They watched the candle drip white wax dots around the sleek black tabletop, barely listening to the hymns being sung behind them.
"Is it here?"
They turned. It was covered in golden silk, barely covering eyes gleaming a vicious green.
Hands raised, heads down, voices forced into a lower hum than before as it addresses the room, smiling without a mouth.
They join, fear bubbling in their chest like a kettle waiting to screech.
It is not unaware of the apprehension, the anger, the submissive acceptance, and so, it feeds without a mouth.
Another sweep of unhidden terror, another mischievous smile.
Eyes loom to the melting candle, struggling to uphold its shriveling wick, the dying fire.
It approaches. The kettle is screaming.
Without a mouth, it blows out the candle. The world is dark.