Laughing and scratching just at your door, hear the quiet steps.
See them scurry from out the light and into the dark, in which they keep their foul delight.
There is no fear to be had, of these spirits here, the owns that make them selves known, those that thrive on fear.
But truly, beware the silent home, fear the quiet dark, hear them plodding in silence and feel the ghastly breath upon that chilled nape of your neck.
Rest not the weary in a house of the dead for you’ll not waken again, this I fear my friend.
They come to take your breath, they come to take your warmth and in it’s place they leave only a chill embrace that has not a single bit of worth.
So fear the silence and rest not the weary but waken the wary and fear for thy soul for they come to claim it and the life you know.
This is the risk and the warning from the wary to the weary, and the words of the restless dead. I warn you not from goodness, but for myself and my own plans.
For I hope you laugh and shake your head, and then take yourself, your weary bones, to your untroubled bed resting in that corner of this home I know so well, this home in which I died, where I am dead.
And where I hope to live again.
Shuddering shaking and shivering in fear, the tapping, tapping that I hear so near.
The fear has returned, my bloodied muse at my back, her tortured hands upon my neck as her twisted face a broken smile of recognition.
Such a saddened thing at the return of my grim fate.
Lashed to the page, chained to the well, my pen drips the black ink, the color of my soul that I know so, so well.
My form ephemeral, my purpose not set, I am the writer, to my muse, a fond pet.
She neither cares for me, nor clothes me, or sees to my feed, for she devours not but fear and twisted dreams, and it seems, to me, expects myself to do the same.
Tipping, tapping, tipping, tapping, don’t be the one that is caught napping.
They’ll snatch you up and eat your soul. Slough off your flesh and devour you whole.
Then you’ll awake and wipe a sweat drenched brow and think to your self just a dream nothing more, nothing less, just idle thoughts tipping, tapping at my minds door nothing more, nothing less.
Tell me my friend, how does that comfort sit when you pull your hand back and see the blood on your clenched fist?
How does it rest with a throat torn raw from the screams of hell, that idea that whilst you were napping it was only just nightmares tipping, tapping, at your minds door?
I’ll say it again and I’ll speak no more, I’ll not be the one napping as they tip and tap upon my door. It’s never just a dream, or at least that’s my fear.
Because quite truly friend, while it is a dream, and it might be less.
There is a chance, a slim belief, that those tipping and tapping at your mind’s open door, might indeed be something, not less.
But quite dreadfully more.