Watch your step. Be quick and sure. Take my hand and grasp it tightly. Don't look over your shoulder. Leave them behind, for where I'm taking you, it is best they not follow.

   Come here, and make haste. Meandering country roads, furrowed with red clay and gentle sloping hills swept in snow await us.

   You're drunk, this I can see. Cognac and cigars taint your breath. You stumble and I heave you up off the street. Have you got any money? Fumbling in your pockets, you pull out a handful of crumplednotes. Put them back. It's not your money I want.

   Something more. A secret. You shall see.

   You are a timid man. Kind and good with a mournful face, this I know. With your tousled black hair knotted back with a red ribbon and sad eyes, you seem romantic. Are you a poet? I do love poets. Poets aren't afraid of death, but welcome it with an open embrace.

   This is why I chose you.

   I know you. Do you remember me? I've been watching you, waiting for you, and dreaming of you. Do you dream of me; at night when the candle wick dies and closing your heavy lids, clutching the covers tight about you, do you whisper my name?

   You know who I am. Estella, you slur. Your slight frame shuddering,you shake your head that it can't be possible. Ah, but it is.

   I promised that I would return.

   Why do you smile? Do you find this amusing? Perhaps nothing more than a dream? That I should find you so appealing?

   Look up! Look up at the sky! See how brilliant it shines tonight? I do love winter nights, don't you? Sometimes, on a cloudless night,with the moon ripe and round as a pregnant woman's belly, I go mad by the moon and become lost. The vapor of your breath clings to the air. Ghost-breath. The pungent fragrance of wood smoke and burnt leaves seeps into your skin. Old men roast nuts over pits of fire and children with rosy cheeks tumble in the snow. This is the village that I haunt.

   The night is soundless and I am restless.

   Where shall we go? Down in the meadow? Where drifts of snow are waist deep? Or the churchyard where lost souls rest in silent slumber? How would you like that? No? The manor, then, that sits atop the hill, desolate and bleak? That's where we will go. It is quiet there and no one will disturb us. We can lay underneath cherubs and angels and hear their sweet chorus.

   Stepping out into a pool of watery moon, you are struck by my beauty. The pallor of my skin is bleached and smoothed. Ribbons and lace snake through my curls. Shyly, you reach out and twist a fat, glossy lock of my hair around your finger. Nostalgia washes over you as you gaze upon the love that once you knew.

   Fingers twitch to feel me. Dark eyes scrutinize my voluptuous frame;the gauzy shift is damp and molds to my flesh.

   Down the sodden road we trod, leaving the village behind. The night is late and hushed. The lanterns have faded and the quaint, rustic houses we pass loom dark and silent as tombs. Arms are intertwined and our bodies are meshed together. The night is eroticand thrilling. The scent of burnt coal and icy snow evoke desires that once were forbidden. Your senses are sharpened with clarity, and the shadows that once frightened you are now pleasant old friends.

   Your heart beats in steady measure. In the moonlight your translucent flesh pulsates. Have you a heart? Oh, my dear - let me hear it. Please? Yes. It calls out to me and reminds me of who I amand what I've come for.

   With my breath hot and heady upon your ear, I murmur all things carnal. The trill of my tongue sends a shiver down your spine. You are eager and so am I, but we must wait until the time is right. Eyes closed and your mouth quivering in pleasure, you sigh, The Devil's Whore. You aren't alarmed. And it won't matter so much. All of this - the winter night and starry sky and snowflakes fluttering to the ground - will cease to exist.

   Nearing the manor, we must pass the churchyard. You are hestiant. Like an ancient soothsayer, you are superstitious about graveyards and full moons. Crows perch on crumbling tombs and squawk. You shudder, and I know that you're thinking of your dead mother. I heard that she was wicked. How long has it been since you visited her grave? That's too long; you should plant roses at her grave. She's waiting for you. The dead always wait.

   What are you muttering about? Are you praying? Oh, but isn't it too late for that? Are you a man of faith? Or are you faithless? I heard that your father was a pious man and that God was your bread and that you ate the bread whole. Is that true?

   No matter. You don't have to answer all of my questions. Besides, here is the hallow that leads to the manor. Bare trees scrape across the winter sky. Dead leaves scuttle about in the rutted hallow and the wind wails. You seem to cower back. Have you lost your wits?

   This isn't the time to lose your wits.

   The manor, cloaked in twilight gloom, dwells in ruinous splendor.

   Under the moon and truding through the snow, creeping along the rusted iron-wrought fence, we lovers seek that special spot. Among the slinking ivy and thorny holly, stone angels weep in silence.

   You seem to find something disturbing. Is something amiss, my love?

   Reluctantly you follow, holding my hand. Once more you glance over your shoulder, searching in vain for those familiar lights of the village.

   You can't slither back now.

   In one fluid motion, I slide into your arms. I can make you forget all of the sadness and all of your misery. I can make you disappear into the darkness. Don't you want to disappear?

   You remark that I'm like ice, and won't I please take your coat? I smile kindly, how considerate you are! But, no, I don't need your coat. Soon, I whisper, soon I'll be warm.

   A vague sense of trouble and despair imbues you. This is all a dream.

   Estella, you vehemently cry, in God's name, let me be!

   No. I cannot. You invited me, you sought me out and now I'm here. You know that I love you. A craving like no other consumes me and rages like a fever.

   I must slake this thirst.

   Come here my love. I draw you down beside me and lay your troubled head upon my cold breast. You are weary and lonely. You fill your days in solitude and cognac-induced rampages, destitute and wasted.

   Have you no love? No lady? I ask.

   Misery creeps into your black eyes and for a moment they cloud over. A wistful smile plays upon your delicious mouth, and then I know that there is another. Someone else who contends for your heart.

   You, the poet are a miserable wretch!

   Now, lay back my love. Doesn't this feel nice? Shut your eyes my love. What do you see? Swirling smoke and wanton girls with flowing dark hair. Crawling over you and wanting you. Burning you with their prickly tongues. Lapping at you until you writhe in ecstasy.

   Your cravat is untied. Your shirt ripped opened and your throat throbs with promise. Be patient. I curve over you, with my thighs cradling you as a mother cradles her babe. Running my fingers through your black mane, I brush my lips softly against your throat.

   And you moan.

   My mouth becomes cruel and stings your delicate cheekbones. Your flesh becomes clay and is easily manipulated by my taut, tapered fingers. You are erect and the world is ours for the taking.

   Underneath the massive awning of angels, they shape and shift, sliding in and out of the shadows. Their liquid eyes crystallize into searing daggers and their pouting lips curve in a grotesque manner.

   Make no mistake, I shall have you.

   You groan in agony and mistake it for lust. Only then, when I have you pinned to the frozen ground, poised and ready for the feast - do you scream. Trying to claw your way back to sanity and the things that you once held dear, you are stricken with terror.

   Paralyzed, you see the black beast, stomping and snorting. This the beast that you heard of once long ago, when you were a little boy and your witch-mother nestled you tightly to her womb. She crooned to you this tale of a horrifying beast, with rippled muscles and thudding hooves.

   Little boy, when you hear thundering hooves on hallow ground, it tolls death for the slumbering village.

   Sprung from the cavernous depths of Hell, his smoldering eyes and his foul stench, reek of death and famine! This monstrous fiend, part Satan and part steed, emerges from the rotted earth with his mistress steering the reins.

   Plundering the village, the demon-bitch snatches babes in the middle of the night, drinks their blood and tosses their limp bodies in a sodden hole.

   Yes, I whisper sweetly, this is the beast. He is impatient and is waiting for his mistress.

   Now, in this last moment of earthly desires, your eyes widen in grim fascination. You are lucid but frantic as you struggle to escape on your haunches. A cunning and callous creature with barred fangs and a crimson stained mouth engulfs you. Her nails rake your back. You beg her to stop, but she won't let go. And her talon nails tear bits of flesh off the small of your back and you sob like a coward.

   Don't look so frightened!

   The pain is searing, festering and bubbling like a blister, but will dissipate as the mist does on a spring morning. And so, my love, will you.

   Estella, you sob, what have you done?

   Copulating angels hover and dip like harpies circling their prey. The chorus, once melodious and reminiscent of harps and bells, now grates with the plucking of a violin and pounding of a piano.

   The violin strings splinter.

   The stamping steed lets out an unearthly shriek.

   The chill of the snow is long past. Sensations of piercing heat stabs your body. I taste your salty flesh and gnash at your membranes. You thrash, hands gripping around my waist, and then -

   You are still.

   Ashen and flaccid, you are thought to be dead.

   They find you tomorrow morning, slumped against a sepulchral angel and shivering in the snow. An empty bottle of cognac is found by your side.

   Taking pity on you and your mind, they brush the snow off of you. The good doctor throws his cloak around your narrow shoulders and guides you to the coach.

   A warm room with a roaring fire awaits you at the Inn. White as a sheet, you lay your burning head on thick, downy pillows. A servant girl, frail and nervous spoon-feeds you gruel while the doctor examines your wounds. He reprimands you about the unsavory business of drinking alone. A man can go mad, it will addle his brain, he tells you. You shrug it off as best as you know how.

   Do you recall the night at all?

   The doctor waits for your reply.

   Deep in rumination, the cheery room fades. My taste lingers on your lips like sooty ashes in the snow.

   You mouth, The Devil's Whore.

   Years later, when leaving that cursed village behind, you will be safe and comfortable. Hidden within the bowels of your chamber, you are still the miserable wretch who cowers behind drawn curtains. And then-

   On a snowy and bitter night, you'll hear the thundering of hooves; terrified, you'll creep into your bed and cover your ears.

   Get up, my love. Go to your window and draw back the damask curtains. Look down and underneath the yellow light of a lantern, you'll see me. Standing and waiting.