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.
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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.
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