There's something at the bottom of the well.
I hear its voice when everyone's asleep
and shadows from the forest stretch and creep
across the yard like spirits out of Hell.
It sounds like water gurgling over stone,
and forms words I can almost understand.
One day, turning, I saw a gnarled gray hand
clutching the lip--it wore a ring of bone.
I do not know what moves in that dank hole,
what churns the brackish water into steam
that billows forth at midnight like a dream--
a fog that dampens prayer and chills the soul;
I only know the tale you heard me tell--
There's something at the bottom of the well.
1 comment:
Seems as though the In Memoriam stanza has become one of your favorites, and I'm glad because I like them.
Perhaps the most accomplished so far of your horror sonnets. For more effective by suggestion than it would be in literal detail. Very nice that at the end you leave the reader hanging. The tale is almost scarier than the creature itself would be.
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