Violet Death, smile too wide, purple hair and the moon beside. Black dress, white eyes, scythe in her hand. Candles burn. She does not stand still. Count the graves. Count the bats. Count the flames that bow, then pass. The fog comes up. The names go thin. She knows the row. She lets you in. She will not rush. She will not plead. One grin, and the rest concedes. No lamp, no knock, no hand to keep. Violet Death. Then endless sleep.