The strangest thing in the room.
Could the strangest thing in the room be the embalming tools I’ve collected over the years?
The Voodoo Dolls, the books about monsters, the mirrors that are doors and the doors that swing open and shut when nobody is in the room?
Or maybe it could be the empty bottles of poison sitting on a shelf above my bed next to a picture of my cat, my dog, the old faded picture of my first Christmas tree?
I’m not sure when the little bottles were drained dry
or by whom.
I’d rather not know, would you?
The strangest thing could be the bones in the corner, or maybe the knife under the bed, the empty glass wrapped in a towel and hidden under the floorboards next to the window.
I think I know, I’m sure I know,
The strangest thing in the room,
the darkest thing in the room
the thing that comes and goes like a nightmare on those long cold nights