Silence hangs in the air like an axe.
The clock tick-tick-ticking closer toward the witching hour.
Gradients of darkness give shape to the room.
A black mass in the corner waits, quiet and knowing.
A face with two sets of eyes stare,
One a ghastly green, the other a blazing blue,
Never blinking, always watching.
High above it waits, eternal.
The axe falls by degrees, a slow draining drip of dread.
Whispers, voices, leak through the wall,
Crawling along the ceiling and echoing,
Loud enough to hear, muffled enough to hide.
Scratches dig deep into the door,
Claws dragging long grooves.
Just wait, wait until the night ends
And the blood red light leaks in.