A POEM BY R. STEPHEN
Little mouse, oh little mouse
tiny shape in the doorway
stares with green stillness
dancing sprite draws nearer
it’s you she’s here to see
she sees you when you’re sleeping;
she knows you’re not awake
she’ll lace your palms with silver;
tether your breath to the fire
little mouse spies its sleeping north star,
fuel for Satan’s pyre
a fever for a femur
but she may only take your bite
Carrion Bell flutters through the dark
acolyte of the night
heavy is the jaw which bears the fruit
this creature wields no scythe
no bounty for this harvest;
a child will pay the price
milk teeth for the beast below,
the creature must obey
this damning trade will be reborn,
till you come of age
Carrion Bell will see you again.
About This Poem
Carrion Bell: A First Step into the Dark
This was the poem that marked the beginning for me, the moment I realised I could lean into the strange, the shadowed and the quietly unsettling. Carrion Bell grew from the urge to twist something familiar into something feral. At its centre is the little mouse, a small figure caught in the gaze of a nocturnal visitor who follows rules older than comfort, older than innocence.
I wanted it to feel like a bedtime story told with the lights off. The silver laced palms, the tethered breath, the ritual of milk teeth offered like currency came from exploring how childhood fear can feel ceremonial, almost sacred. There is a cheeky nod to a tradition many of us grew up with, but bent and darkened until it becomes something entirely different. A creature who arrives not with soft wings or glitter, but with a jaw heavy with duty.
Carrion Bell is not a villain. She is bound to her task, an acolyte of the night who collects what must be collected, returning again and again until the child grows beyond her reach. That cycle, the idea that some rites revisit us until we are ready, is the spine of the poem. It is why the final line lands like a promise rather than a threat.
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