Barin, stood outside the gate, his face illuminated by the gleam of moonlight filtering through the deadwood canopy. Ringlets of midnight black flow cascaded around his ghoul like features, grotesque shadows dancing across an olive-skinned canvas. He would have to hurry.
Morning approached, the arbitrary beginning of each new cycle. The shadows that betrayed him were subdued by the light of day, reflecting only a pretty façade. The cauldron churning within concealed behind a perfect jawline, witty charm, and a penchant for expensive wine. Sometimes the hunt was too easy, they were drawn to him like moths to the flame, lambs to the slaughter, or whatever overused cliché you can think of.
He was an aficionado for the macabre as witnessed in his gruesome acts. This was the part he liked the least. He felt a sense of trepidation as the gate creaked open. It was insubstantial when compared to the innate drive that had pushed him to feed. An emptiness filled him as he searched the rows of tombstones for the familiar glow of candlelight that marked fresh dug graves.
He set her lifeless remains down and pulled a souvenir from around her neck. His instinct and heart in constant conflict, like opposite ends of a battery, one providing energy and the other extracting every drop. Still, he loved every one of his victims.
Images: Greg Glazebrook @ GMGPhotography.
Copyright 2022 Greg Glazebrook / GMGPhotography. All Rights Reserved.
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