Dark Storms

An indescribable force is moving, whistling by the house, shaking its foundations. All inhabitants lying within caused to scurry, seeking cover from the debris that is likely to follow. A terrible storm is brewing. This is a night for horrors.
On the horizon dark, menacing clouds roll into view. Giant pillows billowing, changing their size and shape. Feathers will not fall this night instead destruction. A force of unimaginable proportions. Ominous wraiths floating in unhindered by the flat, barren terrain. As fast as the eye can depict the monsters they draw even nearer, traveling at unfathomable speed, aided by unseen engines realization dawns. Not enough time to prepare for the frightened residents. Wide eyes behold one another, then... response, into action they leap,  fumbling about for windows, stumbling to reach doors,  panicked hands shutting and locking both. Gathering everyone together for comfort and protection. Then the assailant strikes.

The dark, depressing, uninvited phantoms arrive. Invisible to all without, but within stealthy and deadly attacker. They have come to uproot this abode. To rip it apart. From the peak of the roof to the root of  its foundations, in hopes of destroying all. Their weapon of choice words and thoughts. Dark and menacing arrows. Their weapons honed by ages of use, they aim to tickle the fancy of those within hearing. Knocking at the door spewing tones of peace to gain invitation. Knowing that without permission there is no entry. Upon hearing faint thumping on the floor within, they continue the assault assured that it is not falling on deaf ears. Releasing the arrows of delight with subtle precision. Unhurried, they press the attack against the dwellers. As the thumping draws near they understand the frail status of this invasion. Any untimely, misfired, inaccurate missile at this juncture would be disastrous. Steady and surety their course of action. Silently anticipating their victory. Then the chain slides from it holster; the click signaling the lock turning with its release and the knob turns, the dwellers have been listening. A smile arises as glee fills them, the mark has been hit.

The door to the heart has been opened. Access gained. They will flood this domain with all the vile and poison at their disposal. For this is their nature. The have come to thieve, annihilate and sabotage. Torture, lies, illusion tools of the trade. They have been doing this since the exile from paradise. They have perfected their crooked and devious methods. Taking great delight in misery. Ultimately causing their victims deviation from a path of destiny to elusive illusions. These ghosts vanish, slipping through the fingers of their pawns. The goal, to birth unbelief, hopelessness, misfortune. The residents relocated to dwell in the valley of mud and clay.
Unbeknownst to these trespassers a watchman awaits. Down deep, below the surface hidden in the bellows reserved for such instances. Consuming fire. Threaded, imbued by heat purifying the integrity in this abode. A blacksmith resides complete with a forge. Invited long ago to prevent invasions. Signing a life time contract to utilize his unique techniques. For the implementation of the agreement the residents unquestionable yielding to promptings from the blacksmith.

Lights flashing, sirens alerting, thudding penetrating sending their echos to the ears of violators. Stooping dead in their tracks, recognition flooding their memory banks fear rises within. Turning their heads seeking out the direction of the sounds. Hands frantically rising and dropping as their eyes bulge from their sockets. They know who is coming. The familiar security measures signify the blacksmiths approach. Making haste in retracing their steps, they want nothing to do with him yet. This is not the appointed time for sentencing.