Frail, clean and pure fingers holds a knife of silver. Once you’ve learned to summon him something was calling you. The yearning burned in your veins.

The dead sheep laid in front of you as you kneeled, the blood boils, forming a man.

He wore black clothes, different from what was once your white pure dress now a blood red stained mess.

“A lamb of my own.” He says, his hand on your head, tilting your head back.

“Oh, how I’ve corrupted you.” Once a preacher’s daughter, now a butcher.