Is coming to get me, has broken through the glass of my door, the knob is turning, turning, it's open. He's in. Through the long hallway he walks, sniffing the air for anything made of meat, anything that still has blood. The hallway ends in a turn, then a stair case, he walks up each step thump, thump, thump, it sounds like the bells of hell, he's coming into another hall, three rooms branching off. The first only contains a computer and worthless papers, nothing to satisfy his blood lust. The second has a small dog, sleeping by himself, moving slightly in his dreams. Easily eaten, he thirsts for more. The third and final room yields his prey. A young man in his bed, sleeping comfortably, filled with warm, red blood. Closer, he comes, closer he is to the bottom posts of the bed. He trails his long fingernail up the sheets till they come to the man's face, then leaving a trail of blood across the cheek with his razor sharp nails, he steps back. Where to start? each end is good, though the middle is best, mother always said 'go first with the head, then through the stomach, and fill up on the feet.' He didn't want to listen to mother. he just wanted the stomach. he wanted it now. he craved it, and he took it.
