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.
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.
Shame and sorrow, those dark kin, the same kind of sin.
I have lived my life filled to brim with these, the shame and sorrow of existing within.
Within my mind, away from others, forgetting my family, my loves, only just remembering to return.
I forgot for a time, what I considered my mine, and to my shame and my sorrow I remembered only after they were lost, those forgotten moving on, forward through life, leaving my behind.
So my shame, my sorrow, a dark kind of kin, that same sin. They filled my life with poison, with hurt and strife, for all that it was only inside my head, locked behind my eyes in the fortress of my mind.
Filled with poison, with shame and sorrow and secret sin, I stand in the darkness of my own tale, my story never ending, for you see.
I’m afraid to even begin.