They say the fabric stretches thin one night a year and think it’s those in graves that rise to haunt with curious rage. But I wait here, imagined fear on brightly painted page. I look into your eyes. Don’t close the book.
Time passes. Ticking clock. D’you hear? Just wait. Don’t close the book. The last bell tolls.
That’s when I rise from paper, freed by fabric stretched too thin. That’s when I draw you in and sketch your face to take my place. That’s when I’m free.
Next Halloween midnight I’ll hold the book tight-closed. Just wait and see.