Category: Horror

Liminal Valley

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Photo by Shahadat Hossain on Pexels.com

Liminal Valley

I find my breath held in suspense,
My eyes seek bogeymen –
My heartbeats race,
My footsteps pace,
My mind counts down from ten.

I swear the pixels glitch agen –
Though when I turn to face,
There’s just the floor
And nothing more –
And yet, there hangs a trace…

There’s something strange about this place –
I’ve been round here before.
I’m growing tense –
There’s some sixth sense,
I’m trying to ignore.

I’ve seen that sign upon that door,
I’ve seen that metal fence –
I can’t say when,
But now and then
The colours seem too dense…

This is my attempt at trying the Roundabout format.

Thrice-Summoned

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An early 20th Century Halloween greeting card.

Thrice-Summoned

When the rumour had spread in the playground
That to utter a name three times was the trick
For a spirit to teleport-in, unbound –
Well, that left me with nits to pick.

I was the kid who wanted to know,
Just what was the interval and decay ?
How spaced the words could we let things go
Till the algorithm would fail to display ?

Was a mirror needed ?  For all, or just some ?
And what would a mispronouncement produce ?
I wanted experiments, testing the outcome –
Like would bettle-gurz still invoke the Juice ?

It came down to the grip of a true name –
For use their true name, and hold them in power.
And thanks to my parents, I well knew the shame
Of a boy with the mid-name of Passionflower.

So when the rumour had spread in the playground,
The taunts commanded that I must appear.
I pitied those spirits we likewise hounded –
Yelling their names till the dead can hear.

But nevertheless, I so wanted to know,
If my voice could reach to the great beyond ?
I called three times, deliberate and slow,
And waited to see on who would respond.

Despite my suspicions of phoniness,
I tested the theory all the same –
But wasn’t surprised by my loneliness –
For all I called, still nobody came.

The Hottest Place in Town

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The AI has instructed us to be there by 41PM sharp…

The Hottest Place in Town

I guess that Hell looks best at Halloween –
When demons dress-up extra ghoulish,
Trickster gods act extra foolish,
And Pandemonium puts on the best night ever seen.
Pluto lights the Styx up with Dawali candles floating by,
Where the Siren and Cthulu sings duets to Valkyries on high,
And Zarathustra and Confucius let the punchlines fly.
While Sedna twirls the Fairy Queen,
And Yetis smirk as Mummies preen,
Till it all ends with the fireworks, loud enough to hear in Fiddlers Green.
The only ones not round the fire
Are Gabriel and his Angel Choir,
Whose harmonies, so pure and strong,
Would silence Hades with a song.
Alas, they’ll keep us waiting long…
But Hell still looks a treat tonight,
So full of love and wishing –
A pity Jesus took to fright,
He don’t know what he’s missing !

Pumpkin Eyes

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Pumpkin Eyes

This is the time for extroverts,
In black and blood blood red –
These are the days of gothic flirts
To dance with the not-quite-dead.
It’s no place for the camera-shy
To sulk in their solitude –
Those killjoys who refuse to try,
And mope instead of brood.

But the timid are always lurking,
Till our fresh attention makes them disappear –
Their breaths are overworking,
When they have to carry-on and quell their fear.
Ask them what they’re frightened of, out there,
And no surprise –
It’s the unrelenting stare
That comes from all those thousand hidden, judging eyes.

This is the hell for introverts,
Where showing-off is top –
So they play-along until it hurts,
And the mask at last must drop.
It is no time for dressing-down
With hoodies for a cowl,
For loners who refuse to clown,
But choke instead of howl.

But the bashful are always haunting,
Always hoping to just blend-in, and fend-off eyes –
They find the season daunting,
But they have to venture-on with no disguise.
Ask them what they’re frightened of, out there,
And they recall –
It’s the ones who just don’t care
That there are quiet ones who aren’t like them at all.

Diabolical Appropriation

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Photo by Heber Vazquez on Pexels.com

Diabolical Appropriation

Ev’ry Halloween,
While I’m getting gory and undead
For just one night,
I always play a little game –
Ever since a teen,
While sat before the mirror, faking dread,
I take delight
In picturing all Hell the same –

It isn’t such a kink,
But I feel I ought to ’fess-up –
How I always love to think
That the demons love to dress-up
In their costumes made of discount shirts,
With crooked ties and polished shoes,
And glasses fit for introverts,
And parted hair, and no tattoos…

Ev’ry Halloween,
Do they spend the night pretending, posing,
To be us,
Just as we, tonight, aspire to be them –
So, if they are seen,
I really want to be try befriending those
Who copy us –
Because I guess they must admire us then…

Demons jostling on the trains,
With blinking phones and leaking pop,
And zig-zagging through mopey rains,
And queuing at the coffee shop.
In costumes made of good-enough,
And needs-a-press, and if-I-must –
Just demons that I love to love
As trying to be one of us.

Plastic Horns

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Photo by Ksenia Chernaya on Pexels.com

Plastic Horns

Evil isn’t the Devil,
Isn’t the psycho,
Isn’t the neo-fascist –
Evil isn’t our darkest nature,
Lurking silent in our midst.
For evil is our lazy thinking,
Seeking-out a covert plan –
And evil is our pointing finger,
Evil is our bogeyman.

Evil isn’t the Devil,
Isn’t a something,
Isn’t an absolute.
It’s simply things we hate, writ large –
Hyperbole that birthed a brute.
For evil triumphs when the good do nothing new,
So tropes persist –
For the greatest trick the Devil pulled,
Was just to not exist.

Guising

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Alas, I have been unable to find out any more information about this postcard

Guising

Did people ever really think that spirits roam in late October ?
So the safest thing to do was simply blend-in where they tread ?
Or that their feeble efforts would fool anyone who’s half-way sober,
With no more than sheets and make-believe to raise the dead ?

Was it to fool the spirits ?, or the humans ?, or themselves ?
Or a warning to the Church that it was not so at-the-head ?
Perhaps the latent superstitions conjured up such elves
As an outlet in the face of poverty and mortal dread ?

I think we always knew it was a chance to have some fun,
And to dress-up and be mischievous, and stay-up late-of-bed.
Even those who still believed in spirits, saw through ev’ryone –
But let the children have their fun, and spare a crust of bread.

The word ‘mischievous’ needs to be stressed in its first syllable – MISS-chiv-ous. Some people pronounce it is miss-CHEEV-ee-ous, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with this – except in this case, as then the line won’t scan.

The Reichenbach Zombies

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The Death of Sherlock Holmes by Sidney Paget

The Reichenbach Zombies

They come, from out of the pages,
Lurching-on for centuries,
Reanimated for the ages
By the editors and mages
Harvesting our cherished memories.

Too valuable to rest in peace,
They’re resurrected, forced to dance –
But the spark of life is cold within,
And nothing but a rictus grin
Reminds us of that once and lost romance.

Fall Back

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Mystery of Time by Robert Zietara

Fall Back

The clocks are haunting Daylight Savings,
Goading us to stay in bed –
In late October, ancient cravings
Rear their bureaucratic head.
We skirt with time, we loop the sands,
Rewind once more the ancient rite –
We must perform the dance of hands
Upon the face of waning light.

The past is haunting Daylight Savings,
Logic lost to undead rules.
In late October, we’re the playthings
Of the limbo hour of fools.
We flirt with time, yet so habitual,
Barely offer an excuse –
We must perform the sacred ritual,
Stop all Hell from breaking loose.

Serial Filler

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Serial Filler

Is anything more boring
Than another psychopath ?
He’s the laziest of monsters,
That we’re somehow meant to fear.
Just a clichéd bogeyman,
Who’s killing for a laugh –
Ho-hum, the same old slasher
Whom they think we’ll dread or cheer.

Is this another true-live nutter,
After fame at any price ?
And we’re determined to reward them,
Cos we’re really dumb.
Or is it just a fantasy
Of living through their vice ?
Getting all our jollies
Till our empathy is numb.