Season 5. Begins with
‘Spiral’ in the abandoned gas station, and goes far off-canon almost
When Dawn makes the ultimate
sacrifice to save her sister, friends, and the world, Buffy’s mind
snaps. When Buffy's friends give up hope of her ever recovering, and become
afraid that she’ll turn violent and uncontrollable, they call in the Council to help.
Fearing what the Council will do, Spike, forgotten and ignored by her
friends, steps in. Will he be able to reach the Slayer when no one else could?
Will he be able to keep her out of the hands of the Council and away
from her ‘helpful’ friends? How much heartbreak, guilt, and failure can
one girl stand before her indestructible spirit finally resigns the
fight and gives up hope?
YOU for reading and especially to those of you who take the time to
email me feedback! Love hearing from everyone! Thanks also to Paganbaby
for taking time out of her hectic life to beta this for me! Her
suggestions ROCK! All mistakes
are mine because I can't stop fiddling right up to the last moment.
Rating / Warnings:
Content is only suitable for mature adults.
Contains explicit language, sex, adult themes, and other adult situations that
some people may find objectionable. If you are under the age of 17 or
find any of these themes objectionable – GO AWAY.
As soon as Giles was loaded into the ambulance, Buffy
sprinted the twenty blocks back to their house. When she turned onto the stone
path that led to their front door, she came to a screeching halt. The
unmistakable stench of blood assaulted her nostrils. Her stomach quailed and her
heart, already pounding hard, lurched and raced faster in her chest as a hundred
horrible possibilities raged through her mind.
The front porch light was on and Buffy could see a
hopscotch court drawn out in blood on the walk between her and the front door.
She swallowed back the bile that threatened the back of her throat as she
side-stepped it, her eyes darting up to the house.
“Oh, God!” she exclaimed as she saw Joan sitting on the
front porch steps holding a limp and bloodied India.
Joan’s face was down next to India’s, their foreheads
touching, as Joan rocked her girlfriend gently in her arms.
Joan looked up when Buffy approached, her eyes and cheeks
shimmering with moisture. “She’s … she’s … India … she’s…” Joan stammered, her
voice faltering, breaking with the strain.
“India … oh, God,” Buffy repeated, touching a hand to the
woman’s neck to check for a pulse. There was none. Her skin felt cool to Buffy’s
touch. Buffy’s stomach fell; folding in on itself with grief and sorrow as tears
leapt to her eyes. “India … no … God …”
In the next moment, Buffy’s shimmering eyes went wide with
terror as she looked up to see the front door standing wide open. “The babies!”
A thousand images – horrible, bloody, ghastly, sickening
images – formed in Buffy’s mind in the space of a heartbeat. Images of their
babies in the hands of Angelus. Images of their sweet, innocent babies being
tortured and mutilated and … and … worse. So much worse.
With tears blurring her vision, the Slayer darted past Joan
and India, through the open door of the house, and sprinted up the stairs into
the nursery. She couldn’t get the images out of her mind; couldn’t get the
knowledge of what Angelus was capable of to stop bombarding her with nauseating
terror. She, Joan, and Spike had made a fool of Angel back in Las Vegas; Angelus would
not forget that. Angelus would want retribution … more than retribution,
Buffy flung herself around the corner and into the open
door of the nursery on the verge of hysteria. She careened, out of control, into
the rocking chair, sending herself and the chair rolling, ass over teakettle,
across the floor. She scrambled on hands and knees toward the cribs, unable to
breathe, unable to think or speak or even scream.
In the next moment, she collapsed onto the floor, little
more than a quivering mass of bone and muscle. She broke down into thankful sobs
when she saw the twins still sleeping peacefully in their cribs, completely
undisturbed. Her heart felt like it might explode at any moment, at once
thankful, grief-stricken, and terrified.
“Oh, God … thank God … thank God,” was all she could say as
she held her face in her hands, her body convulsing in sobs on the floor of the
nursery. She had to fight to keep from hyperventilating as fear-induced
adrenaline raced through her body, making her heart skip and leap in her chest
as it thudded against her ribs, threatening to break them.
Buffy fought back the bile that had risen in her throat and
the queasy feeling in her stomach as she tried to calm her racing heart. But,
even as she regained her composure and pushed herself back to her feet, a
horrible, empty feeling remained: A beautiful, sweet, loving, gentle person was
dead and it was Buffy’s fault.
With tears still raining from her eyes and her breath
coming in hiccupping gasps, Buffy double-checked all the rooms upstairs, locking
any unlocked windows as she went, then did the same downstairs before
returning to the front porch. Not that it would really do any good if Faith
wanted in, but it was the only thing she could think to do.
Back downstairs, Joan rocked the lifeless body of her
friend, her lover, against her, trying to provide comfort to the dead woman.
Buffy blinked her eyes, trying to clear her vision as she knelt down beside the
other two women on the front porch steps.
“Oh, God … India,” she repeated again, touching a hand to
the gaping wound on the woman’s neck. The vampire who had killed her had not
been gentle with her; he’d ripped and torn her flesh savagely before draining
“Angelus,” Buffy muttered, certain, shaking her head in
horror and regret.
“She is my friend,” Joan whimpered, her face right next to
A sob escaped Buffy’s throat and her tears began falling
harder. “I know she is … oh, God, I’m so sorry.”
“She loves me,” Joan continued. “She … loves that I am not
“I know, honey … God,” Buffy cried, wrapping her arms
around Joan’s shoulders.
“I love her. I … we … she … she said she had been looking
for me all of her life,” Joan continued forlornly. “We were to make a long and satisfying
existence together. We had … plans. And now … her life has concluded before we
could fulfill those expectations. I … I do not understand this outcome. This is
“Oh, Joan … I’m so, so sorry …”
“I am not accustomed to this splintered, empty feeling in
my chest,” Joan continued through her tears. “What is it? It is discomfiting. It
is fragmenting my hard drive and corrupting my directories. Make it stop,” she
begged, looking up at Buffy. “Please, Buffy, make it stop.”
“Oh, Joan, I’m so sorry,” Buffy moaned, her chin quivering
with emotion as her own tears streamed down her cheeks. “I wish I could. I wish
“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” Joan quoted
flatly, as if Buffy’s words triggered some auto-response. She dropped her eyes
glistening back down to India. Joan hugged her dead friend, her dead lover, to
her more tightly, still rocking her gently, her eyes locked on India’s fine, blood-soaked features.
“I do not understand,” Joan continued, still rocking India
in her arms, her clothes now soaked with blood. “I cannot determine how to
process this situation. She was perfect two hours and twenty-seven minutes ago.
She … smiled. She laughed. She kissed me. She … she … she was warm and …
a-a-alive. And now … she is gone. She was here and now she is gone. She will not
smile. She will not laugh. She will not kiss me ... ever again. Never. Never
again. I do not
understand why she just can't get back into her body and not be gone anymore. It
is irrational … unreasonable for her to simply be ... gone now.
Joan looked up at Buffy with shimmering, grief-stricken
eyes. “Why? Buffy, why? Please … I … cannot … comprehend … why. Is it … because
I loved her? Is it my fault?”
“No … no … Joan,” Buffy assured her instantly, her own
tears coming as hard as Joan’s as she shook her head adamantly. “It’s not your
fault … it’s not. It’s … just … it’s …” Buffy’s voice trailed off, unable to say
the words, ‘It’s my fault,’ aloud.
“What … what do we do now?” Joan wondered, looking back
down at her lover’s lax and ashen face.
“I need … we need to call … someone,” Buffy said softly.
Joan nodded forlornly. “Dead people have certain needs,”
she told Buffy, repeating what she’d been told back in Las Vegas when they had
taken Spike away. “There is a
special place with large drawers and black bags called a ‘morgue’. And you can’t
touch the bodies, but it’s acceptable to talk to them. They take care of the
needs of dead people.”
Buffy nodded and pulled out her cell phone to call 9-1-1.
Spike screamed as Angelus popped another of his toes out of
their socket. Each toe on Spike’s right foot was bent down at a ninety degree
angle, while the ones on his left foot were bent up.
“C’mon, Willie-boy,” Angelus purred dangerously. “All I
need is an invite. A buttered scone and a cuppa for your old friend. Is that too
much to ask?
“It would put an end all this screaming … Oh – wait! Bad
idea! I like the screaming,” Angelus laughed as he used his hands to rearrange
the toes on each of Spike’s feet all at once so they were bending opposite of
the way they had been a moment ago.
Spike screamed again – his whole body tensing with the
agony of it. The shackles tore deeper into the flesh of his wrists and ankles,
cutting him to the bone, as his body convulsed in a fit of excruciating pain.
His lungs ached with the effort of drawing in unneeded breath to try and remain
conscious. Although unconsciousness would be welcome, waking up from it never
was. Each time he’d lapsed into darkness, he’d been awoken with a new torture, a
“Had enough yet, Willie?” Angelus asked, looking down on
Spike’s agonized face.
Spike nodded, letting his eyes fall closed and whispered
something even Angelus couldn’t hear.
“What was that?” the dark vamp asked, leaning nearer.
Spike mumbled again and Angelus dropped his ear nearer
Spike’s lips in order to hear the blond vamp.
“I said,” Spike began, just as softly. Spike took a deep,
shuddering breath and screamed, “Get bent!” against his grandsire’s ear, causing
Angelus to flinch back and growl in anger.
The larger vamp’s fist flashed down and bloodied Spike’s
already broken nose. The blow sent a fresh flood of crimson flowing down Spike’s
face and over his lips, and a wave of pain-induced nausea roiled in his stomach.
Faith rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. “I don’t
need an invite. I don’t see why you don’t just let me take care of it,” she
droned from somewhere out of Spike’s line of vision.
For not the first time since this began, Spike prayed. He
prayed to anyone that would listen to a reformed creature of the night,
admonishing them to not let Angelus listen to the Slayer. As long as Angelus’
sociopathic pride remained intact, the bits were safe. They could torture Spike
until the cows came home – and then they could torture the cows – but there
would be no invite coming from his lips.
“And I told you,” Angelus snarled at her, moving away from
Spike. “That it has to be me. I owe these two – I intend to pay them back
with interest. No one makes a fool of me without living just long enough to
Faith sighed heavily and shrugged dramatically. “Whatever,
big guy. Just sayin’ … we could have the little ankle biters right now and have
this over with. This town sucks – I’m ready to move on.”
“We’ll move on when I say we move on,” Angelus
Spike heard shuffling and a fist connecting with flesh
somewhere behind him. He allowed himself to relax a bit when he heard zippers
being slid down and the unmistakable sound of wet, frantic kisses. A shag would
allow him a small respite from Angelus … very short and very small, but a
“Hello, my Spike,” Dru purred, her cool breath singeing the
skin of his neck. “Shall we have a dance? You know I love to dance.”
Buffy sat at the kitchen table staring at the Polaroids of
the ‘crime scene’ that she’d somehow thought to take before the police arrived.
She was so exhausted that she barely even saw them any longer, and the doodles
she’d been drawing, trying to sort it all out, were starting to look like one of
Will and Jade’s ‘art’ projects.
She rubbed at her tired, gritty eyes, wishing she could
figure out the blood puzzle that Angelus had left her, but nothing was making
The police had come and gone long ago. India’s body was at
the morgue now, and at Buffy’s insistence, Joan was upstairs resting … errr
charging. Buffy drank down the last of the now-cold coffee from her mug and
then dropped her head down onto her arms on the table. Somewhere in the clues
that Angelus had left her was the key to finding him … and Spike; she knew
it. She simply couldn’t figure it out.
Even with her eyes closed and her brain fried, she could
see the clues dancing in front of her, taunting and mocking her. First there was
the hopscotch court, drawn out in blood. The numbers had to mean something; they
weren’t sequential like in a normal hopscotch game. She figured it was a house
number or house and street number – it was too short to be a phone number – but
there were seemingly endless combinations of what it could actually mean.
Then there were the giant springs, like might go on a big
truck. They’d been literally dripping in blood on the lawn next to the hopscotch
game. The last clue was the letter ‘B’ written over and over again on the walk
all the way from the hopscotch court to the porch steps.
She’d tried writing out the words: ‘hopscotch’, ‘springs’,
‘BBBBB’ and shuffling the letters around like an anagram to make something. She
made a lot of words, but none of them meant anything to her. She tried taking
the numbers and adding them up, multiplying them, assigning them to letters and
adding them to the word puzzle, but again – nothing clicked.
Every minute that passed seemed like a lifetime. Angelus,
Dru, and Faith had Spike. Buffy didn’t want to imagine what that meant, but her
uncooperative imagination kept conjuring images for her – horrible, painful,
heart-wrenching images – so she kept pressing on, fighting the fatigue and
trying to see the answer in the jumbled blood puzzle.
“You require recharging,” Joan said from behind Buffy,
making her jump and knock her empty mug onto the floor, shattering it.
“Christ, Joan! Don’t sneak up on people like that!”
“I was not in stealth mode,” Joan defended as she reached
for the broom and dust pan to sweep up the broken mug.
Buffy sighed and dropped her head into her hands again.
“Sorry … I’m just cranky-Buffy.”
“It is reasonable,” Joan agreed, her voice flat, void of
emotion, as she dropped the broken bits of mug into the garbage. “You have not
recharged in twenty-seven hours and forty-three minutes. Sleep deprivation in
humans can adversely affect the brain’s cognitive function and mood. Lack of
sleep for extended periods can cause seizure and death.”
“Oh, swell … as if I didn’t have enough things trying to
kill me,” Buffy moaned.
“You should sleep now,” Joan insisted.
Buffy sighed and pushed up from the table. “I can’t. Now
that you’re up, I … need to get down to the morgue.”
Joan tilted her head in confusion. “Are you going to speak
Buffy fingered the stake stuck in the waistband of her
jeans at her back. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“May I accompany you?” Joan asked, growing excited. “I
would like to speak with her as well. There are many things that I did not say
previously that I would like to now relate to her. I will not touch; only talk.
I am cognizant of the rules.”
“No … I don’t think that would be a good idea. You don’t
have to actually see her to talk to her spirit, honey,” Buffy replied gently.
“You can just … talk and … and she’ll hear you. She knows you love her; she’ll
hear you if you talk to her.”
“Are you certain? I do not detect the presence of a spirit
in this location. The runes and sigils we have painted on the house would likely
keep a spirit from entering,” Joan pointed out.
Buffy gave her twin a sad smile. “That only keeps out
malevolent spirits; she can hear you, trust me.”
Joan seemed unconvinced, but nodded anyway.
“While I’m gone, could you get the babies their breakfast
when they wake up? Make sure to stay in the house. Don’t invite anyone in. Keep
the curtains drawn and everything locked up. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Joan nodded. “Tell her … I perceive her absence keenly. It
is causing a physical reaction deep in my core processors that I have been
unable to control or contain. I regret that I was unable to reanimate her. I
regret … I regret that we did not have the opportunity to execute our plans and
create a lengthy, fulfilling, and satisfying existence. Tell her … I miss her
acutely and … and I love her ... and ... and ... I am ... empty.”
Buffy blinked back her tears, swiping at her eyes with
shaking fingers. “You can tell her, honey ... just talk, she can hear you," she
"Please ..." the Bot begged. "She might not hear me. Will
you please tell her as well?"
Buffy nodded. "Okay, yeah ... I will.”
Spike was beyond screaming. All he could do was laugh. It
sounded maniacal even to his ears. Dru’s talons dug into the flesh of his chest,
her fingers curling around one rib after another, and pulling each one free of
the cartilage mooring them to his sternum. He could hear each bone breaking as
it was yanked out and bent away from its brothers. It started to sound like a
song in his head, playing over and over again.
paddywack, give a dog a bone…
Buffy sat on one of the stainless steel autopsy tables in
the underground morgue and waited for what she knew would happen to India. There
was no way Angelus would just kill her outright. That wouldn’t have been nearly
cruel enough. Buffy’s eyelids kept creeping closed as she waited, her head
dipping, before snapping back awake.
She was utterly exhausted, a walking zombie, and yet there
was no time for sleep. She had to find out if India knew anything about where
they’d taken Spike and then she had to dust the woman that had been their very
first friend in Austin. The woman that had effectively renamed their daughter to
‘Jade’ with the colorful, artistic collage of her initials. The woman who had
died without uttering an invitation to Angelus, despite the pain she must’ve
endured. The woman that had accepted Joan’s Abby-Normal-ness and loved her
As Buffy waited and tried to remain alert, she thought back
over the months they’d known India. It had at first surprised Buffy that the
artist had bonded so closely with Joan. They were really complete opposites, but
the two women seemed to take great pleasure in trying to show each other the
world from a different perspective. The abstract dreamer and the logical realist
had had one common love from the very start: art.
They could both look at a flower or a sunset or a blade of
grass and see completely different things. India saw the poetry in them, the
spirit, the aura, the connection to the world; Joan saw the specific physical
detail of each element of the subject. Joan could paint the blade of grass
precisely, showing each imperfection, using the exact shades of green or brown
or yellow to accurately reproduce it on canvas. India’s blade of grass would be
done in bright oranges, pinks, and purples. It would represent a journey from
the center of the earth, drawing on all the life-energy of the world and
concentrating it into making that single blade of grass.
Despite appearing to be polar opposites, Joan and India
could spend hours discussing that blade of grass, trying to understand the
other’s point of view and make the other woman understand theirs. The dreamer
never could seem to fully grasp the realist, nor could the realist grasp the
fuzzy and elusive ideas of the romantic hippie, but they continued to be
fascinated by each other, nonetheless, and, over time, that fascination had
grown and transformed into affection, and then love.
And now India was dead – or, more likely, undead.
Neither Buffy nor Joan had warned India about vampires or revealed their
‘Slayer-ness’ to her. Revealing Joan’s bot-ness had been quite a shock all on
its own, and anyway, there just weren’t that many vampires in Austin. It had
been different in Sunnydale; people knew there were lots of weird things that
went bump in the night, and some could even accept the idea of demons and
vampires, but this was Austin. It wasn’t a Hellmouth; there weren’t demon
attacks on the citizenry every night. They’d get a passing vampire or demon now
and then, but nothing like Sunnydale.
And when Buffy had called India to watch the babies – was
it only a few hours ago? – there had been no time. And, anyway, Buffy honestly
thought Dru had what she wanted (Spike) and wouldn’t return. If she’d known
about Angelus being on the loose, she would’ve never, ever left the babies or
India alone. Never. If. If. If.
If ‘ifs’ and ‘ands’ were pots and pans, there’d be no
work for the tinker’s hands.
And now India was dead. Joan was devastated. Their plans
for a long, happy life were shattered. And, to top everything off, Dru and
Angelus still had Spike.
No matter how far Buffy ran, it seemed like her past just
kept following her. Maybe they should’ve gone to Croatia like Spike suggested.
If she couldn’t talk to anyone, she couldn’t make friends and couldn’t put them
Buffy pulled herself out of her morose reflection when the
dead body on the table opposite her began to stir. Time to go to work.
Buffy jumped down off the table she’d been sitting on and
moved up beside the table where India’s body laid. She pressed her stake against
the dead woman’s chest and tried to remember that this was no longer their
friend. She was a demon. She wasn’t the same woman that loved Joan; she wasn’t
the same woman that babysat for them; she wasn’t the artist, she wasn’t human.
India’s eyes blinked open and her lovely, fine-features
morphed into those of the demon Angelus had impregnated her with. Her eyes,
which had been such an amazing shade of violet-grey in life, were now the angry
amber of the monster.
“Don’t move,” Buffy warned, pressing the stake harder
against the woman’s chest.
India growled and tried to reach for Buffy, but her arms
were trapped within the body-bag. Only her face, neck, and a small part of her chest
were freed from the confines of the coroner’s standard garb for the deceased.
“Tell me where Angelus is and I’ll let you go,” Buffy
“Let me go and I’ll take you to him,” the fledge vamp
slurred past her fangs.
“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen, India,” Buffy retorted. “I
didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. I’ve been doing this a while. Tell me
where he is – it’s your only chance.”
“How do I know you’ll keep the deal?” India wondered,
struggling to try and wriggle her arms out of the bag.
“‘Cos I’m the Slayer – I’m the good guy, the white hat. We
always keep our word.”
India stopped struggling, realizing it was futile. She
studied the Slayer with her preternatural senses, salivating at the sound of
fresh blood rushing in Buffy’s veins, at the aroma wafting from her skin, at the
warmth radiating off her. India had never felt more ravenous than at that
moment. She needed blood. She needed that warmth running down her throat like
she’d never needed anything before.
“He’s in an abandoned house near the Church of Good
Tidings,” India revealed after several long moments of contemplation. “Let me
out of here and I’ll take you there,” she offered again hopefully.
Buffy sighed heavily. That was the house where they’d found
Giles. Angelus wasn’t there anymore. Shit!
“Was he gonna meet you there? Did he say when?” the Slayer
“He just said that’s where he’d be waiting for me – you
know, right before he ripped my throat out,” India retorted sarcastically.
Buffy winced as if physically slapped. “I’m sorry … I
should’ve told you.”
“Ya think?” India snarked back, rolling her amber eyes.
“I didn’t think you were in danger; and, anyway, I didn’t
think you’d believe me,” Buffy defended. “I didn’t think … it would ever come to
this … not here, not so far from a Hellmouth.”
“So, mostly, you just didn’t think,” India shot
Buffy cringed again, her guilt weighing on her heavily. “I
guess … not,” she admitted miserably.
India shrugged, looking around the room. “It’s really kinda
awesome,” the demon replied almost dreamily. “I can see everything so much more
clearly … hear everything, smell everything.”
She looked back at Buffy and licked her lips. “And you
smell divine; really, really … scrumptious … like … food, like life.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot,” Buffy quipped. “I’m a Happy Meal
on legs. Go me!”
Buffy turned serious again as she looked down at the demon
that used to be their friend … more than a friend, practically one of their
family. “Thank you for … for what you did, for protecting the babies, not
inviting Angel in.
“Joan wanted me to tell you that she misses you, and …
she’s sorry she was too late to save you. She really … really loves you
and … and she wanted to make all your dreams of a happy life come true.”
“Well, she still can! Why don’t you get me outta this bag
and we can go see her?” India suggested, her words getting less lispy the more
she talked. “We can still have that life we dreamed of … just with more blood
and violence. It’ll be even better!”
Buffy drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I wish
I could, but I can’t. I ... I can't take the chance ... can't take any more
“G-g-goodbye, I-India,” Buffy breathed, her voice breaking
at the end as she pressed harder on the stake.
India’s amber, demon eyes widened in shock. “But, I told
you what you wanted! You promised!”
Tears filled Buffy’s eyes again and spilled down her cheeks
as she looked down on their friend. “I … I’m … s-s-sorry…” she stammered,
pressing down even harder on the stake.
In the next moment, Buffy was yanked backwards and flung
across the room. She slid
across the slick linoleum floor and crashed into the wall on the opposite side
of the room. Her head hit the wall with a painful, deafening ‘thud’ and
her world began to spin out of control. She struggled to open her eyes, but
her lids were too heavy. She struggled to move, to get up, to get out, to find
her stake, to do anything but she couldn’t get her limbs to function. She
could only slump against the cold wall as darkness closed in on her exhausted,
and now concussed, mind.
Spike woke up screaming.
“This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed
home, this little piggy had roast beef, this little piggy had none, and this
little piggy went ‘Wee, wee, wee’ all the way home!” a child’s gleeful voice
recited in a sing-song voice.
As each ‘little piggy’ was enumerated, Spike’s already
dislocated and broken toes were wrenched sideways and twisted full circle in
their sockets. Hana laughed and giggled as she exclaimed ‘wee, wee, wee!’ nearly
pulling Spike’s little toe completely off.
Spike’s body was beyond being able to even tense or
convulse with the agony. He couldn’t even pull against the shackles, which were
now embedded into the bones of his wrists and ankles, any longer. He could only
scream and even that was only a shadow of its former self.
“Such a pretty rainbow you’ve made, little Hana! All in my
favorite hues: reds and blacks and blues and purples. What game is next?” Dru
asked her small companion giddily, bouncing on her toes expectantly.
Hana’s teal-blue eyes danced as she thought a moment, then a bright
smile christened her angelic features. She picked up a claw-hammer from the
floor and skipped gaily up from Spike’s feet to his head. The child raised the
hammer above Spike’s forehead and began to sing, “Little bunny Foo-Foo, hopping
through the forest, picking up the field mice and ‘bonking’ them on the
Night Prowler, AC/DC
Somewhere a clock strikes midnight
And there's a full moon in the sky
You hear a dog bark in the distance
You hear someone's baby cry
A rat runs down the alley
And a chill runs down your spine
And Someone walks across your grave
And you wish the sun would shine
Cause No one's gonna warn you
And no one's gonna yell 'Attack'
And you don't feel the steel
‘Til it's hanging out your back
I'm your Night Prowler, asleep in the day
I'm your Night Prowler, get out of my way
Look out for the Night Prowler, watch you tonight
I'm the Night Prowler, when you turn out the light ...
Too scared to turn your light out
'Cos there's something on your mind
What’s that a noise outside your window?
What's that shadow on the blind?
As you lie there naked
Like a body in a tomb
As I slip into your room
I'm your Night Prowler, break down your door
I'm your Night Prowler, crawling 'cross your floor
I'm your Night Prowler, make a mess of you, yes I will
Night Prowler, and I am telling this to you
There ain't nothing you can do
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