Category: Horror

Disappeared, Poetry by Ravjit Singh

The nights were warm
And the wind howled quietly
In his head there was a storm
It crept up slowly but violently

Genre: Dark, Horror

Disappeared
by Ravjit Singh

The nights were warm
And the wind howled quietly
In his head there was a storm
It crept up slowly but violently

He went from smiles in the morning
To tears and anger in the night
One moment he felt as if he was soaring
Then his own heart he would fight

Full of light while the sun was out
Clouded with darkness when he saw the moon
Like his emotions were wandering about
Lost and ready to collapse soon

Tonight the moon was full
And the darkness was heavy
He would fight and pull
Until death asked if he was ready

He refused to cry
But the light wouldn’t appear
Made this his last goodbye
And finally he would disappear

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Infatuation, Poetry by Anna Sue Benson

I am a skilled,
dedicated,
stalker.
When I can sneak out,
I walk across town,
over the river bridge,
creep up the one way street,
imagining the subject of my desire.

Genre: Dark, Horror

Infatuation
by Anna Sue Benson

I am a skilled,
dedicated,
stalker.
When I can sneak out,
I walk across town,
over the river bridge,
creep up the one way street,
imagining the subject of my desire.
One my way home
from work,
the grocery store,
running errands,
I drive by,
slowly.
I wonder
what the neighbors think
about my constant presence
on this quiet side-street.

This object of my desire,
this house,
is mine.
Mine in an unexplainable,
not of this world,
kind of way.
It’s perched up on a hill,
surrounded by trees,
vacant for years,
slowly succumbing to decay and neglect.
I peek in the windows,
see that a remodeling project
has been left unfinished,
building materials long untouched.
The pull this house has on me
is palpable.
I feel,
wholeheartedly feel,
like I should walk up those steps
and through the front door.
It’s my house.
The house makes me believe
the padlocks on the doors,
the deed in someone’s else’s name,
are irrelevant.
I want to,
I need to,
step foot in that house
feel its energy.

I’ve found out everything
I could possibly research.
Built in 1910,
changed hands 19 times
in 40 years,
owned by a company
in Bakersfield, CA
that has no business
owning a house in these parts,
a company
who hasn’t paid the taxes
on my house
in two years.
I imagine,
writing them,
offering to pay the back taxes,
take the house off their hands.
If only I had the means,
to restore it
to the way it deserves to exist,
I would.

I have asked around,
learned all the local history.
People are afraid
of my house.
The land around it,
encircled by many known
Native American burial mounds.
People wonder
if any other burial mounds
were disrespected
in the building of that home,
wonder if there is some curse,
some bad energy
for what might have been done
to a sacred resting place.
Local urban legends
revolve around this house,
the woods around it.

I am undeterred.
I pace the woods behind my house,
pondering a way
I could get inside.
I feel uneasy
the closer I get
to my house.
Maybe it’s that I’m a rule-follower,
I know, from a legal standpoint,
I’m trespassing.
Surely the uneasy feeling
couldn’t be that something is wrong,
off about the property.
I don’t understand
how something so right
could be out of my grasp.
I can’t accept that.
The house
pulls me in.
I don’t know how,
but I can make this happen.
It will be mine.

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The Jack’o’Lantern gone mad, Poetry by Paul Parent

The fog drifts slowly, creeping mysteriously over hallowed grounds.

The resting home of the dead was filled with scary sounds.

There is this Jack’o’Lantern and the cemetery is his home.

He has been there since 1784, and decides this is where he will roam

To those who walk bravely in the cemetery at night.

The Jack’o’Lantern will give you such an eerie fright.

Genre: Horror, Rhyme, Gore, Halloween

The Jack’o’Lantern gone mad
by Paul Parent

The fog drifts slowly, creeping mysteriously over hallowed grounds.

The resting home of the dead was filled with scary sounds.

There is this Jack’o’Lantern and the cemetery is his home.

He has been there since 1784, and decides this is where he will roam

To those who walk bravely in the cemetery at night.

The Jack’o’Lantern will give you such an eerie fright.

Ghost friends create mischief with him too,

Their hair stands up with just one blood curdling boo.

A cat with raised hackles sits on a tombstone with a hiss.

And a zombie out from a grave wildly shakes his fist.

Around in the cemetery in circles flies a wicked witch,

Her cackle loud enough with a high piercing pitch.

A spider web might be cast upon a face or two.

The web is icky and will stick to you like glue.

Jack’ o’ Lantern’s smile was up and not down.

Now, not a pleasant smile but only a frightening frown.

The Jack O’ Lantern throws flames only to have fun.

He laughs in a frenzy watching people wildly run.

If he saw that their clothes were not singed and blackened scorched,

He would bite them if they dared come onto the rickety old porch!

If that did not work he would stand on his feet

And chase them all screaming, running down the street.

If ever on Halloween you are in a cemetery and lean over onto a grave,

Dare to be frightened or dare to be brave.

It is only one night throughout all the years.

You have nothing to be scared of – perhaps only your fears.

Remember: The Jack’o’Lantern lives for Halloween.

This is the night he could be nastier, nastier and chillingly mean.

At one time he was a good pumpkin – this is so sad.

One day he snapped his lid and went absolutely mad.

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