The cricket’s noise crept into her sleep.
And followed her into her dream.
She wandered a winding path, through an ancient wood, led by the small cricket.
It took her from the path, to a clearing of trees.
And in the clearing, there was a stream.
Cold, crystal, clear water ran from it, shimmering and shining over the stones in its bed.
But then the sky began to grey.
She peered up.
The sun had gone, hidden behind trees and clouds.
The cricket’s chirping grew louder at this sudden onset of darkness.
She looked down at him as he hopped further along the stream.
He took a leap across the water.
Holding her breath, she worried he’d drown.
But he landed on a stone in the middle of the swirling water.
As she gazed at him the clear water turned murky.
It grew darker.
Just like the sky had.
And it grew thicker, too. Like blood.
The cricket stopped chirping.
It edged forward, bent over the stream, and took a sip.
She bent down too, closer to him, but as she did, the mossy rocks she leaned on gave way.
She splashed down into the water, gasping for air.
But only the metallic taste of blood filled her lungs.
And as she sank, the sound of crickets followed her.