Petersson howls again. I've barely scrambled to my knees before he hits me once more, from behind this time, and I sprawl onto my face, my hands convulsively clutching the doll and the tool. A pair of giant hooves smash onto my back, and I have no idea how it's not busted in half by the impact. I brace, and roll, and it misses, squealing with rage.
Well, this was a terrible idea, I think muzzily. What had the plan been? Had there even been a plan? Surely I went into this with a plan. . .
Doll. The doll. Something with the damned doll, what--
Oh. Dumbass. I roll again, making it upright this time, and fling the doll with all my might into the graveyard. "Go fetch," I wheeze, and for a wonder it does.
The post. Where's the fucking post? I'm hurt and disoriented, but if I don't finish the sigil, Petersson will just come out and finish me. I catch sight of the flashlight on the ground, and if it's where I left it then it should be right in front of the center post. Next time I do the last sigil on a corner post. Easier to find. I'm free-associating, but I'm also crawling determinedly in that direction.
I get to it, there's the sigil, one more line, oops, better turn the etcher on first, that works better, and Petersson's charging out of the fog again, this time as the skinned ox, and I finish the rune just as he hits the fence--
And bounces off, screaming that scream that gets right into the insanity center of my brain.
Yeah, it's a very rough first draft, but. There you go. Context is for the weak.