2:31 AM

At two-thirty-one the clock face read,

The night was deep and still,

I heard a scratching at the door—

Something wanting in.

The darkness thick as velvet black,

The streetlights burning bright,

But shadows moved where none should be,

Of this I had no doubt.

I peered through curtains, lace and old,

And saw a figure there—

Bent and twisted, wrong somehow,

With matted, stringy hair.

It pressed its face against the glass,

Its breath fogged up the pane,

And when it smiled with broken teeth,

I thought I'd go insane.

The scratching grew to pounding now,

The doorknob turned and clicked,

My heart hammered like thunder

As the morning light grew thick.

"Let me in," it whispered soft,

"I've traveled far to find

The one who lives at number twelve—

Don't leave me here behind."

But I had never seen this thing,

This creature at my door,

That spoke in voices like the wind

Through cracks in basement floor.

The hours crawled past slowly,

The darkness growing deep,

When dawn at last came creeping

And the world began to sleep,

When first light finally conquered

And the world was safe and warm,

I looked outside to find

No trace of the ghastly form.

Just empty street and lamplight glow,

And silence cold and stark,

But carved deep in my wooden door—

The number "twelve" and "fate."

Now every night at two-thirty-one

I listen at my door,

And wonder what dark appetite

Has marked me evermore.