My little poem.

[otto1014]

One Fall Night

Dark, much too dark,
Even for a fall night.
Clouds cover the sky,
Like a grey blanket.
Spouse by my side,
Mr. Jasper Shale,
A good name,
For a banker.

“We took too long, Abby
Dinner was too long!”
“Calm down dear,
We are almost home.”
Turning the corner,

To Elm Street, our street.
The lamp post gave way,
To a ghastly figure.
A dark figure that I know,
Scott, little Scott.
The boy two blocks down,
Quiet Scott, calm Scott.

Walking into the orange light.
“Hello Scott, what are you doing
Up so late of night?”
He whispered like normal,
There was a darkness.
His eyes glowed green,
His body shifted, shaken.

“It calls.” Pointing up
To the sky.
To an illuminated circle,
The moon in disguise.
“The moon does not call,
Silly Scott, off to bed.”
Reaching for him, Scott shifted again,
Into a gruesome figure.
Grey fur sprouted,
Bones cracked and creaked.
He grew tall and large.
Into an unimaginable,
Horrible creature!
He opened his mouth,
Wide and muzzle like.
He bit Jasper’s head,
Clean off.
Collapsing to the hard,
Cold ground,
Blood everywhere.

Such a horror it is!
The beast continued to feast,
Blood splattered, staining me.
The creature turned to me,
Death in it’s eyes.
It’s hand grasped me,
Lifting and running.

To a sewer hole,
He jumped down.
Hitting my head,
Black. Silence.
Candlelight,
Opening my eyes.
To Scott, normal Scott.
Covered in Jasper’s blood.

“Should I? Could I?
To you whom has been
So kind, so loving
To a beast. For what
Am I to do?
Leave you to tell?
To consume,
Devour.

Keeping my long,
Unknown secret!
Tell me, Mrs. Shale.
What am I to do?”
I could not speak.
Too much to handle!

“What has become of you, Scott?
What creature have you been?
How many have you consumed?
Scott, what are you?”

“I am the beast that haunted,
No slaughtered the country side.
I have consumed many,
I will again.”
“A... Werewolf?”
I shuddered,
Neighbor to such
A horrid thing!

“It’s morning,
Mrs. Shale.
Time to sleep.”
He laid down
On his side,
Quickly asleep,
Snoring.

Crawling over,
Petting his hair.
“Poor Scott,
Sad Scott.”
Getting up to see,
Bodies on the walls.

A ladder a far,
A way home!
Running toward it,
A sharp pain struck.
I went on, sealing the sewer.
Inside my home I grabbed,
The awful pain I felt.

There was no arm.
The beast, the werewolf,
Scott had bitten it off.
If the stories are true,
Scott wont be the only
Werewolf on Elm Street.