Around midnight in the library, I found myself drawn
To the shelves haunted by Poe, King, and Matheson,
With curiosity that clung to me
Like a garment.

Around midnight in the library, I found myself drawn
To the collection of the hidden killers of Highsmith, Cornwell, and Larsson,
Apprehension
Attracting me ever closer.

Around midnight in the library, I found myself drawn
To the welcoming, velvet-lined chairs
As I fingered the yellowed paper
Of the well-worn, leather spined book that waited to chill my own.

An autumn wind rustled through the leaves,
Whistled amongst the branches,
Throwing tell-tale shadows on the dusty floorboards;
A late October storm brews beyond the pane.

Unable to recline, I found myself surrounded,
The ghosts of Irving and Dickens refusing me peace,
Slinking in and out from
The corners of my eyes.

Unable to recline, I found myself surrounded,
Suffocated,
With the presence of beings
Brought to life with the breath of Shelley and Stoker.

Around midnight in the library, I found myself... drawn.