Welcome to this little triplet that has escaped my mind not long ago, centered around hooks, whether it's used for fishing, or... other (metaphoric?) purposes. It's quite dark, frankly, but I really like the way it has come to me. I hope you do so too! Also, taking three different fandoms on one common theme, it's quite new for me, so feel free to tell me whether you liked it or not and why.
It has been written in English in the first place. Some things just come (and sound!) better in this language. Last thing, I recommend you to listen to this music on Youtube while reading, to enhance your experience (I just put the code otherwise it won't work): jwJH9_GMO_k
Anyways, enjoy :)
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[VERA CLAYTHORNE]
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She saw the hooks. On the ceiling of her bedroom, On the dining room, holding the heavy chandelier. On the coat hooks. In the kitchen utensils.
More and more, everywhere. Not just in reality but also in hallucinations and dreams. Death marching, approaching in the corner of her eyes when she was blinking, unnoticeable, the last soldiers remaining on the island. She couldn't sleep anymore. Not alone, at least.
She was determined to stay awake, senses fully alert for when it would come.
She wasn't afraid. Nor was Philip.
They would break the strange lure of the macabre poem.
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[ABIGAIL HOBBS]
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Being Garrett Jacob Hobbs' daughter wasn't easy.
She helped him set the traps for prey to fall into ; she mastered hunting, because that was what her father taught her to. So many times, she saw herself in them. Dead just like does and stags running in the forest nearby. Hanged by those antlers, blood running out of the wounds.
Deathly hooks.
What did she do to deserve this?
Over time, she learned better than weeping over her fate. She adapted. So had animals. That's what living beings did in the wild.
Kill or be killed. She just had to, right?...
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[THE ANGLER]
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"Go fish."
The angler had his hooks ready to work ; razor sharp, oiled in fish's fluids, ready to lure bigger, fresher beasts and drag them out of the stinky ponds.
He can wait for long by the lake, calm, motionless. Then suddenly raise the fishing rod, as supple as a roach. Some time or another, a fish will catch the bait. He won't let it run away. His basket isn't full enough.
A smell of salt and blood at the end of his rod. Something pulling, testing, savoring the promising taste of flesh. It was hungry.
It would satisfy Leshy.