The other day upon the stair,
It was upon him before he knew what was happening. No footsteps, no shadow, simply lunging, greasy fingers clutching at his mouth, pulling his jaw loose from its moorings.
I met a man who wasn't there.
Its face drew level to his, eyes stitched shut, nostrils flaring and snuffling. Its mouth opened, impossibly wide, its breath hot on his skin.
He wasn't there again today.
A carpet of filth spilled forth from the yawning maw. Billions of bristly crawling legs, wings humming against distended thoraxes. He gagged upon them, even as it plunged its fingers into his eyes.
I wish, I wish he'd go away.
He groaned wordlessly, his tongue long since bitten through as it pulled the final stitch tight. His stomach bulged grotesquely, churning with new life.
They were home now.
Home.