This was originally (28 Dec 2023) meant to be just stanza two, 4 lines of iambic tetrameter as part of a contest for a 4-part collaboration by Jonathan Wilson on the topic of “Fear.” His original two lines of iambic dimeter read:

"a shadow reaps
as twilight creeps"

and my addition was (after some confusion when I thought I was doing a 6 lines of iambic hexameter, stanza 3)

“The house is dark inside, no light
of moon or lamp from street, the night
is still, but I'm on guard, cut off.
With no one home, I hear a cough.”

Each round, the line would increase by two iambic feet and each stanza by two lines. After 3 stages, Jonathan would complete the poem — an interesting challenge. 

Unfortunately for me, Jonathan didn't choose my part 2 offering (I got silver, rather than gold), so I was left with an orphan verse. Since his collaboration moved in a different direction, and I didn’t think I could see where the 6 line stanza would go, I withdraw from further participation and went my own way.  I followed his pattern and added stanzas 1, 3, and 4. But to end it, instead of going to 10 lines of iambic decameter, I chose to end it quickly and completed my original version in the small hours of 20 January 2024. I’ll post the original at the bottom of these comments.

On 20 Jan 2024, early evening: having gone 2/4/6/8 lines then ending with another 4 and then a two syllable/1 syllable ending, I pondered some more on this and made it a bit more symmetric, adding an extra 2 stanzas - after the 8-line iambic octameter one. So now there is a second 6 lines of iambic hexameter, then another 4 of iambic tetrameter. 

I tried to continue building the tension. I will leave what you see when the door opens for you to imagine. In my mind, it's rather gruesome.


Original Poem:

I lie in fear,
There’s no one here.

The house is dark inside, no light
of moon or lamp from street, the night
is still, but I'm on guard, cut off.
With no one home, I hear a cough.

A hidden memory is rattling in my brain,
or someone dank and foul, who’s twisting knives for pain?
There was a woman years before who once dwelt here,
her necromancy made her neighbours live in fear. 
The rumours said they murdered her but were not clear.
I thought her buried ‘neath the floor amidst the dirt, 
but now she climbs the stairs, to repay all the hurt.

I listen for a sound to tell me if this body is alive
The slightest breath, a quiet sigh, to indicate that they still thrive.
A second cough foretells the coming of a cold and blighted thing,
a barking hack, inanimate, as low-pitched as a creaking swing.
An airless rasp that comes pretending past her throat from hollow lung. 
I squeeze my eyes to stifle thoughts, bite down the scream upon my tongue.
The door jamb shudders, creaks, and grates. I wonder, will it hold or crack?
I wait and tremble, hold my breath, if doing so will turn her back. 

The door swings wide
I cannot hide

I scream.
I …