The Resting Place

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
An inherent childhood terror in the darkness of the night.

Submitted: November 04, 2007

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Submitted: November 04, 2007

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The Resting Place

By Gerard Lebel

The flickering shadows, cast through the white, cotton curtains from the harvest moon along with the reflections of the old neighborhood street lamps,
hover above his bed like a flock of circling vultures,
readying themselves for feeding time.

In an otherwise tiny attic room of pitch black,
it was another speechless night of his youth.

His throat dry… he tries to call out but he’s unable to produce any sound.
His breathing labored as he pulls the white sheet, two beige blankets
and the white and beige chenille bedspread over his face,
inch by inch, leaving just the corner of his mouth exposed,
enabling him to inhale small gasps of fresh air.
He felt the moist heat of his own breath against his face.

He is trembling.

He is smothering.

Footsteps ascending the stairway outside his bedroom.
He hears the creaking of the old wooden stairs… and then his door.
The turning of the knob as if it were being opened.

He wants to peek. He needs to see for himself what monsters lurk just outside his bed coverings.
He slowly reveals the corner tip of one eye.

Blackness.

Shadows.

A faceless figure draped in flowing, black crepe approaches... hovering…. hovering.

Darkness is his world at nighttime… small boys don’t need to use a nightlight.
That is for sissies, or so daddy says, but daddy doesn’t understand…

Monsters come out at night pursuing little boys in their resting place.

Copyright 2007 Gerard Lebel All rights reserved


© Copyright 2017 gerabel. All rights reserved.

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