The wind is howling tonight. I can hear it in the trees, and the windchimes on the porch are ringing in a mad tarantella, much like Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Bells”. It’s very cold outside, below freezing, and we’re battened down and riding out the storm, hoping that it doesn’t snow. Hoping that it passes us by, like the Angel of Death passing over Egypt in the dark. The lamb’s blood is on the door.

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