Bogleech.com's 2018 Horror Write-off:

THE SCAFFOLD'S VAMPIRE

It was never more than a job before he tasted his first drop.

Then it was a source of pleasure, of unadulterated joy.

He was merely a man, of modest means, of means unliked.

He was just, unseeing, unbiased. A bloody, beating axe.

And there it was: a sad puddle on the floor,

red as the wet, trembling kisses of old.

And there he was: sweat in brow and lips aflame

kneeling down over the red.

He did his duty, then, with blade in hand,

and took the bodies to the back,

naked, headless, marble skin and marble bone.

Fonts of life, of love, of beauty, of a bygone summer’s day.

His thirst kept growing till it couldn’t be contained,

like a lion, a mighty lion, in a tiny little cage.

Thus he went outside, and hunted,

and drank the blood of passersby.

He was caught, of course, red-handed.

He was bound and gagged, and beaten,

and when they took him to the scaffold,

and he looked into the crowd,

he saw not a single head there.

Only necks, only red.