Nosferatu

A shadowy figure flits across the village's main thoroughfare; darkened windows hold candles that were extinguished hours ago. 
It halts before a particular door, sniffing around the jamb. 
A growling sound emanates from its empty stomach. 
There's an infant in this house, It thinks, smacking its pallid lips. 
Infants are best. 
Taking care to remain silent, it turned the doorknob; the opened door creaked slightly. 
The child's scent grew more potent as it stepped into the main room. 
It howled in agony, as a silvery, moonlit blade cut through the darkness, wounding the creature deeply. 
There'd be no dinner... tonight.

The Scribbler

"Don't get too comfortable, Dave," Karl said evenly. "With ideas like yours, they'll fire you soon enough." 
Dave endured such comments from 'Star Employee' Karl Manning, daily; that would end, today. 
Focusing intensely, Dave doodled a stick figure in his favorite notepad. 
Underneath, he wrote 'Karl', and in a crude way, the figure did resemble his abusive co-worker. 
Sweat trickling down his brow, he drew an exploding heart in 'Karl's' chest, as the real Karl clutched at his chest, flopped to the floor, and died. 
Dave smiled, closing his notepad. 
Another rung in the corporate ladder had been scaled.

Daddy Knows Best

"Daddy, I heard it again," Lindsay complained. 
"What's that, sweetheart?" 
She sighed. "The crying! It woke me up!" 
"Lindsay, you were probably just dreaming." 
Unsatisfied, the child finished eating, and grumbled all the way to the bus stop. 
Back in the house, sipping his coffee, he heard the faint sound of crying, coming from below. 
"Damnit!" he exclaimed, heading to the basement. 
A young cheerleader was chained to the wall. 
"Wake her up again, and I'll cut out your tongue, and sew your mouth shut!" he hissed, tightening her ball-gag. 
"Raising little girls is tough, and you're not helping."

New Year, New You

Every year, he goes through this. Resolutions are nearly impossible to stick to, but he intends to do it this time. 
The wall is covered with trophies; remnants of the pattern he intends to leave behind. 
With the gentle hand of a museum curator, he wipes dust from one of them. 
"It's time for a change," he says, scanning for any other foreign matter on his prized possessions. 
Satisfied his collection was immaculately clean once again, he heads out of his den, leaving the row of severed male heads staring blankly at the walls. 
"This year, I'm switching to women."

Running Late

"Where the hell are they?" he bellowed, as he unceremoniously cleared his desk of papers, and garbage.

"I know I left them in here!"

Doubting himself, he left his office, Stormed through the living room, and began tossing the pillows, and cushions.

"Damn it to hell!"

Then, a lightning bolt of clarity struck him; he ran to the basement.

After clearing the remaining limbs of his latest victim from the second-hand examination table, he found his missing keys.

"Thank you, God!" he proclaimed, before running to his car.

Someone's got be on time to teach Sunday School, after all.

Happy Birthday, To You

"...Happy birthday, to you," he sang, as he carried the tray bearing the candle-covered cake. 
An unused game of 'Pin the tail on the donkey' fluttered against the door as he passed. 
The children sat, party hats on their heads, as he distributed each frosted slice to its appropriate place. 
Dressing as a clown was meant to be entertaining, but these kids were each ten to twelve years old; had he made a poor choice in doing so? 
While taking pictures, he silently hoped that the cemeteries wouldn't trace the missing bodies to him, until the party was over.