Ray's House

Hearts quickening beneath nylon
school blazers. Clenching fists held
against prickling hips as we reached
the creaking gate that let you know
you had reached Ray's house.

Peering through breaks in timber,
taking in the tangled web of weeds
snaking down the drainpipe.
Glinting green glass of discarded bottles
littering the footpath. Forlorn piles of
yellowing newspapers rustling a wild warning.

Our chattering teeth stuttering dares
to enter this place, where children are smeared
on toast like pate, and their eyeballs
are pickled in jars.
Where girls and boys are forgotten
and only stories are left.

Ray killed his mother, they say.
Eating her whole.
Smacking his smiling lips.
Nightmares of hungry Ray stopped me
edging towards that groaning gate
towards almost certain death.
Stopped all of us.
We all ran. Every time.