At a quaint little pension in the south of France
the prince of midnight came to dance.
Thin and tall, with eyes pure black,
he waltzed the fine young ladies back
into a room with curtains drawn
bewitching them with siren song
of money and status, fame and prestige.
Not a one of them noticed, down on their knees,
the sickly sweet smell that clung to his skin
or the roiling darkness he stirred within,
nor tell-tale plop from the slow drip of blood
that came from the ceiling, tacky above
with the corpses of those
he would take below.
Written for the Friday Prediction challenge found here. I encourage joining the fray or just reading the lovely, dark offerings. At 100 words each, they're like candy. Scary candy.