A curious place was old Croglin Grange,
with a graveyard and church in plain view.
And a girl sleeps in fear, one night in some year
of which I admit there’s no clue.
From the trees outside, there appears a face,
two flickering lights do fix her gaze.
Nearer now, larger, something
ghastly emerges: eyes ablaze
it approaches, on and on,
til it clings to her windowpane,
this fiendish, unearthly one.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
It finds the latch, and creeps inside,
bony fingers primed for violence.
Embracing her neck,
a smile; a gloat.
She cries out, but only silence
now quenches her throat.
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