Saturday, April 6, 2013


I forgot my duct tape. Ghouls always carry duct tape. It comes in so handy when you have to restrain desperate, agony ridden assholes. I never spoke like that. Indeed, I rarely spoke at all, preferring to transmit my coo coo ca choo telepathically. But this 'new age.' This vampire 'complete the universe' thing has weakened me. I feel their presence. I know they hate me. Negative vibrations press down on my body. Don't they know that ghouls have feelings too. 

The girl on the bed sees me. I know she sees me. I can smell it. I can smell her pee pee. It's all over the mattress now. I think she had asparagus for dinner.... and perhaps a bit of salmon, or tuna something or other too. 

I wave.... a sly, little finger wave. She chokes. Bubbles froth up from a wound in her neck. I'm sorry, but I had to work fast. Damn, I wish I had that duct tape. Then I could have been a connoisseur. Then I could have taken my time.

No noise. I do not like noise. Nor do I like Dorito breath. And, boy, did she have that. The taste of it is still in my mouth. I bit her. I bit her throat... right in the front.... real fast and real hard with my razor sharp, triangular teefies. You know it only takes thirty three pounds of pressure to crush a human trachea. And eleven pounds of pressure severs the esophagus.  A mere bagatelle to one such as I. 

At first she didn't feel it.... so quick... so clean... Almost surgical. But then I smelled that stink welling up from her belly and almost gagged. Odd, most semi-digested slop doesn't faze me. I can tear through an abdominal wall and bury my head in steaming, human offal. It's just those God damned Doritos. They smell like dog paws.... dirty dog paws. Do you have one where you are? Go smell. You'll see.

I did shear off her fingers though. Hate it when they grab. And for some reason, finger blood tastes so good to me. But she died. So fast. She died so fast. I think it was her heart.  Or perhaps the fact she could no longer draw in air.... the ruptured trachea, you know. 

But cool bodies hold no charm. I hate them. So I shattered the small sky-light in the bathroom and let in the rats. They aren't as fussy. Soon she'll be just bones. They may leave her scalp, though. 

Tomorrow would have been her birthday. I saw a note on the calendar. You know how well my eyes see through the dark. But what was I to her? What did she see? What did she think? A cadaverous wraith in a moldy black suit? A drawn, angular face? A skull with a tight, leathery husk? And the smile.... the large, curved, crescent grin.... A shadow... A ghost.... A nightmare.

What would you see? How dark is it where you sleep? Such a vulnerable state. You know there were times I've crept inside, stood over the bed, sniffed the physicality of the flesh therein and decided not too? And there is no reason for it. I'm fickle that way.

Ah, the night creepers... But you don't want to hear about them. Listen for the noises... the little taps... the tiny creaks. Is it a neighbor from next door, or is it something else? Tell me something. Is your bathroom en suite, or must you run out through the hall? And how many times have you lain there, struggling to keep your bladder closed til dawn?

Do you sleep with a light on? What is it you're so desperate to see?

But I will have my satisfaction. I will have my hot meal. Look at the rats, like a living, writhing, chinchilla blanket.... Shhh, I can hear them scrap the bones.

Now I walk through the hall and enter the bathroom. Twenty four inches through the wall, a baby sleeps. I believe the neighbors also have a son. But I feel restless and want to prowl. So I hop up on the vanity and raise my body through the broken glass..... Moonlight becomes me.... a gilded, lank, 'Sir Death.' 

The baby hears me scamper 'cross the roof. She wakes up. She whimpers. The mother comes. But still the wee one cries..... 

She knows.... She knows.... She knows.....

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