The following is an unnamed poem by an unidentified author which was found tucked within the spaces of the attic of an old house in California.
He is coming, the one who walks the earth till doomsday.
He is forever. There was one and there has always been one. He is nor man, nor beast, nor specter, or anything the mind is able to comprehend.
His form is the twisted mockery of man one of which he pretends but can never become.
Darkness is his home. Man is his prey, fear is his nourishment, and blood is his water.
He has many names, ones that are said in hushed tones.
His name is Jack.