spoopy skellingtons

Thick clouds descended onto the dank, dark marshlands.
	A shadowy cloak shuffled from its crypt with a bundle of tools in its hand, a woman, his lover, dragged by her hair in the other. The necromancer. “Everything will be alright. Everything will be alright,” his eyes shifted solicitously at the figments of his imagination, dissipating in the fog. He splayed his rag on the ground. Stamps, a pot of salt, a knife, and a single candle.
	His vacillate hands manipulated her naked form into a cross. They drew a ragged circle into the soft dirt surrounding her, stamping runes at her head, her feet, her hands, and were filled with salt. The ritual had begun. Her skin flayed by the jagged dagger’s work, her ribs splintered away; no longer did something beat in her chest. It was stolen by the necromancer and sat in his quavering hands.
	Closing his eyes, he whispered to himself, “Soon,” and sunk his teeth into her bleeding heart.
	Tough and muscly, the necromancer gnawed off whole pieces, swallowing chunks of meat like a beast. The taste of iron stained the inside of his mouth as slippery flesh dropped into the pit of his stomach. His body begged him to stop. He heaved and retched, sweat, tears and snot ran down his face.
	At the end of it, the necromancer’s face was left a bloody mess; in the corner of his eye he saw the candle’s flame singeing the rag. A crooked crimson smile forced its way onto his visage. He approached slowly to the candle and tossed the dirty cloth into a puddle of mud. He held a cold hand over the candle and felt nothing.