SCREECH: A Horror Poetry Collection

The Nots

The Nots are following me once again,

Not-a-dog,

Not-a-deer,

Not-a-person.

Mostly on overnights,

but once at dawn,

and often in early evening.

They stand and they stare,

inquisitive beasts of wilderness,

with eerie eyes ensnared

in shining high beams.

So harmless,

maybe shy,

they imitate this design.

Not breathing,

not moving

'til they do.

Much nearer they appear,

'fore the release of my exhale.

Skin twitching.

Teeth chattering.

they clink -

a nail or a spike

of large antlers against

my window.

Their veiny eyes pierce,

demands of invitation

through the thin sheet of glass

between us.

When I was young,

I would cry,

But now I normally sigh,

as I yank down the cord

on the blinds.