Manbat

The tall bluffs of Wisconsin’s coulee region stand black against the starlit sky, the humid summer air hangs heavy in the night. A scratch-scritch- scratching of raged obsidian talons clinging to the soft limestone expose a shape. Somehow even darker than the wall itself, crawling along, moving. In an instance it drops, falling toward the floor of the valley below when suddenly, wings unfold, large, black leathery sails pound against the night air as shrill screech slices through the darkness. For a moment a large black silhouette darkens even the brightest of stars, then silence and in your gut a sickening feeling, retching and dizziness.