Cloaked in another’s form, the faceless thing waits for you. It has seen you shift skins, be a dozen things, and feels it has found in you a potential mate. Fear not, your mind will shatter long before your body does.
Mother of dark-kissed things, the red-haired first wife of Adam waits. The first woman spurned, she knows the demons that have swirled around you, birthed many of them. She wishes only to discuss only what you thought of her children, a long, never-ending discussion with mankind’s oldest mother-in-law.
Small waves reflect back the moonlight, and the tide creeps ever forward. It laps against the bottom step, ever rising. Black under a starless sky, the tide cannot be stopped. Soon it will reach the top step and flow inside. If only it was something as harmless as water.
Acts that can’t be reconciled, sins beyond forgiveness. After the sickness came the stillness, a prelude to the rising. Then the familiar voices lowered in whispers, entreaties to be let inside, begging to escape the weather. Pleading turned to demanding, spurred by hunger. The knocking became pounding, fueled by desperation. In the end you let them in, but only to the basement where the gasoline lay pooled. There is nothing left now, nothing but ash. Yet still, they call out.