It was one of those cold winter nights where the silvered moonlight fell in brittle, splintered beams through the claws of dead trees--it was one of those cold winter nights where cigarette smoke hung eternal in the chilled air.

He sat on a gravestone, puffing idly at the cigarette. A pale man in suitably somber attire, his green eyes glittered in the moon's frigid radiance; a tiny cross on a chain around his neck gleamed.

It had been polished to a brilliant shine.

"Come along," he whispered. His clouded breath collided with the ribbons of smoke pervading the air, and they both disappeared.

They all disappear.

The graveyard was old, and the keeper was older; the ancient creature was asleep in his hut at the entrance. The dark man was surrounded by all variety of seraphims, crosses, and ornate headstones with beautifully carved inscriptions and yet, for his macabre seat, he had chosen the least impressive gravestone, and here he remained, apparently waiting.

An epitaph on a nearby angel's base read: "Redeem me, O Lord, and welcome me into Thine arms; Keep my soul in Thine eternal grace." The dark man smiled (his teeth were very white)--these fervent examples of manufactured faith always amused him: they all tried so hard to prove their love for God, even when their actions spoke of entirely different affections, as though their proclamations would somehow forgive their heathen ways. Words without meaning...

His expression darkened as that shadow of a thought brushed his heart.

How dare they.

"Dear, I haven't all night to speak with you," he whispered again. "I'll come again."

He stood and started to leave, drawing a final pull from the cigarette before flicking it away--and as the cigarette disappeared into the grass, the wind picked up; a gust nearly snatched the hat from his head.

"There you are," he muttered, tugging the hat back down. He turned around to discover a little girl perched on the gravestone where he had been seated. She was blond, about seven years old, with skin as snowy white as the simple dress she wore. Her eyes were pools of black, and thin streams of red wound their way down her cheeks.

She stared at him, utterly silent--she wasn't even breathing. Her hands were clutched to her chest.

"I came to talk," he said, tentatively. The girl recoiled as he neared her, nearly falling off of the gravestone.

"Just to talk," he repeated. He did not come any closer. "To tell you some things."

The girl's eyes were wide; the pitch they were composed of seemed to reach into forever.

"I...I've done some bad things, I'm afraid."

She settled back onto the gravestone, still clutching her chest.

"It...started with the animals in the backyard. Squirrels...the occasional rabbit when I could catch it."

He sat down against the statue he had inspected before.

"I had...a proclivity for it. An affection for the way they shuddered and screeched. I saw poetry in the violence, in the sick dance they all did before they died. I knew what I wanted to do with my life."

One hand lifted the tiny, shining cross from his thin chest; he regarded it with a kind of wonder.

"I stole this from my first. I remember her vividly, a young woman whose negotiable heart had fallen into the hands of another man who had not, in fact, given her the wedding band I also stole from her stiffening finger. I did it quickly--there were two of them, but the boy took longer to die, stumbling around the room and wrapping his hands around his own neck, as though that might stem the flow of blood."

He smiled again, at the memory.

"It did not."

He turned the cross between his fingers, toying with it.

"I wrote my first poem out of their blood. I took too long with it, thought too much. The poem was not very good; the muddled thoughts of an adrenaline addled young man do not make for profound psychological endeavors, I'm afraid."

The little girl hopped down from the gravestone and leaned back against it, still staring at him, still waiting.

"The second one was easier, and the third easier after that. Soon I'd made a name for myself. I hear one day they're going to publish it in a book--the poems that I write about people's deaths. The people that I've killed. Isn't that..."

The cross vanished into his closing fist. His lips twisted into a frown, his eyes narrowed.

"...sick?"

He climbed to his feet, suddenly. "It's disgusting." He began to pace, circling the girl.

"You were wrong," he muttered. His voice was low, the words coming quicker now. "You were wrong and I was wrong. There was no beauty in your death--no inspiration. I stood there in your room for an hour and not a word came to me--"

He whirled, advancing on the little girl.

"Not--a--word!" he snarled.

She merely stared silently back at him, her black eyes wide; somehow he knew if there had been irises there she would have looked fearful. He turned away.

"You...were wrong," the dark man sighed, composing himself. "There was no poetry in you. Just blood."

He faced her once more.

"No flowers on a little girl's grave..." He approached her again. The girl pressed herself against the gravestone, trying to back away. He knelt before her and pressed a finger to her lips--they felt like ice.

"Shh. I'm not going to hurt you. Not anymore."

Redeem me, O Lord,

He reached into his coat and produced a knife, the blade crusted with blood.

and welcome me into Thine arms;

"They'll find this in the morning, and then they'll find me. But I don't care. Maybe I should be locked up. I'm not an artist anymore--just a monster."

Keep my soul

He patted the little girl's head. Her trembling stilled.

"Forgive me, please. I know it's hard to do, but try. I am truly, truly sorry."

in Thine eternal grace.

The dark man stood, produced a lighter and lit another cigarette; as the flame  flickered to life the girl immediately disappeared. He lingered for a moment longer, waiting--

I forgive you.

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere all at once--he wondered for a moment if he'd imagined it. Then the dark man departed from the graveyard, down the cobblestone path to the street, and disappeared into the night.

***
SERIAL KILLER CAUGHT

STILTON, MAINE, FEB 22

The infamous serial killer "The Poet" has been caught, according to police. Christopher Randolph, 25, was arrested at his apartment today and charged with twelve (12) counts of first-degree murder. Mr. Randolph has allegedly already confessed to being the "Poet."

The "Poet" has been terrorizing the city for three months, preying on seemingly random targets and writing poetry at the scene of the crime, using the victims' blood. However, he made a strange mistake when police discovered the knife he had used to murder Susie Bartlett, his last victim, on her grave. Randolph's fingerprints were all over the handle of the weapon.

"We're just glad the sicko's been caught," said James Bartlett, Susie's father. "We hope he burns for what he did to our daughter."

"Oh, he'll get the death penalty for sure," stated Stilton Police Chief Ryan Walters. "He's already confessed to murdering a little girl and all those other people--and the little girl alone is enough to cinch it. He's going to hang and he knows he's going to hang--but, to be honest with you, he doesn't seem to care."

Police upon entering the apartment discovered Randolph writing on his wall, using the blood from a self-inflicted wound to his leg. They have not disclosed what was written.

Gatehouse Publishers is reportedly collecting the poetry from the Poet's murders into a single volume, the release date will be announced pending the permission of the bereaved families.
***
Goodbye, goodbye--
said the artist to the world,
and to the monster
and to the little gi