I heard you say

The night is coming by Kismuki (Deviant Art)

Etched wooden chairs,
a French polished dining table,
ambient candle lights.

Beyond the dining room
your mind plays on your fears,
the shadows shift, move.

Petrified of the shadows,
a child too young to understand,
darkness frightened you.

Enlightened by knowledge,
you face the shadows fearlessly,
never taking a wrong step.

A touch along your neck,
terror has a name you remember,
you run out into the night.

A windless cold night,
movement within the front trees,
illogical ways of nature.

Those etched chairs,
your father died on one of those,
too long ago, father.

A whisper on the wind,
something I heard you say long ago,
“my darling daughter”.

Between Nightmares

Perspiration and a feeling of heat take hold within the stifling sheets.

Sleep comes slow, yet when it comes, events progress, and I’m standing in front of a light green house with gold-laced windows in a forest at the top of a hill at the end of a cul-de-sac.

Nothing makes sense, as a random stranger dances up with multiple women and says he’s been waiting for me to arrive.

Events progress, then I’m awake from one nightmare only to see something in the bathroom mirror. A heart can only miss so many beats as the sheets become a greenhouse.

Between the nightmares, your side of the bed is empty. You sit in another room playing a game at 2 am, while sleep is inevitable.

Alone in the Eigengrau

Alone in the darkness.
A sheet is no protection from
the monsters lurking unseen.
She squints to see what is absent,
to quiet the fear within.
Alone in the Eigengrau,
waiting for the terror to begin.
Soft unnatural footsteps freeze the fear,
almost stop her heart.
A silent scream fails to break the silence.
The closer it comes.
The closer it comes.
The closer it comes.
The clos-… “Mum”.

Deceptive Lover

A deceptive lover,
Debonair, rich;
all the qualities
so many want.

An afternoon rendezvous.
Stars in your eyes;
no need to feel the
alarm bells ringing.

At your home,
in the garden;
watching the
twilight become night.

As the sun fades,
you notice changes;
no longer the person
you expected, wanted.

As the knife falls,
shock fills you;
so much blood
on your precious flowers.

Sisters

Weeping from behind the brown door grew louder and louder until one could hear the crying from all corners of the house.
The house lives and breathes something primal; malice lingers in the corners threatening those who venture to close to the flame.
She is only six, so she knows things and sees things the adults choose not to see; things adults choose to forget.
Weeping from behind the brown door stirs something forgotten in her soul as if she knows who occupies those walls.
Taking a torch, she pads tentatively along the hall of rooms to the one that sits at the end; the one with the brown door.
Experienced with keys and as sharp as a knife, she hastily acquires the key and puts the right one in the lock to see if it works.
A click and movement are all the convincing she needs to enter without fear; only to find out why the weeping continues.
Two eyes stare at her, and a quick movement frightens her, yet she holds her nerve and enters further still into the room.
The eyes occupy a person, and the person is familiar to her; the person is her long-lost sister who was feared dead.
Convinced at once that this is the chance, she takes her sister’s hand, they pad along the hall, and out into the night.
The parents awoke the next morning to two empty rooms. Two sisters swept up by a vanishment that created a legend.
For the girls, they made their way through the forest and into the night; now they live countries away without fear of the night.