Vincent hid in darkness behind a tree in the Pruitts' back yard, watching the house, wishing the bedroom light would finally go out. He fidgeted with the rope and chipped away bark with his hunting knife as he waited. He had felt compelled to visit the unsuspecting couple for months, but had always somehow resisted the urge. Not tonight.
On Vincent's left shoulder a miniature demon cheerfully whispered and cajoled, suggesting vile games for the evening.
On his right shoulder a small angel lay motionless, a pitchfork protruding from his chest.
Things weren't looking so good for the Pruitts, either.
I'm Phineas Q. Picklefeather, and I approve this message.