Pulp Poem of the Week

Fear wasn't a jagged split of light cleaving you;
fear wasn't a cold fist in your entrails;
fear wasn't something you could face
and demolish with your arrogance.
Fear was the fog, creeping about you,
winding its tendrils about you,
seeping into your pores and flesh and bone.
Fear was a girl whispering a word
over and over again,
a small word you refused to hear,
although the whisper was a scream in your ears,
a dreadful scream you could never forget.
You heard it over and again
and the fog was a ripe red veil
you could not tear away from your eyes.

Dorothy B. Hughes

In a Lonely Place
1947