Candy Man

I couldn’t get the idea out of my head, so here it is: a micro-fill for FFChallenge. The first sentence belongs to John Freeter.

I followed the nice man to his basement. From where I stood, I could tell it was dark and damp. The man turned to me when I stopped at the entrance.

“Well, girl? Come on, candies are right there!” he said with a strained smile on his handsome face.

Sticking my lower lip out, I said, “Am I your guest, mister?”

He nodded, impatient, muttering, “Yes, yes, come on.”

“Then you should invite me in,” I said. “Mommy always says you should invite guests in. It is” — I scrunched my face in concentration — “po-li-te.”

He tried to catch my arm, but I ducked to the side. “Okay, I invite you, come inside already.”

“As you wish.” I stepped over the threshold.

He closed the door behind me and switched the light on. As I expected, the room was a dump. A lone light bulb illuminated a mattress in the corner made up with pristine white sheet, but that was the only bright and clean spot in the entire basement. Cobwebs clung to the corners, the floor was speckled with dried rust-colored puddles, and the heavy stank of fear, blood, sperm, and, of course, death seemed to saturate its every inch.

I turned to the man. “Where are my candies, mister?”

“Sorry, girl, I lied.” His grin was like a slash across his face, quick and vicious, the facade finally cracking.

“Oh. Mommy says you shouldn’t lie.”

“Smart woman, your mother.” He chuckled, unfastening his belt.

“Yes, she was,” I said, my fangs elongating. “She also said that lying is a sin and sinners get punishment.” I smiled, showing him my teeth, and jumped at his chest to bite into his carotid artery.


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