The Tales Of Carlisle Craven
One despicable and rather grotesque morning, Carlisle Craven woke up in a pool of blood. Or at least he thought he had. It seemed lately, blood was all carlisle could think about. He saw it everywhere. Dripping down the walls. Oozing out of the mailbox. Pouring from his bathroom sink. All he wanted was blood. He craved It every second. To smell it's odor. To taste it's tangy sensation. Carlisle Craven was dying. All he needed was some blood. It had been weeks since his last meal. He needed to feed.
He weakly stumbled to the mirror, supporting his body with his frail arms on the dresser. His long black hair in tight knots. His eyes, once a deep flaming red, now a dark burgundy. Large dark circles formed around his eye sockets. His clothes hanging loosely from his body. His skin, wrinkled and gray.
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