It's inside again...

The hallway tiles are cold and stripped and bare,

As heavy breathing fills the empty air.

The shadows stretch, humming a funeral song,

To map the places where my soul went wrong.

Outside, the pumpkins rot upon the sill,

With jagged grins that mock the evening chill.

Through hollow eyes, they watch me from the dark,

Nasty little creatures, just waiting for a spark.

I hear a sound I simply can't outrun,

Like clicking triggers when the work's not done.

The passing seconds split my pulse in two:

Half of the silence, and the other half of you.

Don’t turn around,

Don’t make a sound,

It’s closer than you think it might be.

Don’t turn around,

Stay on the ground,

For if you see it, then it finally sees.

The flickering lights refuse to fully die,

Just bright enough to let the phantom try.

A shifting shape is framed against the door,

Unlike the human form it took before.

The wood I latched begins to pulse and heave,

As something heavy pushes through the sleeve.

The very walls begin to bow and bend,

Inviting my tormentor to descend.

A frantic rhythm thunders in my chest,

A panicked beat that will not let me rest.

My oldest memories have begun to bleed,

Into a darkness I no longer lead.

I locked the box; I’m surely, surely sure,

I closed the lid and thought the soul was at last pure.

But why the scratching from the inner side?

As if the thing within had never died?

There is no costume here, no burlap mask,

No end to this relentless, haunting task.

No safety in a clever, dark disguise,

Just jagged shapes behind my weary eyes.

Don’t turn around,

Don’t make a sound,

It’s right behind you now, without a sound.

But though the windows are all bolted tight,

No creature broke the barrier of the night.

The truth is cold, and quiet, and divine:

The monster was always... inside.