Stanley McNail: Night Things

Frank T. Zumbachs Mysterious World

You must have heard them:

The small, seeping sounds of night things,

Things that creep and slither,

Wet, pulpy things that ooze from roots

Of swamps, things hungry,

Never satisfied, on the prowl.

Surely you must have heard them before

And you must have known

Sooner or later some night

The circles would close in,

All exits blocked, and you would watch

With eyes grown sick the clammy stains

Spreading beneath the door.

And now with the tiniest gritting sound

The doorknob starts to turn.

Too late, too late, my friend, to mourn your sins.

A black and dreadful swallowing begins.


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