The blood is the thing, you see.

It can smell it, can sense the iron tang on the air like a shark.

Cut yourself shaving or from brushing your teeth and it’ll come.

Smoking bones draped in a mosiac of skin, lurching in the darkness. Its dissonant cat yowl splitting the silence.

You’ll slip into a dream of endless pain, and you’ll never wake up again.

Your body will be empty when they find you.

Unzipped.

No blood.

No bones.

No organs.

It’ll add your meat to its body.

If it likes you, it’ll wear your face to walk amongst the sheep.

I’m so sorry I called it here.

I thought it could bring my husband back, but that awful book lied to me.

The creature wears his face to do its bloody business.

– Hidden under the fridge