Phantom Hollow they call me the wanderer

our hero finds himself in a haunted woodland, buffalo exulted delightedly inside his head. in truth, the crackling expanse of bare-boned trees and shadows wherein ghosts surely lurked reminded him of where he had grown. of byll, and of what little buffalo remembered about the face of their mother. she had been a spirit, he decided, a raving little wraith who whored herself out to the dark bear and gave birth to his bastards.
he was not alone and therefore opted not to launch into one of his endless soliloquies about the wickedness of clarice — the man's ears swept forward, fresh blood from his latest kill trickling slowly down their velveteen backs. a figure swathed in charcoal was approaching; or no, he had paused, and buffalo noted the trembling spikes of the other's hackles.
there was fun to be had here; the madman gave no pause and stepped into eyeshot of the stranger. "pretty spooky," buffalo chortled, glancing around the desolate wood. "that's why they call me the king of the nighttime world. i rule here."