Cloying

The world is violently dark right up until the moment it glimpses the paper boat in its mindless slumber. Eyes snap open, and there the boat materializes in front of it, along with a small, ghostly arm wrapped in a yellow rain-slicker and the cacophonous sound of the flood pouring through the grate. It smells the fear shivering off the boy’s chilled skin and raised nerve endings. Tongue slides across sharpened teeth. Even the bicuspids, razor sharp. White gloved hands pluck the paper from the gush of the drain. And the child’s fear hangs fragrantly as it offers up the boat. The hesitation is palpable and mouth-watering. It’s salivating as a smile plays across the red stained mouth. Oil crayon smeared with years of the caked on blood of terror. The boy pulls back, and it realizes it may have come on too strong. It may need to play the tortoise rather than the hare. Its eyes flicker with the realization and the desperation to hide the uncontrollable need to feast. Fangs like porcelain shards drip with the urgent need to devour and defile. To desecrate and tear. Perhaps something shiny to sweeten the deal? And a red balloon floats into the scene. Then green, yellow, and blue follow. And the small face is entertained just enough to drop his guard. The small fingers reach back in, and before they can retreat it seizes its moment. Jaws lined by fanged, yellowing smile crush through tissue and bone. The screams are a storm of trepidation. Blood coming so fast that it is black until it hits the now red torrent cascading into the gutter. And the horror and insanity fills it not quite but almost to the bursting. The only thing strong enough to fill it, the greatness of fear. And just before it is satiated, the boy bleeds out. His heart stops, and it is almost full. Almost. But the boy gave up too soon. The boy is drained before it can gorge on enough terror to drench its gluttonous palate. His lungs and heart unable to pump oxygen through his tiny frame. It discards the debris of now rotting flesh, letting it float up and out of its storm-drain home. And it can almost taste its next victim. It can almost feel its heart fill up with horror and fright as it drifts back into contented sleep.

Stephen King - obviously not his style, but playing in his world