We are here, and we are watching you.
I giggle and to you it sounds as if fingers scrape down your spine, causing you a moment’s fear when your heart pounds. You breathe in and out sending your blood rushing here and there to repair the machine.
“Run. Get away, but you won’t. You don’t listen to your inner voice anymore. Oh, it’s so easy.”
To dance under this moon is pure joy for us. You can see us and not just in your peripheral vision.
Look. Look at me, I’m dancing. Oh, why are you standing there with your back to the wall? It won’t help you.
The scent of your fear intoxicates me, so much that I slide over the sands to confront you.
I can’t stop giggling as I stroke your face, but then you shriek and the moment is spoiled and you smell of rotten old meat.
A sound? Yes. The others are coming drawn by the stench of your death. I didn’t want you to die, it’s not fair. I just wanted to play. They will eat your essence, drink your blood.
Why didn’t you play with me?
This is in response to Diana’s March photo prompt.