The storm raged on, thunder clapping off in the distance frightening birds from their shelter beneath large branches and flimsy leaves. The houses of Hundred Acre Wood, though well spread apart, were like flickering candles in a pitch-black room.
It was by one of these houses a puddle splashed underneath a clumsy foot and a gleam of silver flashed in the night.
As the figure approached, they took in the vision of the small cottage in front of them.
Small windows were boarded shut, and the curtains were firmly drawn. They could see movement beyond the cloth coverings, and flashes of light.
A clumsily scrawled, "Mr. Sanders," was painted in yellow above the small wooden door, the only thing that announced who lived inside as well as the fallen mailbox that he had passed moments ago.
Waddling to the door, he jiggled the handle, twisting it till it gave and the door creaked opened forbodingly. Inside, the room was mainly tightly fitted with cupboards and a large bed. A grown silver weasel rested under the thick coverings of his bed and had jumped up when he heard the door open.
The thunder clapped once more, closer this time, outlining the intruder's form with light, the butcher knife in hand a silent but deadly threat. The body was dark and the only thing to be seen was beady black eyes.
Too fast to comprehend, Mr. Sanders fell to the floor gasping and writhing with the pain, his vision blurring as the small form observed his knife now dripping with violent crimson blood.
Mr. Sanders continued to wither until he died out and the form continued observing the knife.
"Just a small smackeral won't hurt," he murmured, lifting the weapon to his lips and delicately licking the blood off.
He sighed, and grinned.
"Tastes like honey."