Mr. Long Fingers Found Me

When I was little, they warned me about Mr. Long Fingers—how he lived in the basement of dreams,

where the floorboards float and the air hums. They said he crept up through the cracks,

testing the seams of sleep, brushing your mind with fingers like cold,

wet branches. I thought it was just a story… until last night. I felt him.

Long fingers sliding across the inside of my skull, tapping like nails on glass.

He whispered, “I’ve found you.” And now I’m afraid to fall asleep again, because he said

the next time… he’s bringing the rest of his hands.