The birds started to screech one evening.
No rhyme or reason to it.
The wind picked up, trees bending in homage.
The villagers shuttered their windows and looked to their rosaries.
Fires were poked and stoked.
Candles were lit, casting flickery shadows in small spaces.
She walked swiftly, wrapped up well against the cold, keeping close to the walls.
It was done, and he was gone.
Good riddance to him.