It only comes out at night

It Only Comes Out at Night

My friends call me Lilith, never Lily. My enemies prefer not to remember my name. They'll refer to me as "it". As in, "it only comes out at night." I troll the dark alleyways of the Internet looking for prey. My bait is words. I prefer my victims younger than me, definitely male, eighteen to thirty, smart, playful, with a sharp caustic wit. I lure them into long midnight conversations and strip them of all their ideas and ideals. When I have them on their metaphorical knees I slip stealthily away into cyberspace.


I used to be a normal housewife. Then, on the night of the summer solstice,with a full, fecund moon, it happened. My hubby, the Chunky-Monkey, was away again on business. The air-conditioning was on-the-fritz.
All the windows were open letting in the steamy, heavy South Florida night. I had a mojito in my hand and Miles Davis on the stereo. I was reading a cheap chick-lit novel; a bodice-ripper posing as historical fiction. The kind of novel that leaves you wet and hungry for your Chunky-Monkey.


It was a fortuitous conjuction of circumstances. The costume materialized slowly. At first just a wisp of blue smoke; a wraithlike ghost of an erased image. There was a scent of moist ashes and moss. And then the leather wings appeared--gloriously mutant. The outfit slid on as slick as hair oil on a gigolo.

The chat rooms I needed were easy to find. Lonely, spiritual seekers looking for someone to discuss existentialism, nihilism, minimalist art, chaos theory. They loved the conversation and let me pick their brains. I picked them so dry, they were drained of color. And then I'd leave. With a wink and a good-bye.

I collected so much material I had a novel in 6 months. A bestseller in a year. Wait till they see the sequels! There's a TV movie offer in the works.

So if you're in the mood for philosophy and poetry--and enjoy having your heart ripped from your chest, remember, it only comes out at night.