It Creeps

When you turn out the light,

And there’s nothing in sight.

It creeps.

When it’s dark all around,

And there isn’t a sound,

It creeps.

When it no longer hides,

And you feel it, inside,

It creeps.

When the sound of the wind,

Tells you you’ve sinned,

Though the only sound

Is the sound of the wind,

It creeps.

Though you turn on the light,

There’s still nothing in sight,

Your adrenaline’s up

But there’s nothing to fight.

It creeps.

When you know you’re alone

But to panic, you’re prone

And you’re sure that some beast

Has invaded your zone

The thought of a window

Is far from what you know,

Perhaps twas a catch,

An unfastened latch

That turned you to shivers,

But these little slivers

Of reason can’t save you,

It creeps.

Who knows what is hiding,

All shadows colliding,

Colliding, in darkest, darkest of dark,

Darkest of dark, no light for a mark,

A mark of what’s hiding,

What is that colliding

Upon the wood,

It creeps.

Then there’s a knocking, terse tick-tocking,

Now you’re clocking all that rocking,

Rocking on the stairs before,

Before your room, outside your door

Upon the wooden, wooden floor,

Outside your room, outside your door,

Not one but two but three but four

Four figures crowded in your door,

Still shadows in the light you bore

From your lamp above your draw’r,

Now you’re sickened, sickened sore,

Four figures never seen before,

Much like men, like men but more,

Not one but two but three but four

Upon your bedroom, bedroom floor,

Bethink of garish, garish gore,

Not like men, not anymore,

Come for you, for you, their score

By your bed, above your floor,

Four figures never seen before,

Not one but two but three but four

Still shadows in the light you bore,

Unlike men, their visage more

Of ghouls and ghosts and garish gore,

Of garish ghouls above the floor,

Not like men, not anymore,

To them now you do implore

To leave you now, come nevermore,

Nevermore upon your floor,

Upon your stairs or to your door,

The flow of words does ever pour

On one and two and three and four

Four will leave but not before

The garish, garish, garish gore

Gore is spilt upon the floor,

Tears will spill and blood will pour

Upon the floor before the four

Unlike men, not anymore,

Not one but two but three but four

Four feed on flesh and blood and gore

And mop the remnants off the floor,

Until you’re gone.

There’s nothing more.

Not one, not you, not thee, no more.

Come back next week, Nov. 7, 2019, for more from The Meddler. Subscribe below or follow my social media to get a reminder:

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