A little door in an attic,
simple, non-dramatic,
for most people anyway,
when I see them, I shy away.
They give me a piercing fear,
nails scraping on wood in your ear,
maybe it’s where the brownies live,
cleaning at night, that I can forgive,
no signs on show,
pots and pans still dirty, that I know.
A boggart it could be,
but that would be easy to see;
nothing major has gone wrong,
everything still going strong.
If anything, it’s a geist,
likely not polter, hopefully nice.
What! The beginning of a noise,
the creep of terror, bolt upright!
Now that is strange,
no movement, no change,
the door still shut,
but a tapping, wobbling my gut.
I want, need, must, run,
paralysed, any confidence undone.
Okay, here now, this I must settle,
muster up the courage, the mettle.
My body aching with fear-filled strain,
I move to the door, cold as ice, deep pain.
The tapping slows and stops,
as I approach, my heart drops.
The door handle twists,
nobody, no hands, no wrists.
Out leaks a gentle squeak,
my face pale, consciousness meek,
before me, an open dark passage,
whatever resides there has advantage.
No light enters the void,
strength shattered, destroyed.
The classic horror movie trope,
crawling through, searching for hope.
Ominous weight enshrouds my body,
senses tricking me, mind going foggy.
I turn to look behind,
no door in view, wholly confined.
The tapping begins anew,
my courage, I must renew,
as the noise gets quicker and louder,
edging ever closer to an encounter,
my thoughts fall away,
nothing left to say.
You can see the door,
firmly shut, just like before.
You reflect a moment,
a feeling so vivid, harshly potent.
This is the fear of the tiny attic door,
avoid them at all costs, I solemnly implore.