Short Little Stories

He felt it then; the tendrils drifting out from her, buried deep into his heart and soul. He felt the faint pulse of his lifeblood draining away – his stories, his tales, his dreams and memories.

She smiled, and gleaming fangs were seen beneath those ruby red lips. In her eyes there flashed an abyss, an empty hunger, thirsting to be fulfilled.

The room seemed to fill with the gathering darkness, and as the writer looked around, it seemed as though everything within his room went hazy and indistinct – the shelves and books, the journals, the pencil sharpener, the almanac that lay open on the floor, the broken snowglobe given to him by his first girlfriend… he felt them fading, and could see nothing but shadows all around, and the terrible figure that crouched over him.

“A shame,” she crooned, as she fed on all the writings he would never write, “A shame that you saw me. And yet, somehow, it is all the more delicious. I can feel your heart thrumming, as you know what is happening to you. I can feel the motion churning through your brain at the knowledge, and it makes every drop in you all the more… poignant.”

Hissing laughter sounded in his ear, and as he beheld her, she reminded him of every horror and nightmare he had ever known.

And that was her mistake, and her ultimate downfall.