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.