COLD CALLER

Hallowe'en, once an ancient Celtic festival with Pagan roots, is nowadays an opportunity for youngsters to indulge in Trick or Treat, the custom of going from door to door after dark, dressed in suitably spooky costumes, to sing or recite in exchange for sweets or currency.
It's all very lighthearted and only the most curmudgeonly person would not find it amusing.
But what if the caller were not a child in a scary mask seeking toffees but someone who had other, less benign, intentions? 

THE REAPER

Armani suit and calf-skin shoes, 

Rolex coiled around his wrist,

a sharp black beard defines his chin,

three blood-red rings adorn his fist,

his neck’s embellished with tattoos

which spiderweb his swarthy skin.

He’s saturnine, tall, lithe and slim:

not how I had imagined him.

His smile is supercilious, cold.

He strokes his smartphone, barks my name,

then looks me over with a frown.

You’re ready, Fool. You’re mine to claim ...

I cower, defenceless, weak and old.

He leans in close to stare me down

with hooded eyes as black as coal:

twin mirrors of an absent soul.