All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
I met him one November. Think about it. November. Even
the month itself abounds in mystery. When I think about it now,
I realize that i really didn't meet him. I'm not even sure what
you would call our acquantance. Maybe fate. Definitely a precedent
for the future.
It was late and I was making my way home, through the fields
that lay between the Vicar's house and ours. I first spied him between
the trees that lay at the edge of the surrounding grove. At first
glance all I could see was a tall dark shadow of a man. My heart
jumped, yet I continued to walk. I passed the area where he had
been and walked quickly beyond the vicinity.
I entered the scruff of foliage at the edge of the fields
and passed quickly through it to the next stretch of pasture. As
I entered the circle of grass, I stopped to pull my cloak tighter
around my shoulders. The November wind was a bitter one. I bowed
my head for a moment as I adjusted my clothing, and when I looked
back up, there he was. In front of me, not more than ten feet away,
the shadow man.
I was struck first by his extreme pallor, accentuated by
his ruby lips. His hair was slicked back, away from his ghostly
Don't look into his eyes, something whispered in my ear.
Perhaps my conscience, perhaps an angel of some sort. Either way,
I lifted my head upward to gaze into his eyes, strangely
intense. Black with an underlying aura of violet. He stared back
and his lips slowly curled into a sly half smile.
I half smiled back. He extended his hand, and I walked
forward to meet his grasp. His hands bore white gloves. I noticed
he was a fine dressed gentleman, of probably fifty years. The most
captivating aspect of his attire was a jet black cape, lined in crimson
Our hands met and he raised mine to his lips and kissed
it gently, never losing eyecontact. No words were needed. We began
The beat of my heart provided the music, and the gentleman
followed it gracefully. We circled and twirled until the pasture
became a ballroom, we two being the only dancers. My heart became
a violin, uttering forth the sweetest fragile tune.
The rhythm got stronger, until I thought my heart would
explode for intensity of it. The room began to spin and whirl, yet
we two dancers kept time with the waltz. Suddenly, through unspoken
words, the gentleman asked politely, "May I?"
To which I firmly answered "You may..."
Our lips met and I was overwhelmed with passion. Not unlike
the dance, the kiss seemed to breathe life eternal. The room spun,
the dancers whirled, and my outstretched mind circled them both.
I could no longer breathe and tore my mouth away from his.
He bent close to my face. I could feel his breath, hot
on my cheek. He turned his face ever so slightly and kissed my hair.
We kept turning and his lips travelled down. My cheek, my ear, my
He nuzzled my neck with his cheek and began to kiss again.
I was astonished at how such an aged gentleman could awaken such
fires within me. I felt his mouth open the slightest bit, as he
nibbled ever so slightly. We twirled and I caught a glimpse of us
in the ballroom mirror. I was dancing alone.
Twas then that it happened. I felt a sharp stabbing pain
in my neck. Vertigo consumed me. I felt a warmth trickle down my
neck, followed by an eager tongue. At once the music ended, the
beat stopped, my heart ceased.
I awoke in the pasture once again. My cloak was lying bundled
next to me.
A dream, I thought. Only a dream.
I gathered my cloak and scrambled to my feet. It had seemed
so real. I raised a trembling hand to my throat, only to meet a
warm, sticky wetness. I pulled my hand away and in the pale moonlight,
I gazed upon blood. Red, dark, my own.
I looked around frantically for some semblance of the dream
from which I had come, but there was none to be found.
I closed my eyes and seemed to hear the wind whisper unspoken
words. I opened them again and found nothing.
I gathered my cloak around my shoulders and began the remainder
of my neverending journey.
---Stephanie Kay Buffman, March 4, 1992.