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Welcome, welcome to you all! Please, relax and enjoy yourselves. After all, I was called upon to give you a story. You should feel honored! What's that? Who am I, you ask? How insulting! I have met all of you, every last one of you who reads this story, whether you remember it or not. I am always beside you, closer than your shadow. The better question is, 'What am I?' Devil? Kehehehehehe! Don't confuse me with that worthless trash, writhing in his pit like a worm. I am far greater than that pitiful waste, and I know you all so much more. Kehehehe! But maybe I shouldn't bully him so much. Please, forgive me. After all, it's been so long since I've enjoyed myself like this. But enough, allow me to introduce myself. My formal name, which you might find in the notes of doomed fools, is the sixth Lord of Nightmares, the Terror of Corruption. I and my seven siblings embody the all the fears of the human race. If that's too difficult to grasp, please, "just think of me as the talking air." Hehehahahahaha! My body, when I choose to have a body, is black mist. My voice is the voice of temptation, the shameful, seductive whispers seeping from the cracks in your own weak heart. And with these images in mind, please, enjoy this little fairy tale I have for you all. Kehahahahaha!

Once upon a time, it came to pass that I had grown hungry, and bored, and so I left the realm of nightmares that I call home, and descended on your pitiful world to take in that single element that sustains all nightmares. Certainly, you can guess it, right? Right? That one thing that humans can give us. Not flesh or blood, or bones, or souls, but fear. Sweet, sweet fear. It makes us, and sustains us. Fear is our meat, our bread, the source of our life, and all those minions we create, twist, and force together, made from all your fears. How does it feel? The thought that all the things you were afraid of as a child, all the things that tear you out of sleep even now, exist, waiting, infinitely close and far? And not just those cheap, superficial things, but your true terrors, harvested from the very depths of your being. Doesn't it just sound wonderful? But look, I've gotten off track, kehehehehe! So it came to pass that I made my way to your world.

Of course, you must understand that I care very little for you humans and your ways and things. I don't even know where I visited, much less a day or time, though it was not so long ago. I can say that the sun was setting, and that all the little buildings were wrapped in ice, and buried in snow, as though a great hand had choked the life out of the land, and even the sun was slowly gasping out its last, the light ready to flicker and die, the frost-covered streets like a corpse's still veins. Of course, a human might see it differently, kehehehehe.

Now then, I will freely admit that I had only visited that place purely by whim. None of my siblings were there, so it was a perfect place to feed myself. So imagine my surprise when I felt a pulse of magic. It's a very rare thing to find in the human world after all. Oh, there are a few places, a few hidden schools that can truly keep my siblings and I out. But for the average insect called a human being, such things were beyond them. How could I possibly resist the thought of a human, dabbling in power that they couldn't possibly understand? Just the thought of being there, to savor the final scream when that power twists back and devours the pathetic thing...kehehhehe! Truly, that terror of betrayal flavored with a wine of despair is my favorite delight. There was no chance I would allow it to escape.

So I hunted. I twisted and turned through the streets, first this way, then that, until at last I came to a darkened home, and knew I had found my meal. Of course, things like doors and locks mean nothing to me and mine. After all, you can't lock out fear anymore then you can lock out regret, riiiight? Kehehehehehe! It was nothing at all to seep in from the fading dusk to the internal gloom.

It was a pathetic place, just like most of your distasteful dwellings, small and cluttered, awash with mediocrity. However, there was one thing that put it into another class altogether: it didn't really have the feeling of being 'lived in', you understand? Almost as though it were an abandoned place, the human presence was weak. And yet, even now, I could feel the pulse of magic, and taste the despair. So I browsed. And I found something interesting. Quite interesting indeed.

Out of all the rooms, there was only one that had any strong trace of humanity. The room seemed simple enough at first glance, the two bookcases crammed into the space a testimony to the apparent love of books of the owner. A little bed, unmade and sagging slightly, washed in so many familiar, delightful scents. A desk with papers and a computer (yes, I know about such things. My younger brother is much more about them, however. Perhaps you should let him tell you a tale some time. Of course, he lacks my eloquence, kehehahahahahaha!) There was quite the interesting book in a locked drawer. But it was in the closet that I found the real treasure.

It was a doll. Human-sized, slumped down against a wall as though discarded, left sitting in the darkness. A flawless body of bone-white, porcelain flesh, wrapped in black and white silk. A black dress, with white frills, to be exact. A white apron, various ribbons tied about the dress, as well as the wrists and ankles. The look was completed with short white socks, and black shoes, polished to a shine. A servant's dress, if a little high-classed. The doll had short black hair, cut cleanly all the way across, just hiding the ears, framing the face, and lustrous, showing great care and high quality, all underneath a filly black and white bonnet, the hair of a kept girl, if ever there was one. A delicate, almost lipless mouth, and large, dark, glassy eyes, with a doll's lashes, never blinking as the head just simply sat tilted to one side, a puppet with no puppet master. It's arms rested limp, it's legs splayed out beneath it.

Of course, if that was all it was, then it wouldn't even be worth mentioning. As elegant as the outside was, the inside was much more interesting, the first being that there was an inside at all. For you see, this was no real doll, but a girl. In this little fairy tale, you might think of her as the captive princess, awash in woeful misery and despair. These were her thoughts, her story.

It had all started so simply. She was just so tired. The future was daunting, with a million paths stretched out before her. She was always working so hard, always having to choose, always second-guessing herself, nervous and stressed, never really able to decide, and never really having drive or ambition to grasp fate with her own hands.

'It would be nice if I didn't have to make so many choices all the time,' she had thought. ' It would be nice to have someone else to choose every once in a while.' That was what she thought.

And one day, when she was alone, and by herself, that girl appeared, almost like a ghost. No one knew anything about her. She never spoke to anyone in her classes. She was always buried in a book. You'd only recognize her by the fact that you didn't know or hear anything about her. She didn't go to parties. She never flirted with boys. She just sat there, a loner in her own little world of words.

"Why are you crying?" The girl had asked. And our little princess was crying by herself, simply overwhelmed by her life. And she said so, and wept about her plight: how she felt overwrought, that she was always fighting to get anywhere in her life, that she just didn't know what to do with herself, and wished her life could be simpler, that she could have a place that she could be satisfied with, where life was easy and she didn't have to worry about the future.

And that girl had torn off a slip of paper, scribbled on it with a pen, and gave it away with a smile.

"Come here any time after school. I think I can help."

That was the entirety of what the girl said, and with that, she left the princess to ponder her predicament. She didn't really think the girl could help her. But her heart was bursting at the seams, and the thought of it wouldn't let her go. So, that day, after school, she had went to that place, this place, where she was here and now.

The girl had invited her in kindly, quietly, but with more life then she had ever shown at school. And she made the princess comfortable with tea, and said this:

"I think I have some magic that might help you, if you were willing to try."

Of course, the princess was incredulous. Magic was a thing for children after all. But she had come all this way, and the girl was trying to help, so she agreed, not expecting anything more then maybe a laugh.

The girl had gone, and came back, holding a strange, old book, dark, heavy, and leather-bound, a grimoire if ever there was one. The girl had flipped through the pages and asked her once more if she was really willing to do this, and again, the princess said yes.

The girl had chanted and incanted and waved the book and her hands, looking quite silly. But a strange feeling began crawling up the body of the princess, making her look down.

As though her body was being dipped in milk, a smooth, creamy whiteness climbed up her body, leaving a coating of pure porcelain perfection in its wake. Of course, at first she was greatly surprised, and sorely afraid. But as the power traveled up her body, it brought a sweet numbness with it, the kind of warm, leaden feeling when one wakes up and realizes that they don't have anything to get them out of bed, and they can stay wrapped up in comfort against the cold. And this power traveled up her body, up and up, until at last it covered her from toe to tip, and she was blissfully, wonderfully, empty.

        There was no thought. There was no worry. There was no responsibility, because there was no choice. She could do anything she was told, and she would be happy, because in that form, her purpose, her meaning, her everything was to be used, to serve.

        And so that day passed pleasantly in play for the princess, turned into a toy, drained and devoid of despair, until, at last, the girl returned her to her human form, with the offer that she could come back any time.

        And of course, that is where the tail twists and turns, spiraling down into the dark. For the princess's world was again overwhelmed, and she did come back again, and spent much time in bliss, free and easy, without worry or care.

        And she did it again. And again. And more. And more. And the more time she spent as a doll, the more the world seemed to crowd against her, bewilder her, and leave her behind. The simple happiness of freedom turned into a pleasure of release, obedience. It was a thirst to be quenched, warmth against a cold, alien world that she could no longer be a part of. It came to a point where she couldn't remember even going to visit the girl, black spots swallowing up her memories.
Too late, too late did she realize the trap that had snared her, the emptiness eating away at her days and her will. At last, she came back to the girl, and was transformed, and had remained that way ever since, right up to the very day. And when the girl, the mistress, the witch was away, she could think, but not move, and was left to lament and worry in darkness, wrapped in a porcelain offering.

       'How could this happen? Will anyone find me here? What will happen to me? How could I have let this happen?' These were the things that she thought, locked up in a body that was no longer hers, no longer made of flesh, no longer free to be anything other than a puppet to be controlled, and it was all because she frivolously gave it away.

       Kehihahahahahaha! Isn't it a wonderful story? Isn't it so delightfully pathetic? If her body could match the wailing of her heart, her face would be coated with snot, her body bathed in a rain of tears that would bleed her body dry! Ah, such wailing is the sweetest wine to go with a meal of fear caused by a self-inflicted hell! Truly, it was a banquet not to be forgotten in a hundred years. And I didn't have to do anything at all for it.

       The sound of rattling keys reached the little closet, and the doll princess's thoughts were paralyzed as a new, glorious wave of fear rolled off her, absolutely delectable. There was the creaking of the front door swinging open. The sound of footsteps had her soul writing like an animal in the snare. The door to the room opened. A bag dropped with a small thud. I concealed myself, vanishing like vapor as the closet doors were swung up.

       The witch of our story, who had captured the princess, was not nearly impressive enough for the part. Frumpy is the word for her. Rat's nest hair, freckles, eyes struck by a squint, all brown, all matching a rumpled wool sweater, damp from snow. Her skin was pasty pale, proper for one who pours over tomes made of tree pulp. Blue pants, denim, and black-rimmed glasses completed her look, not that there was much to look at, kehehehehehehe! Her voice was rather sweet as she spoke.

       "Ah, my doll. My sweet, sweet, doll."
The witch fell to her knees, embracing the doll princess, clinging to her, almost laid out on the floor as she buried her face in black silk. The doll still lay still, lifeless. The witch gave off genuine happiness, one of the great mood killers for a meal. However, that wasn't the half of it.

       As the witch hugged the princess, all her thoughts evaporated, and the fear and despair I was so enjoying was forced down under mindless happiness, not unlike a puppy with its new owner. The doll opened its mouth and spoke in a nurturing tone, slightly sing-song. "Welcome home, Mistress." And the words it spoke were the only thoughts in its mind, there as it spoke them, gone as it finished, returning it to blankness.

       The witch ordered the doll princess up, and she obeyed with a bow. As the night went on, the witch continued to order the princess about. She cooked and cleaned with clockwork perfection, and came to rest with the witch on her bed, in her room. All that was rather boring, but I wasn't about to let such a delight escape me. And simply appearing would ruin the play. don't you think so? Kehehehehehe! But, it was when the two were on the bed that I was given another pleasant surprise.

       The witch embraced the doll again, and the doll embraced the witch. And the witch proclaimed love for the doll, and the doll replied the same. But then the witch kissed the doll, and ran her hands along it's form, and that was my surprise. For although the doll did the same, the nauseating happiness emanating from it cracked, and from the depths of the princess rose a wellspring of revulsion, mixing with unwanted, reviled pleasure, a mouth-watering combination with a savory core of fear and loathing.

        And so at last, the night came to a close, and the witch retired to her bed, having been cared for by her doll princess, who was returned to her closet, to await the next dawn. And that was my time.
Of course, as a Nightmare, as a lord of Nightmares, it is hardly anything for I, or my siblings, to peer into a sleeping human's mind. And with all that I had seen, how could I resist? Wouldn't you feel cheated if you didn't have the 'why' of the story? Shouldn't you thank me for digging up her life, just for you all? Kehehehehehe!

       Of course, I say that, but the story is actually rather boring. A poor girl, with no father, and a mother who works to the point of absence just so they can survive. A bright girl. A shy girl. A bullied girl. A girl who runs from the world, who hides from loneliness in words and pages. A girl starved for affection, but too afraid, to clumsy to reach out and grab hold of love or friendship. Ah, it's so boring! This kind of thing is my younger brother's favorite, but for me, these tales of humdrum human woe just don't suit me at all. "Money isn't so great. Someone getting taken in by a bunch of money which eventually ruins them is a much better story!" Truly, the young man who said that was one after my own heart!

       But, I digress. There is a point where the story does get interesting. Within the last year or so, the girl, the witch of our story, after a day of torment, had run off to the library (her favorite place. Who knew humans could be so cliché?) But, when she went in, the library wasn't the same as it usually was. Or rather, it was a different library altogether, a place of magic and darkness, called by the tortured, twisted human heart. And there, she was given her desire: a way to have a companion who would not desert her, who would always be by her side.

       I don't think I have to spell out what happened after, do you? Kehehehehehehe! Though of course, she did have the book for a while before our princess waltzed into her sight.

       Now, I was confronted with a decision. Leaving the story the way it was was unacceptable, not when I had so much to work with! I had fed well. Should I reward the princess for the meal? Perhaps tear her apart to savor a last measure of fear before smashing her to bits and releasing her? Should I give a gift to the witch who had prepared such a fine banquet for me? And then it hit me: why not make it into the fairy tale I'm telling you now? At the time, the thought had me shrieking with laughter. It was so unrefined, Kehahahahahaha! Even now, it was still quite interesting. I can say I was glad I did it. So I rifled around in her head for a while longer, and left her with a nightmare: that her power would be thwarted and fail, and she would be betrayed and abandoned for all eternity. Of course, her mind cloaked it in all kinds of symbols and memories, but that was the core of it, what had her writhing and twisting in her sleep like a worm. Then, I called one of my children.

       Now, you should understand that this story is in some ways an exception, rather than a rule. My siblings and I have many mouths to feed, the first being our own. However, we do not, ourselves, scour the earth in search of food. It would be much too tedious. The realm of nightmares, birthed by your fearful, fitful sleep, is quite sustaining by itself. However, if we do not cultivate that fear that belongs to each of us alone, then we run the risk of passing on, and a new Lord of Nightmares will be born to take our place. Of course, the older siblings have it easy. Humans will always fear nature's wrath, always be wary of disease, always suspect something lurking in the darkness. And they will always, always, fear the unknown. But for us younger siblings, such as yours truly, some effort is required. And so, we make use of Nightmares, your fears, harvested from your fertile minds, given shape by us to obey us, and spread more fear. By working with our siblings, we can make more Nightmares, and reap more fear for harvest. But we each have one creation that will always be ours, and ours alone. And those, we call our children.

       Of course, I am different from all my siblings, and my children are different then all others. What truly makes them unique is how they so infrequently take a living, active form. Rather, they appear to humans in the appropriate guise. It might be a sword that can cut down any enemy. A tool to make one a master of their craft. The gift that will make that special person fall madly in love with the giver. Or, in the case of our witch, a tome that holds the secret to her desires. And through my children, I ask two questions:

       "What would you do with Power?" And "What would Power do to you?"

       …It is very, very rare for me to be disappointed by the answer. Kehehe…kyahahahaaha!

       So I left our witch one of my children, in the shape of a book, and left the house. After all, if I wanted to tell a fairy tale, I needed a knight to save the princess, didn't I?

       So I searched, invisible, throughout the night, looking for those who dreamed of our little doll princess. Of course, I savored what night terrors I came across, and took care to taint and poison some overly sappy dreams I passed along the way, until at last, I came upon my goal.

       It was a young man with sandy blonde hair. His eyes were screwed shut tight, and he tossed and turned in his sleep, clutching at his blanket, wrapped around a lanky frame. As he slept his uneasy sleep, he moaned.

       "…Emily…Emily…"

       I dove deep into his dreams, and what should I find, but the image of our princess, before she underwent her…unfortunate circumstances. Kehehehehe! In his dream, he searched and searched for her in a dark place, and every time he tried to touch her, she would vanish, nothing more than a mirage. Truly, he cared for her, enough that he could dream about her, gone for so long, disappeared without a trace.

       So, what did I do? I showed him the truth. The scene that I just saw, and just shared with you, I shared with him, right down to the thoughts of the princess as she laid weeping in heart, imprisoned by foul magic and darkness. What more inspiration could a knight need? Kyahahahahahaahaha!
So I left one of my children with our knight, and contented myself with torturing some petty fool into doing me a service as I passed the rest of the night, so that I might be able to fully enjoy my game, eagerly awaiting when the performance would begin.

       Of course, much happened over the days that followed. The witch, blessed with more power, spread her magic like a virus, ensnaring all the young ladies (and only them. I wonder why? Kehehehehahahahaha!) They were all enslaved by the witch, and the witch was enslaved by her power. Her pathetic form grew truly worthy of being a witch. Those pathetic freckles gave way to ivory skin, like the doll princess she loved. She gained height, to look down on her slaves, and hunched down with a narrow face, the better to sneer at them as they served at her feet. Long arms, the better to reach out for more prey. Clawed hands, the better to grab hold of her loves and never let them go. All the fat boiled off her bones, like the compassion that withered and died in her soul. And pointed ears, all the better to hear my child, whispering, always whispering the path to power.

       The knight sought out his princess with determination, questing to free her from the witch's spell. Of course, the witch could hardly let the knight go unopposed, and she worked many magics, and sent waves of slaves, transfigured into deadly threats by the power I gave her. And of course, what could the knight do, but slay the fiends that stand between him and the princess? Yes, he was washed in the blood of woman, friends, family and fiends, everything and anything caught up in their great war against each other, his quest to rescue his fair princess. The form my child had taken had supplied him with a strong and sturdy lance, brilliant armor, and a noble steed. And as he thrust into so many women, so many lives, bathing in their blood, his armor grew darker, thicker, heavier, stronger, covering him from head to toe in steel and wrought iron. His steed grew less noble, dyed red by its master's slaughter, turning black as it learned to feed on carrion like a raven. The wailing of the battlefield followed him, for alone, he created a battlefield. Yes, he was my cursed knight, who would do anything to save his beloved.

       At last, the witch could hide no longer, and faced the knight herself on the battlefield, an army before her, the doll princess by her side. Oh, how wonderful was the performance! The knight went about his work like an artist amidst the shrieking, hideous mob, the gruesome battle driving the fear of death deep into the witch's heart as she furiously, frantically flung foul spells, and worked as she might to stop the knight, to no avail.

       At last, it came to pass that the witch was defeated, and at the knight's mercy. The witch begged for her life, undoing the enchantment on the princess, returning her to flesh and blood. The knight removed his helm, discarded his blood-soaked armor, and ran to embrace his love—
And gagged, choking, spitting blood, as the princess drove a knife deep into his side. He looked into her eyes, and found them flat, empty of life, and learned the fatal trick the witch had pulled upon him at the last, destroyed by his beloved.

       The witch cackled her victory to the sky as the knight feel into blood-stained snow. She turned to the princess, now hers forever—

       And the princess thrust the bloody dagger deep into the witch's heart, watering the blooming blood with her tears. She thrust again and again, the spell finally, truly broken, screaming all the while:

       "Why!? Why!? Why wasn't I strong enough!?"

       Kyahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! Oh, how wonderful it was! That cry of agony, that last tinge of fear as the witch realized she was betrayed by her own power at the very last. It was no great plot, but it kept me amused until the very last.

       And so, still laughing, and in such a good mood, I ended the week-long game. Thanks to the work of my tortured fool, All could be set back to the way it was. Barring a few changes of course. The knight would remember his slaughter in his sleep, so that I might always have a ready meal. The princess was restored, and given memory of all that occurred, so that she could live in terror at her cowardice and weakness.

      And the witch? Why, she belongs to me now. She had grown so attached to my child. It seemed such a shame to pull them apart. Kyahahahahahahaha!

      So, how was it? Did you enjoy? Please, come call on me again any time! I have many more stories to tell. Or perhaps I could direct you to my siblings, if you prefer something with a different taste next time. Kehahahahahaha!