A wizened face watches at the window, eyes fractured by cataracts gazing out into the street at her prey.
The little boy is no more than five, and the delighted shouts of his friends ring up and down the street. They run about in their merry game, never stopping for breath.
So young, so fresh.
Her grey tongue rolls out of her mouth, dragging across wrinkled lips that are pouched with age.
So delicious.
The voices moan with longing in her head, they are hungry, so very hungry.
So very, very hungry. Soon, they whisper to themselves.
Soon.
She eases her hunched frame into an armchair by the window, where she waits for the children to tire of their game.
At long last, they flop on the summer-green grass, panting and gasping for breath. Their fun has come to an end, and one by one the children leave, promises of another game fresh on their minds as they return to their homes.
Only one child remains, enjoying a rare moment of solitude as he lies sprawled in the earth, gazing up at the clear blue sky. His breathing slows, and he gets up and dusts off his cargo shorts. His knees are grass stained a bright lime green. He too, is preparing to leave, and the old woman knows this is her last chance.
She hobbles over to the door, wrenching it open with a power not native to her frail, aged bones. What was the child's name? Brett? Brian? Irrelevant.
"Child!" She croaks loudly. His head snaps up, green eyes wide in surprise. She stretches her mouth in a ghoulish grin. "Come, have a sip of water. Aren't you tired after all that play?"
He opens his mouth slightly, trying to form a response. He does not want a sip of water. He wants nothing to do with the creepy old woman who lives in the sagging old house down the street. But she is an adult, and adults are to be obeyed. What can he do? He does not want to get into trouble. Reaching some kind of resolution, he musters up his courage and climbs the crumbling stone steps that form a meandering path to the chipped grey door.
The old woman takes a deep sniff as he passes by her through the doorway. Such young, fresh flesh.
The child is led to an ugly dining table by the kitchen. It is absorbed almost fully by a white tablecloth, a large number of dark yellow stains spanning it surface. The edges are trimmed with pink lace. He picks at the threads as the old woman shuffles about in the kitchen, hidden from view by a particularly hideous antique china cabinet.
The old woman's hands tremble as she reaches for a chipped teacup. This host will not last much longer. Work quickly. She brings the cup to her cracked lips. Her eyes close. Her tongue reaches out of her mouth, weaving like a snake. A sickly, glowing green liquid flows from between her lips, filling the cup in a matter of seconds. The old woman's limbs jerk in a horrible spastic fashion. She sets the cup in front of the hesitant boy. "I'm not feeling my best, dear." She whispered, voice dry and lifeless. "I'm going to have a nice lie-down." With that, she ducks behind the case, out of sight as her body bucks and arches, finally stilling.
Green liquid leaks from her mouth, her ears, her eyes.
The child does not see this. He is fingering the china cup with much trepidation. The liquid is bubbling slightly, making him think of soda. He downs it in one gulp, looks around, and dashes out of the house as quickly as he can, past the ugly old table and the broken-down front door.
He can get halfway down the street before the spasms take hold. He sinks to his knees, curling in on himself. A strange force seems to possess his tiny frame, and he gets up shakily. He rotates his jaw, looks himself over, and gives an unearthly grin. "A new host." He rasps. "Fresh blood at last."