I am a berry though not the sort you pick in a bowl,I wear a yellow coat that freckles like old scroll. I hang in hands but never learn to clap, and every single one of my small teeth is dead a ghostly map. What am i?

I come in four but also in one hundred and eighteen. When you're not in it, you may feel uneasy. Men have to seek shelter from them.

I am swift. I am fast Even nuclear, I can outlast I'm on the floor, I'm on the wall I can make your skin crawl

My first three are a friendly pet, a favorite of witches when their fur is jet. My last six are upstanding sorts, of wood or stone they make sublime supports. The whole of me is a hungry chap, who often dreams of having wings to flap.

Dances around me, never touching. Infrequent visits, such big leaps. Over fifty years since our last, yet I see you before I dream.