January 1st, 1892



“Are you all right, miss?” a voice asked me. It was a sincere question, not hollow or filled with apathy or lust. Yes, the owner of that voice would do nicely.


I looked up in to the concerned gaze of a man who could not have been more than twenty years old. He was young, but that couldn’t be helped.


“Miss?” he repeated. His hands were trembling as he held his hat in his hands. It was not out of fear, I soon noticed. The man was sickly, and covered his mouth to let out a wild cough. The fit racked his thin, pale body, and made his long auburn hair fall out of place.


I lifted myself off the bench and wiped fake tears off of my cheeks. Brushing my hair out of my face, I told him that I was fine.


He must have believed me, because he turned to leave. So much for chivalry; had it really died off so soon?


My shoes scraped the cobblestone when I hurried to catch up with him. I wrapped my arm around his and a smile crept across my face. “Would you be so kind as to walk me home? I had not realized how late it was while at the party.”


The young man looked at me with apprehension. You could see his thoughts battling each other in his head. He did not know what my intentions were, or even my identity. On the other hand, his mother had brought him up to be courteous, and to always aid those in need. So against his better judgment, he accepted my request.


By the time we had reached my home, you could tell he had figured out my profession. Well, the cover I use to carry out my profession. The thought that he could take me right then and there excited him. But it wouldn’t for long.


I invited him inside, and he hesitated. I knew that it would come to this, me having to work harder than usual tonight for a meal. Daniel (that was the man’s name) was too respectable.


He turned away to leave me at my door, which was highly predictable. Daniel was determined to be a good guy. Too bad I wasn’t about to let him be one.


I grabbed his arm tightly, holding him in place. He was shocked; what kind of woman, prostitute or not, was so forceful? Poor Daniel, if only his mother had been smarter, and had taught him of the horrors that come out at night.


People wonder why I don’t feel bad about hurting men. It isn’t that I’m a soulless demon. Well…I mean, I have remorse. Sure, I feel bad about it. When I was younger, I used to mourn every man I killed. It got tedious after a while, so I just ignore it now.


Hidden by the shadows my house cast over the doorway, I bent poor Daniel’s head back and kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry,” I whispered in his ear. Then I stuck my hand in to his body to rip out his soul.


Stealing a person’s soul is harder than it sounds, and a lot more complicated. To start off, you must manipulate your arm and have it take its more demonic form so that you can reach through mortal flesh. Then you have to go through the man’s neck, down his trachea, between his lungs until you reach his soul, which is located above the heart.


Pulling out my victim’s soul was more difficult than I’d expected. He was quite unhealthy, so I got stuck between hemophiliac blood and a scratchy, inflamed throat. It didn’t even glow very brightly when I was bringing it to my lips to swallow.


Seeing as there must be a silver lining to everything, there was one good thing that happened to Daniel that night:


His body was still in a state of shock when I snapped his neck, so his actual death was painless.


“Happy New Year, Daniel.”