In the beginning, there was no one.
No sound, no noise, no fear.
As the days grew shorter they appeared more often.
Doors were opened that were closed,
And nails removed from boxes.
I never spied ones face, but only the dead really saw them.
Mortality went sky high soon after.
Fear became an everyday thing for me.
As I learned more I began to warn;
"Don't shut yourself up too tight." I said to a boy down river.
"They can see what you're thinking; your feelings are words that fuel."
He barred the windows one evening, and next day hung from the rafters.

I knew to unlock the doors, to keep my house open to them.
They never bothered me but followed close.
Police watchmen stood outside the door.
While a reporter asked me details.
My sister's drawing of our house lay still, drawn in crayon.
The waterfall was done in blues.
As the reporter turned the bolt I said, "Don't lock it; they know."
Ignoring me, the link was complete and screams came high and cold.
We ran to see and the police were gone.

The drawing quivered slightly...

Two new figures lay in the water of the drawing.
And, low, the guards were there.
Mutilated, floating, dead.
So from now on the windows are open.
My doors are cracked for them.
No locks are locked any more.