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:
P.M. Roche 