On moonless nights, Nian descends from his mountain lair to feed.

Last month, the beast took my lover.

Tonight, while the others tremble behind barricaded doors, I stand at the village gate, clutching a firecracker destined for Nian’s sensitive nose. The wind ripples my crimson dress as the monster approaches.

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Just for the record, Devon R. Widmer would probably be one of the people trembling behind barricaded doors.