The Wolves and the Flesh
The terrifying moment it all came back again
The Wolves and the Flesh
They came at dusk.
Not running.
Not howling.
They just stepped from the trees,
like they’d always been there.
No fear in their eyes.
No need.
We’d locked the barn,
nailed shut the doors,
burned the bedding,
left raw meat on the path
to draw them off.
It made no difference.
They wanted more than meat.
We heard them breathing
through the slats.
Heavy, slow,
like they were tasting us
before the bite.
We didn’t scream.
We weren’t children.
We knew what they were.
It wasn’t about teeth.
It was the waiting.
The knowing.
The smell of your own blood
before it spills.
They took Mark first.
Didn’t drag him.
Didn’t tear.
Just opened him,
quiet as prayer.
The rest of us watched.
Not frozen.
Just done.
You can’t outrun something
that walks like a man
and grins like a dog.
By morning
they were gone.
No tracks,
no torn fence,
just a clean patch
where Mark had been.
We don’t speak of it.
Not in light.
Not in sleep.
The barn still stands,
but nothing grows near it.
Even the flies keep out.
Sometimes at dusk,
we hear the latch shift.
No wind.
No reason.
Just the sound
of something remembering
the taste of us.
Then we wake up
and I realise
it was just a recurring dream.
About the Creator
♿ V+ Marie381Uk
Poetry has lived in me since childhood.
Ink spills the feelings words fear to say.
My poems heal, some haunt, all are pieces of me.
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