Hello people of the universe! I have decided to post this . . . it's about Weeping Angels. I was trying to make it creepy - and kind of scary. Just sort of . . . suspenseful. I actually started writing this in English when we were told to write "DEscriptive Writing Piece on Fear". Which is why I wrote about Weeping Angels.

Nothing more needs to be said.

Disclaimer: I own nothing

One move, one blink, one glance away . . . and you're gone.

You have to keep looking at them all, but every time you can't see one; they get you. They're silent, they're deadly. They're the silent assassins. Every cell in your body is screaming to run, to turn away and run for your life and never look back. But there's no way you can outrun them.

They're just statues. Of course—they're just made of stone . . . when you look at them.

You can't take it anymore. You blink. Fast as you can because you know you're doomed. As soon as you open your eyes there it is—inches from your face, clawed hands groping out to get you. You can hardly breathe your heart is beating so fast.

Your stomach is sinking to your feet with the weight of fear and dread. It twists itself in knots, making you want to throw up. But you can't. You can't . . . look . . . away.

At first they had seemed like statues. Angels crying into their hands, completely motionless and made of stone. You had looked away to look for a noise, and when you looked back . . . it's hands were revealing one blank eye. You took a step back, your instinct to look away and the trouble disappears . . . but that's their skill. Don't look—and they move.

You look back, seeing its hand frozen, reaching out to you. Its face was blank—almost innocent and pleading—like it's asking for your help. You close your eyes, making it go away. This isn't happening, this isn't happening.

You open your eyes, and it's taken a step off its pedestal, grey stone feet on the ground. Its hands have claws instead of nails, and its eyes are black. It has a look on its face, like its face blank, but that look, like it's got some sick pity for the animal it's about to kill and there is nothing you can do. Like there is some sinister part of it that is relishing the chance to do it.

That look is worse than anything else that could get your fear. Your fear is overcoming you—your instincts are so hard to control—you want to run. You want to run as fast as you can. You want to run and jump out the window and hurtle to the ground below—but you have no doubt that it will get you as you look away. There's no escape. It will get you.

You blink the sweat from your eye, and its face changes to some grotesque thing with fangs. You can't look at it—it makes you even more afraid then you already are. Your terror is being stretched further than it ever has been before, then it should.

There it is, looking at you. Don't. Blink.

You blink again, knowing that it will kill you. But when you open your eyes, it's back at the other end of the room, with that pitiful look on its face again. Its right hand is raised, pointing to the ceiling. It's pointing to the light.

You barely have time to realise that it's pointing before the light splutters and goes out.

Ta-da! This is some random drabble on Weeping Angels, and yeah, the angel gets whoever it is that is speaking. It's an unknown POV. Just to prove that Angels are FREAKING CREEPY.

Please R&R,

-Owl