Whose Shadow Now - with Lilliputian

Set back from on the cul-de-sac the house stood silent surrounded by a flamboyance of pink plastic flamingos that turned their heads and preamble the inhuman condition.

Taking his work home, from the mortuary. Silhouette shadows stole bodies and followed him to Apple Valley Lane. Taking possession as if a scripted cold moon jiving with psychotic superstitious lunatics, creeping in Seattle leaking cider of a disorder as if dripping from the oil pan of a Toyota. Brought on by intoxicated unhallowed sounds of decadent scalpels.

He felt insufficient as if his own Neanderthal man as he spotted movement among the flamingos thinking he rolled the dice and took two steps into his own private Jurassic World laying an egg of his mortality. Taking his medication of Scruples, 40mg. Three times a day as needed.

Shadowy figures flitting about in the darkness glided along the floor, skimming the surface. Their facial features blurred with eeriness, looking lifeless, if not for the way their eyes glimmered with a sinister gleam. A presence not easily ignored, it sent shivers down his spine and tiny bumps warning of the unsettling phantoms lurking under the glow of starlight.

Urgently, he rushed inside the sanctuary of his home, yet the eerie atmosphere lingered in the air, seemingly growing colder. A sudden loud knock on the door interrupted the dread building up inside him. Opening the door to a shadow that became him. His own candy man with death's hallelujah on his mind. Shadow danced with his long-dead mother with a blue vein goiter that smiled. Thinking he was Fred Astaire and she was Ginger Rogers.

He reached for the door handle, intending to close, only for it to slip through his grasp. He looked back at the grinning figures staring at him, realizing he could no longer feel his heartbeat or his breath. A ghost of his body that once belonged to him had become haunted by his own shadow.  Watching his moving corpse step inside, and whispered  “we only need a change of clothes.”

Watching the local news on TV the citizens were advised to wear masks and not open their doors as a swarm of shadow people were moving across the country in caravans. The city collectors of shadows were understaffed but what went on behind closed doors, was "shadows dance to their piper." Or! You can lick'em and stick'em to the walls, but the glue may kill you.