IWTS No. 45
I was the sound of the gods beating upon your window in the windy night. The shadows out there shift and topple, head over heels, like giants doing cartwheels. Footsteps, you swear, there are footsteps coming down the hall; the memory of some black shape at the edge of sleep, stalking you. The door is touched by an unseen hand, begins to open, and terror is that thing lodged and crisp and cutting in your throat. What do you see, dear, but the unknown and all you cannot control. It grasps at you.