The Hoarder

Just beyond the reach of a lamppost’s beam stands the kind of man you do not want to cross. His nonchalant presence remains beneath the rain-stricken tree branches, perfectly poised and still. He is almost seven feet tall, composed of never-ending legs, a broad muscular torso, dark shimmering skin and lastly his manner, for he looks quite capable of pulling a pistol or perhaps some other lethal weapon from the depths of the black clothes he wears.The knowing smile continually dancing around his mouth is the clincher; should he ever consort with others, they are inexplicably overwhelmed with the feeling that he wants to kill them – simply, because he can.

He’s fond of this form; it’s intimidating and means he can go about his business undisturbed, yet he knows exactly what he’ll become later. Someone is going to ask him for his medicinal method tonight, a remedy to cure heartache, and there’s nothing he likes more than petrifying those poor, hurting souls. He can feel her essence already. She’s young, naive, and easily wound up. His whole body shakes with a rich belly laugh as he pictures in his mind’s eye the form that he’ll take for her. The very person she never wants to see again. He’s going to enjoy this one.

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