The air is full with the scent of fallen leaves and crisp, cool air; a smell that can only be categorized by the season during which it takes place. Behind him, he hears a soft rustle, as if some small creature is just behind. He turns, and sees nothing. Autumn has been known for its disembodies breezes, and for a moment he pushes worry aside, until he hears the sound again. He turns, and there is no so much as a bush to rustle or a pile of leaves to hide in. A sense of dread growing, the buck continues on, never knowing what is creeping up behind him
