, shes like Father Christmas, the Easter Hare, the lot. Shes..not real. With shivering offglances, they would retire to the den with a stiff drink. Safe in thier maturity, safe in ignorance. That was..until.. They dug her effigy up..yesterday... Sleep Tight.. Inkraven 2004 How I love spooking people...