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The Dark

She was in the dark
Not entirely, though, for the scarecrow man's red lantern wobbled and bobbed outside her window
It made the shadows come to life
In a vile rebirth of black blood smeared on the bedroom walls
Suffocating
With their heads wrapped in plastic garbage bags
As they danced
Primal, diseased, and filled with hunger.
Wolves in the skin of men
Men in the skin of wolves
Eyes that burned like the red hot coils of metal on top of the kitchen stove
And they danced around the bed
Not human
Not animal
Speaking in the voices of beasts
Growling in the voices of men
Howling at the red lantern moon
They crept
Sliding under the bed
In and out of the windows
Through which the cold wind blew
And pushed the closet door
Open and shut
Shut and open
No more than a crack
Through which a cat's eye peered
The witch was looking out of the closet door
The witch was breathing in high, papery wisps
Inhaling flies
Exhaling spiders
The witch was moving
Across the room
Toward the bed
Out of the closet
Into the straw-stuffed lantern man's light
With skin covered in dead moths
As the scarecrow wheezed and laughed
It moved closer
Dragging long black fingernails
That smelled damp
Wearing the face of her mother
Like a mask
Crawling on broken legs
And severed arms
Crawling like a dog
Breathing
Climbing
Onto the bed
Its wounds leaving brown bloodstains on the sheets
It looked at her
With glass eyes
Through the holes in her mother's face
Eyes like a fish
As it smiled through her mother's mouth
And scurried out the window
Into the night
And the scarecrow man followed the witch
With a pitchfork lodged in his chest
He carried the lantern away
Off to the party
And the light was gone
And the wolf men
And men wolves
Feasted




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