If you’re looking for hints of nightmares forgotten,
You should search in shadows ,
In the underbrush, that’s where they hide,
Growing in the fecund earth on the forest floor.
Shine your light over there beneath that rotten log, see,
There’s one over there, its eyes glowing red.
Don’t touch it with your bare hand, you’ll never wash the smell off,
That’s what the leather gloves and the net are for.
They take root in the ooze and the muck.
Each one grows from seeds planted in sleep,
Each a different story from a mind unaware,
Like a shout from a mute madman in a hurricane.
Foggy swamps and bogs are the best hunting grounds.
A guy north of here found a rich patch in the elbow of the river.
Man, he lived off that one spot for a year.
When it finally ran dry in the heat of August, he curled up and died.
The worst thing that can happen is finding one of your own, of course,
Like Merle did over in the valley below Blue Spruce Hill.
Merle hasn’t spoken a word from that day to this,
And his eyes have that hollow, dead look.
But the money is good, and times are tough, so it’s worth the risk.
Besides, what’s the alternative?
If you’re not hunting them they’re hunting you,
And unlike you, they don’t sleep.