Bete Noir
I try to scream but no sound comes, I desperately claw at the ornate velvet hangings of my bed with to no avail.
My nightmare continues to consume me. Then She come the queen of the damned the devourer of souls the base of my the very base of my Bete Noir.
I cringe and cower and mossy earth as she glides toward me on wings made of purest black samite, her aura surrounds like a mist of the darkest most profound stench of death and fright.
Is there no escape for me from this unending fright.
Copyright © Grant Baker | Year Posted 2012
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