The Old Hag

by Theresa C. Gaynord

In the morning all were gone -

The finger-marks upon the door,

the kettle that never boiled,

the ill-fitting boots that were poorly

tied.

Was it yesterday?

Those little things, faint, far and clear,

interrupt once again.

The marinated salmon ready for the oven,

the wine unopened, the glasses lying in

wait. The spotted mirror that reflects the

whole room.

Wrinkled fingers examine a portrait upon a

wall, whispering the phrases of a spell so low

so as not to draw attention; a special rapport

with a realm beyond human senses.

Shadows surface through awakening,

saturating the air with claw marks so numerous

you could see the dusty trails. Demons silhouette

against the night.

A cascade of stars gleam far above the cracked

window panes, sending fragments of broken

light cascading through hallways that lead into

other rooms.

Evil glances toward a narrow corridor where a door

hangs open several inches off its hinges, the empty

bed, unkempt, plagued by its sunless existence, among

the splinter of breaking wood.

The old hag smiles, dissipating in air, the wind

carrying her stench. The blackness of her garments

stretched out, touching earth, descending upon her

victim, curled up in a ball, sound asleep,

against the base of an old oak tree.