Demon Hats & Paper Tigers

     It's a good thing the old woman turned out to be a crack-shot with the even older rifle. The demon hats weren't always easy targets. They possessed an unholy life of their own, and did not need to be worn, but in the end they were still just hats, and so it was their desire, their function to set upon heads. They hid in corners, scuttled through shadows, searching for the perfect heads upon which to rest, lives upon which to feed.

     The Tigers hung, hugely, to every screened window in the many roomed old house. The clung with impossible claws, the waving of their thick paper bodies a soft sound in the wind. It was difficult to gauge their intent, their movements were so slow as if they had to be drawn again in between each blink of the eye or beat of the heart. But their presence was certainly ominous as striped fur glinted in moonlight.