by M.J. DiNatale

A creeping feeling of utter dread,
assuring himself it was only in his head-
the ragged breathing under the bed,
the scratching sound and the smell of something dead.
The black velvet curtain falls
as the creature calls,
the mist becomes opaque:
the hope that he will wake.
He gathers his courage and leans over now, expecting the sight of something,
but the apprehension of a blank space, and he sees nothing.