She sits, not slouches, With a posture sure to make an artist sigh. Her hair, a graceful, delicate mane of gold, Seems somehow, too perfect. Her skin, as white and flawless as a pearl, Seems to shimmer strangely, In the light of the lone candle. Her elegant fingers finish the letter, In the italic swirl of her hand.
She rises, and looks To the clock on the wall, it chimes softly, As if it were afraid of her gaze. She smiles, and crosses the room with the grace of a princess, To stand at the adorned french window. Sunset. The time when she is safe, The time when she can hunt, and not be hunted. She waits 'til darkness stakes the land, Before swiftly seeking from her stately home, To stalk towards the town, The larder in her country of prey. Allowing her senses, Her keen as a fox's senses, To carry her forth, with speed of a deer.
The townsfolk know, they've heard the tales, Of the woman in a red velvet gown, Who makes the moons beauty pale, before her own, Yet who gores on the rich feasts of the night. They close up their shutters, Call their children indoors, With hushed warnings of the lady of the night will get you, The dogs do not bay, The birds do not sing, The bell tower sways gently in the breeze. As she comes.
Naught but one man, A young doctor in training, Who visits the town, and does not know the tales. He strolls through the streets, The dark cobbled streets, Towards the Inn, where he spends the nights.
But she has come, And she catches his scent on the breeze, The scent of the blood thrumming under the skin, Her tongue, like a cats, slides over her lips, Tracing the immaculate cupids bow. She jumps to the rooftops, where she crouches and waits, For the unsuspecting man, To walk into her claws.
As he steps under the house, A whistle of wind, a noise like a snarl, And she pounces, Incisors poised for the neck.
But the young man, such a good noble heart, Hears the whisper, and turns. Drawing a pocket knife, That he uses to cut bandages, The lady of the night, comes down on to him.
A shifting of velvet, A sound like a sigh, And the knife that he holds, wrenched away from his hand. He lets out a cry, and stares at the ground, Where the body of the Lady of the night lies still, Her eyes slightly open, No blood does flow, From the knife that protrudes, almost rudely, From her chest.
The townsfolk are free now, They no longer fear, who will be next, For the Lady of the night. Yet still they call in their children, At the sight of the setting sun, And the cats do not yowl, in the dark of the night. And when the moon rises, and the fog lies in thick, They say that her voice can be heard on the wind, Travelling down from the empty house on the hill, And she wails for her prey, And she seems to say,
That she will be back, she never left.