The Attic

by Chris Bunton

Up the sketchy ladder,
through the dark hole,
barely large enough
to crawl through.

Into the attic
hotter than hell,
in the darkness
where the air is still.

Traces of light,
filters in.
Are those eyes
in the corner?

The breathing chokes,
on fiberglass fumes,
and dust
from ages gone by.

What was that sound?
A scraping on the wood.
Claws or scales
getting closer here.

The smell of death,
floats like a cloud.
Burning the face,
coating the tongue.

The insulation moves,
in the filtered light,
of a nail hole
left unplugged.

Like something under
the fibrous mat,
heading toward
the flesh.

It's fangs click.
Click click,
it burrows
closer still.

The eyes red,
claws ripping,
savage taste
of plastic burning.

Rushing rushing
on the walk boards
falling
enveloped by dread.

Crawling begging,
toward the hole
the only place
to escape.

Breathing gasping,
through ripped
throat gurgling,
eyes blinking.

Tasting copper,
and filth.
Fangs smiling,
drooling.

The last thought,
pain and pain
accepting,
the hole turning black.