Night Terrors

Night Terrors

Floating through the numbness of drifting dreams,

Softly billowing, falling and rising,

Seeking, searching, following a distant figure,

Reaching out towards the tantalising.

Then the crack of sound which startles,

The snap of sudden, startled waking,

Bolt upright in the tangle of sheets,

Listening hard, to a silence that’s breaking.

Heavy, deep, suffocating blackness,

Pierced by the thinnest slice of moonlight,

Through a curtain-crack not closed,

Creating shadowy shapes within the night.

Thick, breathing stillness,

Then a creak upon the stair.

A catch of breath -

Is there somebody there?

The house settling, moaning and groaning,

A catalogue of clicks and ticks.

Sounds from out of the silence,

Or is it the mind just playing tricks?

And, from outside, (the night is barely quiet now) -

The scratchings and callings and shufflings,

Of badgers and mice,

Of owls and foxes,

Their scrapings and diggings and snufflings.

The swishing of wind as it blows through the trees,

And the tapping of twigs against the pane,

A gentle pittering and pattering,

That might be just the winter rain.

But what was that?

Yet stranger sounds abound.

Perhaps those unwelcome creatures, the rats.

Wandering, investigating, nosing around,

Stoats, weasels, bats or meandering cats.

They are out there, safe where they belong,

In the kingdoms they inhabit,

But then, from somewhere out the distance,

The searing scream of captured rabbit.

And, inside now, fear and tension rising.

Blood pumping,

Heart thumping,

Ears straining,

Mind working overtime,

And a sense of terror gaining.

Was that a subtle movement?

Something just over there?

Is something hidden in the shadows?

Is there really somebody there?

Or has a primal imagination,

Seeking to penetrate the gloom,

Created something super-natural,

Standing there across the darkened room?

So scared, forgetting how to breathe,

Unable to swallow, starting to shiver,

Limbs stiff, skin chilled, eyes out on stalks,

Fingers kneading bed-clothes, all a-quiver.

Straining hard to distinguish every sound,

Listening, thinking, hoping, guessing,

An eerie quiet now descending,

Perhaps portending something more distressing?

Primitive and primordial fear,

That traces roots from inside the womb.

Terrors of torment and lingering death,

Staring at the black inside of one’s tomb.

Dying alone – the dark, deepest dread

That everyone cradles inside.

Fear of the dying, more than the dead,

The unspoken horror we all seek to hide.

Was that a door slamming, a bang or a bump?

A noise unfamiliar, or unknown?

Or was the whole thing inside of my head,

Created by demons all of my own?

There’ll be no sleep further tonight:

Ghouls and ghosts may wander at will.

Perhaps there’s nobody there after all,

But the mind won’t believe that, cannot be still.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016