by Scriptfox

The night was dark and clear,

And the stars in their tangled skein,

Cast a light that did not seem near,

Although it shone at the end of the lane.

The yew about stood sentinel tall,

Casting a shadow dark and black,

Along the path upon which my footfall,

Was making the gravel crack.

I leaned upon the wicket gate,

Which stood at the end of the lane,

I had been here often of late,

And its wood creaked, yet again.

The plain glowed pale yellow round about,

Starlight glinting upon the grass,

And heightened my fear and doubt,

For I feared what could come to pass.

The wind gave a small, gentle breath

And the rustled whispers which came,

Seemed to speak of the death,

Which befell all who bore my name.

The emerging moon shone silvery bright,

And it deepened my reverie,

It seemed to ride a ship of light,

Over the grassy sea.

A match flared in my hand,

The ember became an orange glow,

The gray ash fell to land,

And die on the lane below.

I made a casual turn,

And suffered a sudden fright,

My stomach began to churn,

At the horrible sight.

Black shadow seemed to congeal,

Into a terrifying form,

It just couldn't be real,

So much larger than the norm.

Two yellow coals were the eyes,

In its nightmarish face,

Their radiance threatened to paralyze,

It moved with hellish grace.

The jaw dropped open to reveal,

White glittering fangs and red maw,

I could be its next meal,

To be prepared by shredding claw.

A sudden despairing cry,

Makes a painful catch in my breath,

But the only reply,

Are the padding paws of death.

The pad turns into a pound,

And I lurch into flight,

Its strides devour the ground,

For this is its time- the night.

The sound of my scurrying feet,

Brings from the beast a growl,

Eardrums filled with a hard heartbeat,

Strained by the demon most foul.

A sudden tearing in my chest,

The world explodes in bright flame,

My last thought before my final rest-

Woe be to all with my name!

An errant ray of moonlight,

Descends on the horrible vision,

The man died of fright,

And over him bends the reason.

Then it gives the long drawn-out cry,

That gives the nervous chills,

It's heard whenever they die,

By the hound-- the Hound of the Baskervilles!