The moonlight painted everything in shades of gray as Quincy lay in bed, waiting, still. He had removed all the protections the old man had put up, leaving him exhausted afterwards but he didn’t care. He would see her again tonight.
The windows opened inward by unseen hands and there, perched on the windowsill like a dove, was his Lucy. She still wore the white dress they’d buried her in, marred only by the black rimmed hole gaping over her breasts.
She came to him and he marveled at her scarlet lips, black eyes, and teeth and skin of brilliant white.