They
 
Can’t be sure where they came from. Seems like they was just there one day. Skulkin’ in the shadows. Crawlin’ round corners. Sometimes they just freeze, like a rabbit caught in a truck’s headlights, and just stares at ya until ya start to wonder if they ain’t just a statue. Some weird piece of art left in the middle of the road. They likes to crawl up tall buildings, perch themselves on window ledges like them fancy gargoyles on that church in France. Hunched over in on themselves, almost like they in pain or somethin’. Some look like women—most do, actually. Mother-naked and sharp. So skinny ya wonder if they ain’t ever had a real meal. Ya notice their ribs more’n their tits. Ribs and their arms, which strike ya as bein’ just a mite too long. Lot of ‘em reach out towards ya, but not like they want anythin’. Not like they pleadin’ with ya. Almost like they’re pushin’ ya away. Or maybe it’s just the world they clawin’ at. The ones that look like men terrify me, I ain’t afraid to admit that. Can’t really lay my finger on just why—maybe it’s how they clutch at their faces, as if they about to rip ‘em off. Or the milky white of their eyes, which ya can only just see between the shaking lines of their fingers. The male ones got a real tension around ‘em, an almost visible fog of pain an’ sufferin’. Just walkin’ past one gives me the shakes. Takes hours to feel human after. Lots of people got they own theories on what they is, what they ain’t, where they came from, what they want. I don’t bother much with philosophizin’. Way I see it, none of that don’t matter much. They keep to themselves, and I’ll keep to me. Things are just better that way. But the way they scream in the night sure does give me pause.