The Son of All Fears

I listen to monastic, ghostly dirges
to enflame my lycanthropic urges.
I carry flensing in my pocket,
intimate follicles in a locket.
You call me Donald or John Wayne Gacey -
you fear me though you're Tom or Tracey -
I'm Holmes, and Vacher and the Candyman;
you practise for me with Catch-as-Catch-Can.
You cannot see me -despite your loathing-
nor see the wolf in Granny's clothing.
I'm the shiver, when you step on a crack,
yet I disappear when you look back.
When the shadow moves across the light,
I'm the shapeless shifter in the night.
My smile is white, but my heart is black;
my name is legion, call me Jack.