Something used the collapsed shack as a daylight lair.
It hid inside these vacant, narrow places,
Crawled inside the dilapidated space.
By night, his cloak formed wings.
This, and some freakish leg ability to jump,
For by dusk the creature was no longer there,
And by the wee hours it would be in the air,
Flying across brittle warehouse roofs.
Sometimes crashing into some shanty dockside bar,
Where the patrons scampered for survival.
Other times it remained inside pitch-black shadows,
Hunting in pure stealth, ritualistic, hallowed.
The victims were found days later,
And maybe identified weeks after.
Witnesses moved away from the docks,
The looming night-shadow—a phantom knock.
One night, the watchman followed the creature for a block.
It jumped a wall and, through glowing red eyes, mocked.
Blue flame flowed out as it challenged the watchman:
“Follow me at your peril!” Then disappeared down a hatch-lan.
“Reports pour in of a mysterious prowler dubbed ‘Spring‑heeled Jack,’ a night‑creature of astonishing agility, said to appear in suburban lanes with a frightful form, emitting blue and white flame and eyes like red balls of fire, eluding all pursuit by springing over walls and rooftops with uncanny ease.”
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