Friday the 13th, my blue-eyed husky and I walk the streets.

We always turn around when we reach Will’s dreary house.

The old broken wooden window panes, 

dully staring at us with an eerie empty feeling.

On the second floor, people know how Will’s room looks like:

corner pieces of the house, broken bricks fill the walls.

Thick nests layer the outskirts of the frames.

All windows closed, but the glass shattered. 

I hear the cries of my Siberian husky. 

Breaking the leash, his ears perk up suspiciously.

Staring at Will’s room, the crows caw in sync.

Seeing the presence of a man in Will’s house for

the first time in years, I find myself befuddled.

I blink my eyes, but he is still standing there.

I see elongated claws on his hands, like a dragon, 

clawing away the window panes, trying to break free.

The crying crows swarm back, surrounding the beast.

His dirt-filled robe, picked off piece by piece.

The last we see of him, his face gets ripped apart

by the dragon-like hands, revealing his true identity.