He leads the kids

up the steps of his porch,

guiding them on a grand adventure.

But it is only he

who knows the way,

who sees the danger,

the mighty hero can save the day.

A crooked smile twists behind the mask

unseen by the eyes of the children,

unaware of their strange task.

Something sinister deepens his eyes

until they become an abyss of pure black,

completely devoid of all life.

A chuckle escapes the Brahmin’s throat,

rattling like chains, screeching like nails on a chalkboard.

Taking the kids to his basement,

his lair, no, his playhouse,

where dozens of masks line the walls.

Foxes, bunnies, elephants,

bears, deer, boars, and vermin,

each one mounted like a hunter’s prized catch.

The walls have eyes,

eyes that see everything.

The masks have seen

unimaginable horrors,

understood not by even the maddest man,

oh, ho, but the Brahmin can.

The echoes of cries fill the halls,

screams of pure agony and terror

that petrify even the strongest of men.

Then...silence,

stillness, calm and tranquil.

Setting them up, he puts them on display.

They are his playthings,

around the table they go,

heads held upright,

with eyes cold and dead.

He leaves the children alone to play

while he runs away

to find more friends,

for today is a good day,

a rather good day to play.