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by Cristel Hastings
published in WEIRD TALES, August 1932
What is it that goes creeping through this room,
Trailing its dusty garments as it crawls?
Why does the air seem like an icy breath
That penetrates the dim and empty halls?
They say that Death came once into this room—
That old four-poster in the corner there—
They whisper, too, of shrieks that pierce the night,
Of banging doors, and blue light everywhere.
A rose that hung outside the shuttered pane
Withered and died one night when shrill winds moaned—
The queer blue light hovered a while, and then
The very timbers of the old house groaned.
Weeds now run riot in the somber path
Like snares for careless feet that wander through,
But no one comes, for no one ventures near—
Always there is the dim light, pale and blue.
The low winds moan even on summer nights—
There is a sighing sound in every room.
The mice have full possession of the halls
And hold their ghostly dance in shadowed gloom.
They say each night when sane folk’s clocks strike twelve
The blue light glows a while through shuttered panes,
and then it is the Thing comes crawling back
And tries to rid the floor of crimson stains.