Thin Fingers

At one time or another

In the darkness of your house,

In the clammy depths of night

Will lurk the unheard Gristle-Grouse.

Near midnight, you’re alone in bed

Right by the windowsill,

You’ll hear the gate’s latch outside click

Creak open and be still.

A shadow dances past the window

Slow but gone so fast,

Like hungry darkness given form

Has just come stealing past.

And inside your little bedroom

You will hold your breath and wait,

And hope it’s just the wind or rust

That opened up your gate.

But then from deeper in the house

A sound so definite though thin,

The icy rasp of your front door,

Of someone coming in.

The silence beats your eardrums

As you strain to hear a sound,

And your muscles shake with tension

As your heart begins to pound.

And you think you hear a movement,

Coming closer to your room

Like the muttered sound of velvet

In the thick air of a tomb.

It’s a murmur in the hallway

And a creeping on the floor,

And the stillness of the night time

And a hungry bone-dry jaw.

And your blankets bunch around you

At the moonlight streaming through

At the empty blackened outlines

That are pressing in on view.

And you’ll hear a gentle scraping

At the entrance to your door

And a sort of whispered coldness

That you’ve never felt before.

With your head under the blankets

You can scarcely hear the sigh

Of something coming closer,

Though you manage not to cry.

*

There’s a silence and a presence

That is looming by your bed,

But you can’t make yourself look,

For your stomach’s curdled lead.

There is a dry and husky sound

Three inches from your ear or so,

“Hello dear child. Do not be scared.

I’m hungry, but I eat quite slow.”

*

The Gristle-Grouse is full for now,

Though hard to say how much is true,

Tomorrow night he’ll want some more.

Perhaps he’ll visit you.