A Laughing Warning (Please, listen not)

Laughing and scratching just at your door, hear the quiet steps.

See them scurry from out the light and into the dark, in which they keep their foul delight.

There is no fear to be had, of these spirits here, the owns that make them selves known, those that thrive on fear.

But truly, beware the silent home, fear the quiet dark, hear them plodding in silence and feel the ghastly breath upon that chilled nape of your neck.

Rest not the weary in a house of the dead for you’ll not waken again, this I fear my friend.

They come to take your breath, they come to take your warmth and in it’s place they leave only a chill embrace that has not a single bit of worth.

So fear the silence and rest not the weary but waken the wary and fear for thy soul for they come to claim it and the life you know.

This is the risk and the warning from the wary to the weary, and the words of the restless dead. I warn you not from goodness, but for myself and my own plans.

For I hope you laugh and shake your head, and then take yourself, your weary bones, to your untroubled bed resting in that corner of this home I know so well, this home in which I died, where I am dead.

And where I hope to live again.

A Return and Recognition

Shuddering shaking and shivering in fear, the tapping, tapping that I hear so near.

The fear has returned, my bloodied muse at my back, her tortured hands upon my neck as her twisted  face a broken smile  of recognition.

Such a saddened thing at the return of my grim fate.

Lashed to the page, chained to the well, my pen drips the black ink, the color of my soul that I know so, so well.

My form ephemeral, my purpose not set, I am the writer, to my muse, a fond pet.

She neither cares for me, nor clothes me, or sees to my feed, for she devours not but fear and twisted dreams, and it seems, to me, expects myself to do the same.

Tipping, Tapping, Don’t be Caught Napping

Tipping, tapping, tipping, tapping, don’t be the one that is caught napping.

They’ll snatch you up and eat your soul. Slough off your flesh and devour you whole.

Then you’ll awake and wipe a sweat drenched brow and think to your self just a dream nothing more, nothing less, just idle thoughts tipping, tapping at my minds door nothing more, nothing less.

Tell me my friend, how does that comfort sit when you pull your hand back and see the blood on your clenched fist?

How does it rest with a throat torn raw from the screams of hell,  that idea that whilst you were napping it was only just nightmares  tipping, tapping, at your minds door?

I’ll say it again and I’ll speak no more, I’ll not be the one napping as they tip and tap upon my door. It’s never just a dream, or at least that’s my fear.

Because quite truly friend, while it is a dream, and it might be less.

There is a chance, a slim belief, that those tipping and tapping at your mind’s open door, might indeed be something, not less.

But quite dreadfully more.

To be a “Hero”

It’s the middle of the night, you’re out, walking. Trying to clear your head after a rather heated argument when you hear a woman cry for help. You look and you can see it’s coming from a little grove of trees, just off the path. The path you’re on isn’t the most well lit path in the first place, but that?

That’s far from any beaten path and pitch dark, as it is you can only see it due to the shadows cast from lights on the other side, which doesn’t help you much. Looking at your phone you see that you’re out of minutes and the battery is about dead, but the woman is screaming for help, loudly.So you rush off, towards that darkened path, shivering a bit in the chill of winter, you should have wore a heavier coat really.

Heading closer you start to notice something, after about three cries of “Help! Someone! Please Help!” there is a pause before it starts again, exactly the same, the tone, the volume, all of it the exact same. You slow your pace but it’s too late, you see them too late as they come of the little wooded area, one of them actually having a net and tossing it over you as you feel a small prick, a little pinch in your arm. Looking down you see what looks like a dart sticking from you before you suddenly become exhausted.

Looking up you see the silhouette of three men standing over you, with just enough light to make out a smile. “We got one boys, this one should sell for a pretty penny. Told you it’d work.”

Leaning down he grabs your hair to pull you up “They never can resist the chance to be a hero.”

A Warning About a Blighted Well

The shadows see and the eyes they bleed the bones do creak and wait for the weak. They stand behind the backs of those the eyes that bleed do watch with intent while the shadows dance to tempt and distract until the claws snatch and drag the hopeless to the bleeding maw within the dark that well of bodies that hold no soul, no sorrow within that well is known for the shadows devoured it all. Their smiles masks for the skeletons, their joy a macabre dance of blood and bones and eyes that stare and seek. Waiting for the sorrow of the poor and pitiful weak, so my advice to you and these darkened nights don’t go by that well of shadows alone for solitude in grief for you’ll find your respite in the bottom of that blighted well quite brief, with only cruel shadows and hungry bones to which to speak.

Bleeding eyes watch me die and breath me last until they grasp my soul in shadow’s home and drag me through the ground to that darkened bleeding throne they grab and dig and steal my sorrow until nothing of grief is left nothing of sorrow nothing of pain the bleeding stopped and I live again to restart the night where it all began. Where bleeding eyes do watch me die and breath my last until they grasp my soul in shadow’s home and drag me through to that darkened and bleeding throne they grab and dig and steal my sorrow until of grief is left nothing of sorrow nothing of pain the bleeding stopped and i live again to restart the night it all began where bleeding eyes do watch me die and breath my last until they grasp my soul in shadow’s home….


Within the shadows I see the blood does flow, running down across those old and rotten bones.

Falling, flowing I listen joyously to that drip, drip, drip the blood does move in those oh so steady streams, visceral rivers of life, all the horror that comes of it.

Streaming down the rotten bones, of one I hated long ago, it pools and shudders and begins again, that thing I hate sadly, or it would it be gladly? Never truly dead.

With in the shadows I see the blood does flow, running down across the bones, the rotting living bones of that thing I hated so long ago.

With in the shadows, in time with that blackened heart, I hear it clearly, that blood that flows and falls, and I love it so.

That drip, drip, drip, for now, and forever more.

The Darkness Returned

Oh I’ve never been so happy as I am right now!

I’ve missed the bloody mess inside my mind, the charnel house with the violence turned up to nine.

I’ve missed the horrors shambling around, the terrors that crawl from out that bloody ground.

I see it now, those things that twist and tangle inside my mind, the darkness has returned, oh this blessed nightmare of mine!

Welcome, welcome home, to the darkest place inside my life, that shadow with in my mind, the bleeding has started and the screaming begins, the darkness returns…

Let the horror begin.