Guilt is a killer

“Once upon a chilly eve, when ghouls walk the earth and mischieve achief, I sat alone as so many nights before: Painstakingly watching my shut closet door. From inside I could hear a rythmic scratching, as if someone inside were trying to flee. Trapped like in a coffin, darkness engulfing So that nothing beyond your own hand you’ll see. So many nights sat up while I’m listening, scared to move or even to breath. Wishing the noise would just go away. Wishing my tormentor would just up and leave! Plucking up courage from somewhere within, I get up from bed and it starts to begin. The scratching grows louder, more urgent it seems. Faint moaning I hear grows to bloodcurdeling screams. I grasp the doorknob, so cold and so hard. Muscles straining, my mind is on guard. There inside my closet so dark, hiding from light and salvation. I see my own guilt with blood on her frock. Rake thin and suffering from severe starvation. It takes on the form of my love left behind She reaches for me, and into my mind. Embracing her now as in days gone by. I walk into my closet, ready to die.” Martin O’Toole was found dead in his closet. His wrists were slashed to the bone. For his crimes he was punished, his guilt is now gone. In Hell he has found his new home.