Baskerville

An ode to a font

Pulsing—

Flesh drips.
Ichor pools.

Twitching muscles, pale tendons—
Strained. Taut. Ready to snap.

A breath, hot— too close.
Your shoulders coil like a spring.
Your neck, slick with fear.

Surfaces slick.
No grip.
No chance.

Run.

Heart thrashes against your ribs—
Dizzy.
Vision tunneling.

Dry lips crack—
Gasping, gulping, choking on air.
Teeth ache, ice-cold.

Darkness grips your skull.
Bowels drop.

Walls smear past—
Doorframes lurch.
Filth grinds beneath scrambling fingers.
Stumble.

A growl—low, wet, reverberating through your marrow.
Sweat stings. Blinds.
Salty copper on your tongue.

Panic.

Hands tremble—
A coward’s confession.
You don’t dare look.

Fate looms—ink-black, inevitable.

Captured in a font.
Baskerville.

You hound.