They Come in the Dead of Night

In the cradle of midnight, where shadows seep,

Shapes emerge from the silence, slow and deep.

They bring cold dread, they breathe in fear—

Specters lost, who hunger here.

-

Their eyes are hollow, dark and bare,

And grins are slashed beyond repair.

Teeth like splinters, twisted thin,

Stretched tight o'er bone and ghostly skin.

-

You lie alone, safe in your bed,

But hear the whispers of the dead.

A scratching sound, faint and near,

A claw that drags as it appears.

-

Their voices slither, soft and low,

Like whispers caught in frost and snow.

They call your name, gentle, slow,

Promising things you dare not know.

-

Along your walls, frail fingers drag,

Leaving trails like bloodstained flags.

And in those eyes, a glint foretold,

They watch, they wait, both young and old.

-

You pull the covers, hide in tight,

But in the dark, they crawl to sight.

Their breath is close, it stirs the air,

Death’s cold scent, raw and bare.

-

"Come play," they croon with lullaby lies,

But one look leaves you paralyzed.

Their faces cracked, a ghastly gray,

Outstretched hands to pull away.

-

They slip below, they burrow and hide,

A thousand hands, an endless tide.

Under your bed, the frame does groan,

With creatures bound by chains alone.

-

Your heart pounds fast; you dare not flee,

As jagged claws draw close with glee.

Across your sheets, they trace your skin,

And dig beneath, a primal sin.

-

And as your eyes surrender close,

They gather ‘round in silent rows.

Waiting, watching, shadows steep,

To pull you down as you fall asleep.