That One House
There is always that one house
in every neighborhood that goes
a bit too far with the decorations.
The front lawn turned into a cemetery,
skeletons grinning in their various poses,
accident victims revealing their insides,
a rotting corpse skewered with a pitchfork,
body parts strewn about with the grisly
air of a medieval charnel house.
The neighbors walking their dogs wink
at the annual slaughterfest, sometimes
hesitating, wondering at the detailed
accuracy of the grim depiction.
On the big night,
a chilling soundtrack blasts across
the swaying treetops, screams and moans
and clanking chains, some gaunt specter
looming from the roof, ghosts spiraling
across the siding, cobwebs hovering
in the autumn breeze.
As the children venture to the door,
they are met with an eerie fog,
a wicked laugh, and Death Himself
answering his portal to hell.
The little ones turn and run,
the bigger ones step slowly,
the parents smile at the fun.
But somewhere in the basement of their minds
they secretly fret, some primal urge tensing
their throats, because you
just
never
know.
And one more thing—
I’m the guy
answering the door.
