on a night just like this

as we sit around
the campfire telling horror
stories,
I talk about a date I once
had with a woman
named Betty.
everyone screams, no, they
say, please don't tell
that story again,
I couldn't sleep for
days after hearing it
last year. I ignore
their pleas though,
and begin.
it was a cold, black night.
the rain was pelting the ground
in fury.
her house was nestled at the end
of a gravel road
in god forsaken wheaton Maryland.
loose shutters banged against
the side boards.
I met her on a scary sinister
dating site called
match dot com. she called
herself, the lady in red.
her photo was of a slinky
blonde haired woman in
heels, but now, in person
she was covered in
tattoos and holding a can
of beer. a cigarette dangled
from her pouty lips
when she answered the door.
a bathrobe was tied loosely
around her ample waist.
where was the lady in red?
perhaps this was her aunt.
a green cream was smeared on
her face, her hair was wrapped
in a turban, a wet towel
tightly wound, set high
like a dairy queen cone.
she said my name as she kicked
open the screen door with a bare foot.
you must be my date, right?
I nodded meekly, and said softly,
lady in red?
you got it buster, she said.
her voice was gravelly,
rough with scotch and smoke,
from gargling
broken shards of glass, perhaps.
come in she said,
come in my pretty
and have a seat. I just
need to put some clothes on.
don't worry I clean up well.
as if in a trance, I obeyed her.
I went in. my eyes glazed over
in fear. my life passed before
my eyes.
I listened for the sound
of a chain saw, but heard none.
beers in the fridge, she said,
pointing towards a dark
linoleum room.
her dogs howled, the moon
appeared through a broken cloud.
in the distance
a baby was crying.
the wind bent the trees
with a groan.