My precious. (Warning: Horror poem)

Creaked open the door and someone screamed.

That shrill sound echoed through the house.

A black, cloaked misty figure hung aloft

and someone screamed.

That shrill sound echoed through the house.

The figure whispered in a cracked, rasping voice

“My own, my precious, my own, my precious come to me”.

No one spoke but someone screamed.

That shrill sound echoed through the house.

The figure whispered again in a cracked, rasping voice

“Don’t hide my precious, come out, don’t hide my precious, come out”.

No one spoke and no one screamed.

The figure went further looking for its precious.

A pale face came into view.

Pale as the moon’s silver hue.

The pale face was beautiful, more beautiful than any other the figure knew.

And the figure whispered in a cracked, rasping voice

“At last my precious, my own, my pretty girl, now come to me”.

She didn’t speak and she did not scream but the colour left in her beautiful face drained

and her eyes lost focus.

She lay there as if asleep but to ne’er wake up again