It’s the eighth month of the year.
Officially, the seasons are winding in, the sunlight
Pulling in closer and closer, pressing against
The encroaching night, crawling from
The yawning maw of darkness.
It’s the eighth month of the year.
Things with eight legs begin to shift, stir,
Swing their many-eyed heads, searching for
The warmth of a home, for nooks to crouch in;
Twitching, legs trembling.
It’s the eighth month of the year.
Leaves burn, curl in, crush into coils,
Starved by the body that for so long gave them life.
Dropped like scales, shedding onto the pavement,
Mush, brown, slippery underfoot.
It’s the eighth month of the year.
The wind whispers, hisses, grazes, the
Moon blinks, watches, and waits. The
Eyes you see in the bushes don’t blink, staring,
Following, chasing, reaching, calling.
It’s the eighth month of the year.
The witching hour grows longer and the
Holy books begin to smoke, pages fluttering in
Hallowed halls, superstitions running amok,
Wisp-like, tendrils of black curling against the spine.
It’s the eighth month of the year.
It’s when the world turns topsy-turvy, when
Darkness prevails over light, when
Those who prowl the shadowed streets
Are the brave, the foolish, the Other.
It’s the eighth month of the year.
Doors are locked up tightly, steam rising against
The windows from hot drinks cupped in palms.
Flames flicker through fleshy carved faces,
A cat arches its spine against the night.
It’s the eighth month of the year.
And screams echo through the streets; are
They filled with horror or delight?
A scratch on the window-pane, a door slowly
Creaking open to reveal nothing but fright.
It’s the eighth month of the year.
Esme Johnson
Featured image courtesy of Refracted Moments™ (https://flic.kr/p/2VpH9r) via Flickr.
Image use licence here.
Follow @ImpactMagazine on Twitter or like the Impact Entertainment Facebook page for more articles and information on how to get involved.
