Their legs are spindly and black and pointy. Just something so wrong about that.
There shouldn't be anything in this world that exists small, that would be horrific if made large.
He loves bugs. All kinds of bugs. Big, small, green, black. Crunchy ones are best. The ones
that when stepped on make a nice cracking sound and spew guts.
That's what he loves.
She cannot sleep. Not much. Not easily.
She sees arms reaching toward her in the dark. Always in that stage
right before she falls asleep. The bridge to sleep is blocked by
He sleeps like a log, especially after a kill. Always after a kill. The warmer the blood,
the slower the death, the more pitiful the cries for mercy, the better the sleep.
It never ceases to amaze him.
The power of murder.
The smell of autumn comforts her. The cool breeze soothes as the curtains flow outward.
The full moon shines in and she cannot see spiders in the moonbeams. She smiles,
and sleep comes.
He spots the opened window and looks in. He sees her sleeping on the bed.
He smiles. He knows he will sleep like the dead come morning.