It was just after midnight. A reptile eye witching moon glared down. The constabulary patrol chopper circled. A hungry vulture, its spotlight cutting the shadows in the same manner as well-honed blade. Its harshness leaving bare whatever nefarious deed its prey had committed.
A hot wind blew, rustling the leaves. A clicking sound of bone rattles. Skin walkers, Rawhead and Bloody Bones, and other less than pleasant beasties lurked about in the in the dark, hunting stray cats, and whatever else was foolish enough to be out. There were rumors of Jack the Ripper and Mack the Knife sipping cocktails in some nameless gin joint. Tying on a few before embarking upon an evening of A&B.
There was a bad scent in the air. The hair on the back of the neck began to rise. The fangs dropped and the talons extended. It became a very good idea to get indoors.
It was an evening to lock the doors and bar the windows. No evening strolls are star gazing. It wasn't that kind of night.