There it was again,
a scratching at my door.
Like nails upon a chalkboard.
It wasn't there before.
The wind blew round the settle
and the fire glowed back to life.
I reached for my plate of bread and cheese
and deftly grasped the knife.
"Who is it?" I said, "And what do you want,
on this frosty Hallows Eve?"
The wood on the fire crackled and spat
and I hoped to God it would leave.
There it was again, more insistent than before,
I gripped the knife tight in my hand and inched toward the door.
Slipping the bolt, I lifted the latch and opened the door a crack,
a 'presence' rushed in with subtle force and I was taken quite aback.
The cat hissed and arched it's back, it's ears flat with fear,
and the fire crackled louder yet as the awful 'presence' drew near.
A sulphurous smell filled the room and an icy cold pervaded,
then, in a trice,it vanished again, and the acrid smell quickly faded.
I know not what visited that Hallows Eve, fiendish, ethereal, dire,
but since that night, when shadows fall, the cat never sits near the fire.
Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020
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