The faun danced upon the stump, a strange shadow in the firelight. How he smiled, his grin, too big, his pipe, shrill and piercing, his cloven hooves stomping out a muffled rhythm against the rotting wood. No one else seemed to see the fay, though I never quite knew. Such strange paranoia gripped them all. I could not talk with them. Enemies from without, or enemies from within; of such things they would whisper, not of fairy tales. Who threw the first blow, I don’t know, but the fight began. So, they danced with the horned devil in the night.
Pan’s Pipping Panic
Tale Told 