People of the Pitch

Spewing along the dingy walls,
Creeping, crawling, on the edge of light;
Getting closer, closer,
It's the people of the night.

The first night here, after buying this old house,
Creaking and settling keeps them awake;
Inching nearer, nearer,
It's the people of the opaque.

One year gone by, stark-raving mad,
Objects fly through the very air, as of some witch,
Upon you! Upon you!
It's the people of the pitch.