A sentient cloud of severed hands drifts near the hill; confused you stop to stare at the supernatural entity. As it passes you by a fingernail grazes your cheek, softly, yet leaving a chill sensation you can't be quite sure wasn't already there.
The swarm stops, before begining to whirl at a frantic pace, faster and faster the mass of hands reels and eddies and then at once descends upon your unsuspecting body, scratching, tearing, grasping, heaving you limb from limb in an unexplained assault, terrifying for both its silence and ferocity.
And then, as silently as it arrived, the cloud departs, carrying with it the hunks of flesh torn from you skeleton. But deep amidst the flock lurk two new additions, members still warm from their previous host; but free now, to run wild and take their revenge upon the living, as they had always dreamed of doing while held in your servitude...
Which means it's Spamalot's hill again! Whoop de whoop! Crack out that party!
