Day 408

You saw hands brushing the curtain, running their fingers along its silky material.
The rest of them was obscured though you did peer closer.
A face peered back.

With trembling hands you reached forward to see who could possibly be behind there.
Sharply you yanked the curtain aside only to see your usual view of the street below.
You felt something brush past you.

You heard footsteps running away and further into your apartment.
Chasing after the unseen being you saw it crash into furniture, saw it bleed.
After several tense minutes of cat and mousing it managed to open your front door.

You thought that would be it, that blank face and unseen body would be gone.
How wrong you were as you heard your door open later that night.
How wrong you were as its hands ran through the curtains once more, pressing red into white.

It writes such beautiful things about what it has seen and who it has seen.
The world feels lighter, you feel lighter and lighter and you cease worrying when it leaves.
It always comes back with new stories written in blood.

You don't care whose blood it is, only the words it forms and how they lift every fibre of your being.
There is no fear between you and it now, just words and a thin curtain.
You've kept each and every curtain it has written on after all you can easily buy more.

The news once talked about a lethal serial killer in your area that left behind letters on their torsos.
More for you to read and you had to read them.
Their words were written by it and it wrote such beautiful things.