Just before midnight, They gather before the bed, Their shadows looming long, Like Gothic Towers piercing the sky. They wait, Ready for the kill. Until twelve strikes, The victim is safe. He slumbers, Deep in his dreams and thought, Unheed of the knives, Gleaming in the darkness, Ready, Silently ready, To take his life. Their pale long fingers, Move silently in unease, Like restless albino spiders, Ready to kill. For these hands have long not tasted Fresh blood and raw meat. They are hungry. No breath is left of them. They look down, With eyesockets empty. The smell a feast, Of new meat. Yes! Flesh, To survive, To reap sweet death.